Science and Sorcery (12 page)

“Joy,” Caitlyn said, rubbing her forehead.  “Is there any more good news?”

“Maybe,” Matt said.  “The analysts started looking at the families of the known werewolves, trying to see if there were any patterns.  One pattern popped out very quickly; every one of the original werewolves came from a family that had some mixed blood.”

Caitlyn blinked.  “Mixed blood?”

“Their parents or grandparents had interracial marriages,” Matt explained.  “Katie Sheehan” – he shuddered at the memory – “had a Native American grandmother, for example, while Ambrose Jackson’s father is black.  It may be just a coincidence, but the researchers say it seems to be the only thing they have in common.”

“We’d better keep that one firmly to ourselves,” Caitlyn said.  “The last thing we need is to have everyone with mixed blood portrayed as a potential werewolf.”

“Some of the researchers have even weirder theories,” Matt added.  “One of them thinks that people with mixed blood become werewolves and suchlike because they combine two different strands of pure magic, while people with pure blood become proper magicians...”

Caitlyn snorted.  “That makes absolutely no sense,” she pointed out.  “Is that code for saying that white magic and black magic are two different things, and therefore they should never be allowed to breed?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said, “but Golem seemed to have real problems coming to grips with the idea of racism. 
His
society judged by talent and raw power, not skin colour.”

“Lucky them,” Caitlyn said.  Matt could imagine the challenges she’d faced climbing up the ranks of the FBI.  “What do you make of Golem, Mighty Hunter?”

Matt flushed.  Truthfully, he wasn’t sure
what
to make of Golem’s claim that he was a Hunter, descended from Hunters.  His family had never been anything
special
as far as he knew; his great-grandfather had left Ireland to emigrate to America, without bringing any records of his own ancestors.  But with Golem’s creation at least six thousand years in the past, an unimaginable span of time, it was hardly surprising that there were no records.  He didn't feel special at all.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, finally.  The psychologists who had studied Golem had reported that he wasn’t human.  When Matt had pointed out that humans were typically not made of clay, and they were wasting his time by pointing out the obvious, they’d explained that Golem didn't
think
like a human.  “I think he’s telling us the truth, as he knows it, but there are some pretty big gaps in his knowledge.”

“Starting with just what happened in the last days of magic,” Caitlyn mused.  There was a near-total disconnect between Golem’s world and the present day; apart from a handful of legends, Golem might as well have been talking about a fantasy world living at one remove from Earth.  “And with just what the Thirteen did to become immortal.”

One of the researchers had pointed out the flaw in Golem’s story, if it was a flaw.  The Thirteen had presumably made themselves immortal through magic, just as Golem himself enjoyed a kind of immortality.  But logically they should have died when the
mana
went away, unless their prison had allowed enough
mana
to leak through to keep them alive.  Golem’s creator had been convinced that they
would
survive, which was why he’d created Golem, but no one knew for sure.  They had to assume the worst. 

“We keep plugging away at the problem and we watch for signs of their return,” Matt said.  Golem had freely admitted that there wasn't enough
mana
– yet – to perform some of the more outrageous spells.  “And we keep working on protective tricks for society.”

Caitlyn nodded.  How did someone prove – legally – that Voodoo had been used to cause a person’s death?  The researchers had dug up a handful of cases from the British Empire in the Far East, but most of them had involved trickery rather than actual magic.  Or had there been just enough
mana
in the air to make them work?

“You need something else to do,” she said, dryly.  “Do you want to go to New York and try to track down whoever killed three kids in school?”

“Detective work,” Matt said, but he had to admit that she was right.  Golem had explained that young magicians manifested uncontrolled magic when they came into their powers and that it often led to injury – or death.  Some magical societies had even pushed their children into developing magic by putting them in life-threatening situations.  “Someone has to do it.”

“I’d go, if I could,” Caitlyn said.  She pointed to the paperwork.  “I used to think that the managers were out to bully us and steal all the credit from our hard work.  Now I look at the paperwork and I find it hard to blame them for being so crabby all the time.”

“Rather you than me,” Matt said.

“Asshole,” Caitlyn said, without heat.  “I’ll give you documents that should clear you to speak to everyone involved.  At least the President ensured that there won’t be any overt disbelief.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed.  “And the number of crazies will have gone upwards too.”

Chapter Twelve

New York, USA

Day 9

“I have a question for you,” Calvin said.  “What does God want with a starship?”

Harrow regarded him blankly.  They'd just had another session, where she’d taught him a handful of runes that could be used to channel
mana
and several more spells he could use to torment his enemies.  He’d wanted to learn how to turn some of the bullies into slugs, or caterpillars, or something equally helpless, but apparently the
mana
wasn't strong enough to support such spells yet.  It was very frustrating, but he’d just have to learn to wait.  Harrow was fond of pointing out that patience was a very important part of control.

“I do not understand the question,” Harrow said, finally.  “What
does
God want with a starship?”

Calvin hesitated, considering his next words carefully.  They were meeting inside his dreams, inside his mind, and he had a feeling that Harrow was drawing words and concepts from his memories to ensure that she could communicate with him.  But there were times when it was clear that they came from very different societies.  Very few people in the modern world wouldn't know what a starship was, even if they’d never seen a single episode of
Star Trek
or
Babylon 5
.  Harrow seemed barely aware of the existence of anything beyond the moon.

“You’re teaching me all this so I can free you,” he said, finally.  “Why do you need me in the first place?”

Harrow smiled.  “A good question,” she said, approvingly.  “Having the ability to actually
think
is what separates the mundane folk from the sorcerers.”

There was a pause.  “Your theoretical understanding is incomplete,” she added, a moment later.  “The easiest example would be to imagine our prison permanently held under water, constantly
pushed
under the waves by a stream of water.”

“As if it were suspended under a waterfall,” Calvin said, just to show that he understood.  “It can never bobble to the surface.”

“No,” Harrow agreed.  “Cracks have appeared in the prison when
mana
started to return to your world, enough to allow me to send my mind roaming out for magicians I can train, but not enough to permit escape.  You, on the other hand, can unlock the prison with a simple ritual, once you learn how to channel enough
mana
to do it.”

“Because I’m already outside the whirlpool,” Calvin guessed.  Harrow inclined her head in a respectful nod.  “And what happens to me afterwards?”

“You become my apprentice and eventually graduate to becoming a sorcerer yourself,” Harrow told him.  “And you will have dominion over your lands, if you choose.”

Calvin remembered the visions she’d shown him, the first time they’d met, and nodded.  He
wanted
power, power to keep himself safe, power to extract revenge on his tormentors.  Moe was dead, but there were others who needed to be punished.  And the thought of bending Marie and the other girls to his will...

He smiled as a thought struck him.  “Can I resurrect Moe?”

“The
mana
is not high enough to support a resurrection spell,” Harrow informed him, flatly.  “And besides, such spells are often unreliable.  You would be well advised to leave them alone until you gain more experience in magic.”

Calvin found the implications fascinating.  “Do you know what happens to the soul after a person dies?”

“It goes onwards, we believe,” Harrow said.  “My old Master used to believe that a soul could be summoned back to the mortal world, but only as long as someone who remembered it was still alive.  He had a theory about all times being one to the dead, so that a dead soul would return to answer every summons before going onwards to the next world.”

“So I could summon Moe back for a friendly chat?”

“Yes, you
could
,” Harrow said, “but it would be pointless.  You killed him.  What more do you need to do?”

Calvin heard the irritation in her voice and changed the subject.  “What are we going to study now?”

Harrow switched gears smoothly, as if her irritation had been a facade.  “Bloodlines,” she said, “and sympathetic magic.”

It seemed to take hours in the dream as Harrow outlined the concept for him.  As Calvin understood it, sympathetic magic worked through the link between a person and their blood, or skin, or hair...it was easy to use a piece of someone’s body to work magic against them.  It was much less dramatic than incinerating a bully, but it was also harder to detect and counter.  Smart magicians learned rapidly to guard against the prospect of someone using their hair against them, or – worse – their blood.  People
without
magic were completely helpless against it.

“Shape the runes you want to use carefully,” Harrow said.  Runes seemed to be a way of concentrating without actually concentrating, as far as Calvin could tell.  Once the magician had unlocked his magic, he could use them to cast spells.  “And make sure that the material you use is definitely linked to the right person.  I’ve known magicians who accidentally managed to kill themselves while trying to use sympathetic magic.  Take
every
precaution every time you try to use it.”

“I see,” Calvin said.  Using the wrong hair would be disastrous, particularly with the more subtle curses.  He might curse the wrong person and never know it.  Or he might strike himself dead, if he used his own hair or pricked his finger or...there were just too many dangers for him to take it lightly.  “I won’t mess it up.”

“My Master watched me like a hawk until I could use it properly,” Harrow said.  “I
cannot
watch you so closely.  Be very careful what you do.”

Calvin nodded, taking the warning seriously.  “I’ll be careful,” he promised.  He scowled as he remembered something.  “I need to ask you a different question.”

Harrow lifted a single elegant eyebrow.  “What?”

“It's complicated,” Calvin said, although he knew that it was more embarrassing than complicated.  And he had no idea how Harrow would react to it.  “I was using the viewing spell to look at my classmates and I think one of them sensed my intrusion.”

Harrow considered it.  “She may have magical talent of her own,” she said, finally.  She didn't seem to have deduced that Calvin was trying to see the girls naked, or maybe she just didn't consider it important.  “I’d suggest not working any magic around her, or she might realise that it was you casting the spells.”

Calvin nodded.  It wasn't as if Sandra was as beautiful as Marie, or several others he’d been peeking at over the last couple of days.  Besides, he had a feeling that it would soon be time to take it further than just peeking in on the girls.  There were all sorts of possibilities flooding through his mind. 

“Time to wake up,” Harrow said.  “Goodbye...”

Calvin crashed back into his own body, opening his eyes wide.  It was 4am, as always, and he felt tired, even though he'd been sleeping.  Harrow had told him that he was still
thinking
, even if he wasn't actually moving his body, and that he should try to get some proper sleep afterwards.  He wasn't sure what he was going to do when school reopened in a couple of days, except perhaps find a way to use magic to replenish his energies.  Or perhaps he could convince Harrow to only contact him during weekends...no, that wouldn't work.  He needed the lessons, more than anything else.

It was early afternoon when he opened his eyes for the second time and climbed out of bed.  Downstairs, he could hear his mother and father talking about something, probably nothing particularly important.  Judging from the nearby sounds, Mindy had one of her friends over and they were playing some kind of boisterous game in her bedroom.  Calvin felt a flicker of envy at how easily his sister made friends before pulling on his dressing gown and heading to the bathroom.  Maybe magic could be used to make friends.

Shaking his head, he walked downstairs and into the kitchen, nodding absently to his parents.  His mother was bent over the stove, cooking something that smelled nice and spicy; his father was reading the paper and commenting aloud on how absurd it was that even the President should have bought into the whole theory of magic.  Everyone knew that there was no such thing.  Calvin kept his face blank; he’d had a nasty shock when he’d seen the President’s speech, realising that it meant that he’d better be careful.  Someone might realise that Moe and his friends had been killed by magic. 

“That’s what you get for putting a liberal in the White House,” his father said, as Calvin poured himself a bowl of cereal and settled down to eat it.  “They can’t fix the financial crisis, so they invent a magical crisis to get us to look away.  What next?  Voodoo economics?”

Calvin rolled his eyes at the terrible joke.  Parents could be so embarrassing, even to the most popular kids in school.  But if his father really
didn't
believe in magic, he might ignore the signs that Calvin was using magic, if he grew careless enough to leave them lying around.  Finishing his cereal, Calvin put the bowl in the sink, ignored his mother’s sharp look and fled the house.  He had an idea in mind.

Harrow had taught him several spells for avoiding detection.  One of them worked on weak minds, she’d explained, and couldn't be trusted to fool everyone.  The second used a false image to hide his real appearance and was more trustworthy, although it took more concentration to cast it and then hold the spell firmly in place.  They both paled compared to the third spell, which made it hard for someone to notice him and harder still for them to
remember
him when they looked away.  He cast the third spell around himself as he neared the school, wondering if the gym would still be open.  It normally was, but the school had been closed for the past few days because of Moe’s death.  Luck was with him; someone, probably Coach Thornton, had convinced the NYPD to allow the gym to remain open.  It did help keep kids off the streets, after all.

Calvin had never been inside the gym on weekends; in fact, he'd only ever gone into the building during PE, when he’d been put through hell by the PE teachers and his fellow students.  The thought of remembered humiliation stung as he recalled always being the last to be chosen for teams, or times when he’d been
accidentally
shoved during football, or basketball, or had a ball slammed into his head.  Cold rage burned away any scruples he had about extracting more than a little revenge.  He was damned if he was going to leave any of the bastards unpunished.

He glanced inside the locker rooms and smiled as he saw the piles of clothing, each one clearly marked – as per school rules – with the name of its owner.  Stepping inside, he picked up a shirt belonging to Gavin, one of Moe’s friends, and looked through it for a hair.  Finding one, he picked it up with a pair of tweezers and placed it neatly in a pillbox he’d used as a child.  Marking it with a G, for Gavin, he looked for other pieces of body material, carefully marking each one as he went along.  Finally, he left the locker room and nearly walked right into the Coach. 

Coach Thornton was a big beefy man, who acted like a bad parody of a Drill Instructor.  Calvin had been terrified of him since their first meeting, where he’d openly mocked Calvin’s puny body, much to the amusement of the jocks.  Now, his eyes just flickered over Calvin, as if they refused to register that he was there.  Calvin stepped to one side and watched the Coach walk past, already forgetting about the strange boy in the corridor.

Grinning to himself, Calvin walked out of the gym and stared across the field.  As always, the football team were practicing for the upcoming matches against other schools, rather than doing anything useful like studying for their futures.  Calvin caught sight of a handful of girls watching from the sidelines, including Marie, and looked away before they caught sight of his smirk.  He’d seen more of the girls than their boyfriends had, at least for some of them.  Wendy had a reputation for never doing anything more than kissing
her
boyfriends.  No wonder they moved on so quickly.

Reaching into his bag, Calvin produced the pillbox and brought out one of the hairs, sticking it neatly to a piece of sticky paper.  Harrow had talked about using a special glue, but Calvin suspected that if intentions mattered, and they did, the spell should work equally well with a modern substitute.  Using a pen, he drew the first two runes under the hair and then the third on the other side of the paper.  And then he closed his eyes and allowed the magic to flow into the runes.