Science and Sorcery (15 page)

He’d wanted to focus on the evil, but his advisors had pointed out that the Washington Healer, as the MSM had named her, was hardly
evil
.  Indeed, she’d cured a number of cancer patients who had been expected to die within a month, despite all that modern medicine could do.  According to one of his fellow Senators, the AMA was already making the rounds on Capitol Hill, trying to convince lawmakers to pass laws insisting that all Healers register themselves with the medical professionals.  Thaddeus would have supported it, except for the fact that it wasn't anything like far-reaching enough. 

“This is a world-changing event that makes 9/11 look like nothing,” he continued.  Bush had been a weakling, too willing to truckle to the MSM and all sorts of untrustworthy allies.  “Our reaction to this event will save or damn our society.  We owe it to our children to approach the issue directly, without sentimentality.  Our society demands it. 

“The President has refused to tackle the issue head-on.  He has asked werewolves – or suspected werewolves – to come forward, to make themselves known to the authorities.  He has asked magicians to refrain from using their powers and to come forward, to help scientists study their abilities.  But these steps are weak compared to what we need.  We must tackle this crisis firmly. 

“It is our duty to protect the American population, magical or non-magical.  When creatures like werewolves are involved, we must take steps to ensure that they cannot threaten their fellow humans, that they cannot kill or maim or inflict the werewolf curse.  They cannot do this for themselves!  We have all seen the interview with the Pittsburgh werewolf, one of the few to remember what happened after he transformed.  A gentle man was transformed into a savage monster.  How many people were bitten on that first hellish night?  How many people have become werewolves because they were bitten by another werewolf?”

He took a breath.  “They may not even be the worst problem,” he added.  He ignored the clicking cameras through the ease of long practice.  “What happens when one person uses magic as a weapon?  We have already seen cases of Voodoo being used offensively, or less traditional powers – and people have died.  Too many people have died.  We have no legal framework to come to terms with people who possess supernatural powers.  Can we really charge someone with a crime if they curse a victim and the victim dies?”

The law was good at recognising cause and effect, mostly, although the liberals sometimes had a pretty weird idea of where ‘cause’ began.  Someone stupid enough to jump off a roof after watching Superman cartoons should not, in any logical world, have grounds to sue the cartoon producers.  But where magic was concerned, where did ‘cause’ actually begin?  If a person was cursed by a Voodoo priest, was the priest responsible for the car that knocked him down, or was it the driver?  How could
anyone
hope to untangle the mess.

“The President has refused to tackle this issue,” he repeated.  “Therefore, I am announcing the formation of the Campaign for Magical Regulation.  The goal of the campaign will be to bring magic under control, to prevent those afflicted with curses from harming others – and to regulate the use of innate magical talents.  We do this for society’s protection – and the protection of those cursed with magic.  I do not wish to see America threatened with the same unrest threatening Saudi Arabia.”

Thaddeus scowled inwardly at the thought.  He
hated
Saudi Arabia, for all sorts of reasons, but the last three days had provided a new one.  From the vague reports filtering out to the West – he would never have thought that there was a reason to be grateful for Al Jazeera – a girl had developed supernatural powers, only to be beaten to death by the religious police.  But her parents hadn't accepted the death of their daughter and unrest was spreading rapidly.  The reports were contradictory, to the point where outside observers speculated that there had been more than one trigger incident.  Getting accurate news out of Saudi was sometimes harder than getting blood from a stone.

And how long would it be before something similar occurred in America?

“This isn't about power, or about control,” he concluded.  “This is about preserving as much of our society as possible, about ensuring that we pass through the dangerous days ahead without sacrificing the liberties that made America great.  If you are concerned about magical threats, if you feel that the CMR is providing the right framework to tackle these issues, let the world know.”

Afterwards, he watched the feedback with Carmichael and a couple of other advisors.   The MSM had slanted the speech, of course, but the bloggers were more thoughtful.  Not all of them agreed with him, yet even the dissidents were considering the issues properly, rather than screaming insults at him.  The early reports suggested that the speech had gone down very well, but he knew better than to take that too seriously.  It had only just begun.

“I’ve booked you in for a dozen interviews over the next few days,” his Press Secretary said.  “I’m afraid that some of them are likely to be hostile.”

“No surprise there,” Thaddeus said.  “I’d better start working on my answers.  No rest for anyone who wants to be a politician.  Or wicked.”

Chapter Fifteen

New York, USA

Day 15

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Misty Reynolds said, fighting to keep her voice calm.  “You are firing me?”

The principal looked back at her, rather nervously.  “I’m suspending you,” he said, carefully, “until we know what degree of threat...”

“I don’t pose
any
threat,” Misty snapped.  “I just defended myself!”

She wondered, absently, if the principal would have been happier if she’d let herself be mugged, raped and possibly murdered.  There had been no way of knowing what the two gangbangers who had accosted her had wanted, although the fact that one of them had grabbed her breast suggested that their motives had been worse than a simple mugging.  She'd lashed out with a power she hadn't known she had – and both gangbangers had been slammed into the nearby wall by an invisible force, breaking a number of their bones.  The NYPD didn't seem inclined to press the matter, although they had warned her not to leave the city until further notice, but she’d had to report the whole incident to the principal.

And then he’d called her into his office the following morning and told her that he was suspending her.  The nightmare hadn't ended at all.

“I know that,” he said, tiredly.  “Misty, I don’t have a word to say against your teaching skills...”

Given that it was very difficult to fire teachers who were incompetent, that was no real compliment, but Misty took it anyway.  She had had all the usual difficulties in coping with a class too large to be effective, with children who had never been taught any real discipline or respect for authority, yet she had managed to make a small impression on the children.  And telling them that she was a magician might even have
improved
discipline. 

“There are issues here,” the principal admitted.  “I don’t know if it is safe for you to be around young children...”

“I'm not a fucking
paedophile
,” Misty snapped, feeling her temper flare.  Her magic, the force that had awoken yesterday, boiled under her skin.  “This is...this is rank discrimination.  You can't take my job because I defended myself against two thugs who...”

“I
know
,” the principal said.  “But right now, I have to explain to the PTA why I allowed you to work at the school in the first place.  Enough of them have heard the news to ask questions – and the rest have heard rumours.  They’re terrified of leaving someone with such a power in charge of a classroom.  You know what can happen when teachers lose it – and you have a deadly weapon under your control.”

The logical part of Misty’s mind agreed that he had a point.  Sometimes teachers snapped – having to tolerate misbehaviour without real disciplinary powers did that to a person - and that could be very bad for the unlucky kids.  It had received far less publicity than kids who were bullied to the point where they snapped and brought guns to school to shoot as many people as they could, but it did happen.  But the emotional part of her mind raged that she had done nothing wrong.  She didn't deserve to be suspended.

She could go to the union.  But right now, with a nutty Senator stirring up trouble against magicians and a police report on her actions, justified or not, she knew that the union might not close ranks behind her.  Later, perhaps...

“You will still be on full pay,” the principal said, trying to sweeten the pill.  “And you can return to work as soon as you are cleared...”

Misty gathered herself.  “And how is that to be determined?”

“I do not know,” the principal said.

“I see,” Misty said.  She stood up.  “This is a case of discrimination against someone possessing traits they cannot control.  Racism, in other words.  You will be hearing from my lawyer about it.”

She stalked out of the room, trying to fight down the crushing sense of despair.  Racism or not – if the magicians counted as a separate race, which was debatable – she doubted that it would ever come to court.  Depending on how one looked at it, the principal was doing the right thing – taking precautions that might not be necessary, but had to be taken all the same.  And the rage was fuelling her magic...all the discipline she'd learned, to handle unruly kids without murdering them or their parents, didn't seem enough to hold it in check.  She felt sweat running down her face and almost walked right into the suited man before noticing him.

“Miss Reynolds?”

“Yes?”  Misty snapped at him.  It wasn't his fault that she was so angry, but she couldn't help it.  “What do you want?”

“My name is Muldoon, Special Agent Muldoon of the FBI,” he said.  “I need to talk to you.”

“I have already talked to the police,” Misty said, bitterly.  “And look what it got me.”

“Ah,” Muldoon said.  “I think you misunderstand me.  I'm not here to arrest you, or to give you grief.  I’m here to recruit you.”

Misty blinked.  “For the FBI?”

“For the...study group established to research magic,” Muldoon explained.  “The NYPD should have pointed you towards us when you told them what had happened, but the wires got crossed.”  He shrugged.  “I’d like to invite you to Washington to join the research program.”

“To be examined by doctors to see if they can tell how I do whatever it is I do,” Misty guessed.  Muldoon didn't bother to tell her any differently.  “Why should I want to go to Washington?”

Muldoon smiled.  “Right now, there are plenty of spaces for magicians willing to work for the government,” he said.  “You would be paid well for your time, enough so you wouldn't have to go back to teaching, and you might find a more...interesting career using and studying magic.  And besides, the media is hunting you.  You might find it quieter on a military base.”

Misty hesitated.  Had the FBI agent
known
that she would be suspended?  Or had he arranged it?  Perhaps they’d intended to cut her loose from her duties to the school before making their formal offer, knowing that she wouldn't be in a good position to refuse.  But...he was right.  It
was
one hell of an opportunity.  And besides, it would be easier to press her suit against the school if she had money. 

“Thank you,” she said.  “When do we leave?”

***

Layla had become a Goth at fourteen and, despite increasingly unsubtle hints from her mother that it was time she grew up and started taking life seriously, she’d never bothered to change.  It was a way of rebelling against a society that didn't really offer its children any hopes or dreams; the days she spent taking drugs or drinking herself into a stupor were days when she didn't know that she was going to end up flipping burgers at some appallingly tacky fast food outlet.  Or possibly die out on the streets.  Her mother worked two jobs just to keep a roof over their heads and Layla knew, one day, that it would come to an end.

She had been feeling listless for two days, as if she’d caught a mild cold.  Her mother had barely noticed; working as she did, she trusted Layla to effectively raise herself, getting out of bed and going to school – or playing truant – as she chose.  There was no point in going to school, Layla had discovered long ago; there was little hope of any real future.  The girl who had dreamed of flying through outer space had grown up to realise that there was no program intended to put mankind on the moon to stay, let alone further away from Earth.  They were trapped on an increasingly crappy world, fucked over by politicians, fanatics and terrorists alike.  Even the news that magic was real – as if she could believe that crap – hadn't broken through her skull.  No doubt all the wonder would be sucked out by politicians before too long, leaving only a dying husk of something that had once been great.  Just like the rest of the world.

Carefully, Layla rolled over in bed and looked down at herself.  At sixteen, she’d grown into a young woman, with long dark hair and eyes that the guys never saw, because they were too busy staring at her chest.  Her skin was pale; the black lipstick she used stood out oddly against her skin, an effect that had never bothered Layla herself.  Once, her mother had forced her to scrub it off before she went to school; now, her mother never bothered.  It was as through the listlessness that was affecting Layla had also affected her mother. 

Her legs trembled as she stood up, feeling the room spinning around her.  Something was definitely not right...maybe she was dying, perhaps.  She would have said that she was hungry, if she hadn't eaten earlier.  Death would be a blessing, the release from a mundane life that had been ruined long before she'd been born.  There was no hope of a better life for her, or for her mother.  Why not worship death?

She stumbled forwards until she was facing the mirror, a gift from one of her mother’s temporary boyfriends who had tried to buy Layla’s affection, if not love.  Maybe he would have made a decent father...Layla didn't know, because she’d never had a father.  He’d left her mother months before Layla was born.  Using one hand to hold herself upwards, she looked in the mirror and recoiled.  She couldn't see her face. 

For a moment, she was convinced that she was imagining it.  Her black shirt and tight jeans just seemed to hang in the air, unsupported by her body.  But her face seemed to be completely transparent, as if she’d turned invisible.  Shocked, she glanced down at her hand and saw that it was still visible, yet when she looked in the mirror she couldn't see her flesh.  On impulse, she pulled up her shirt, exposing her midriff.  She could see her shirt through where her flesh and blood should be. 

Her hand went to her mouth and touched something else, sharp fangs.  The listlessness, whatever it was, had dulled her mind.  Sharp fangs, an inability to see herself in a mirror...she was a vampire!  She leapt upwards and cracked her head into the ceiling, before falling down to the ground.  How could she have leapt so high?

Vampires are strong
, she thought, numbly.  There had been reports of vampires on the internet, along with werewolves, mermaids and things that went bump in the night, but she hadn't believed any of them.  And yet...she reached up and touched her fangs again.  They were real, and she was hungry.  Vampires ate blood...and somehow she knew that the burger she’d cooked for herself, with catsup and cheese, hadn't been what her new body wanted.  She needed blood.

Shaking, she walked over to the window and opened the curtains.  Night was falling over New York, the darkness calling her out to hunt.  She knew that the thought of hunting humans should have bothered her, but the bloodlust overwhelmed any such concerns.  It felt
natural
and
right
to regard humans as her prey.  Humans hunted animals to eat their flesh; why should vampires not hunt humans to drain their blood?  But as the hunger started to overcome her, rationality faded away.  There was no need to justify herself to herself.

Layla walked downstairs and opened the door, feeling steadier on her feet as she stepped outside.  Her senses seemed to have changed; she was suddenly very aware of every smell in the air, along with the presence of dogs, cats and rats in the surrounding area.  Some vampires had been able to fly, according to legends, but when she jumped into the air she found herself tumbling back towards the ground.  She landed neatly, like a cat, and headed away from their apartment.  Some ancient instinct told her that it would be unwise to hunt too near her home.

The darkness seemed to grow stronger as she walked, as if it were somehow absorbing the light from the streetlights and surrounding houses.  Layla knew that would have disturbed her, once upon a time, but her new eyes seemed to be capable of seeing within pitch darkness, effortlessly.  She kept her distance from others on the streets, even through the bloodlust was growing stronger, affecting her ability to think.  A sniff was enough to tell her that many of the street people – the homeless – were either ill or too badly drugged up to make good eating for a vampire.  Absently, she wondered if she was allergic to garlic.  She couldn't recall ever trying it before she’d discovered her true nature. 

Her ears, as enhanced as the rest of her senses, heard a scream in the distance.  The old Layla would have ignored it, knowing that there was no point in interfering, but the new Layla seemed to find the scream temping.  She ran forward into a darkened alleyway, navigating it as easily as if it had been in the middle of the day, and saw a woman forced over a dustbin by a young man.  Layla’s nose told her things she didn't want to know about him; he was drunk enough to dull his thoughts and bent on getting laid, even if the girl didn't want to get fucked.  His hands were tearing through her panties and pressing into her groin, trying to force her to become wet, ready for the rape.  The girl’s struggles were futile.