“Wrong.”
So taken aback by the uncharacteristically forceful criticism, I stop mid-cast to see what Chrissy is going on about. Wrapped in her blanket with her hair looking all scruffy from a good night’s sleep, she’s got the same neutral expression she always wears, only with a tired cast to her pale violet eyes as she watches me with hopeful expectation from her perch on the bed. “Wrong,” she says again, with a little shake of her head, looking extra sad and vulnerable as she hugs her knees to her chest. She can tell I don’t understand what she means, I can see the frustration bubbling up inside her as she struggles to find the words to explain it and comes up short. “Wrong.”
Soft and defeated, accompanied by a slump of her shoulders as she drops her head in discouragement, that’s how her third utterance of the same word goes. Kneeling down to meet her eyes, I give her a moment to decompress before taking her hand. Clutching my fingers ever so tightly, she tries to pull me in for a hug, but all she gets is my arm, so she switches tack and leans in to rest her forehead on my shoulder instead. Ain’t much for me to do besides hold her close and pat her back as she sulks, though I lack the hand to do it proper. This is the first time I’ve seen her without Mental Fortress since the Mindspire went up, because Aunty Ray always cast it on Chrissy first thing every morning and kept it up until she fell asleep at night.
Quite the feat all things considered, especially since Aunty Ray can only hold the Spell for two hours each cast with the help of Extend Duration Metamagic. That’s 8 or 9 Third Order Spells slung each day while maintaining Concentration the whole time. Which takes some real chops, the sort of Spellslinging you expect from a professional Magus and nothing less. This sort of skill don’t come from her Innate blood neither. No, this is the result of hard work and copious effort, with natural talent playing only a small part. Truth is, if it wasn’t for the fact that she settled down to raise her kids, myself included, Rachel Walker-Bradshaw would’ve long since made Captain in the Rangers by virtue of her Spellslinging prowess alone, and might well have risen even higher in the ranks thanks to her accomplished interpersonal skills and general can-do attitude.
Which makes Chrissy’s lacking social aptitude that much more tragic as she sits there all miserable as a hog in a hailstorm. The church’s Consecration helps ward off the persistent Dissonant Whistle of course, but it’s not enough on its own. Mental Fortress isn’t either, though she’s able to tough it out for a few hours at a time when she really wants to. Needs a combination of both to get her through the day, except now as I’m about to cast the Spell on her, she’s telling me there’s something wrong, and I’m not sure if it’s Spell itself or something about the way I’m doing it that she doesn’t like. She can be real particular about things sometimes, like how she eats her sandwiches or which seat at the table people sit at, and I’m not sure what it is she wants from me.
So the only thing left to do is ask her, but I gotta wait until she stops moping to do it. “I’m sorry Chrissy,” I say, soon as she heaves a sigh and tries to slide off the bed and into my lap. Not the first time she’s tried in recent days, ever since she saw Elodie do it that first unfortunate day. Denied her chance to cuddle in close, she falls over sideways on the bed like she ready to go back to sleep. “I’m doing something wrong?” Chrissy nods, but I can’t ask her what it is, because she already tried to tell me but couldn’t come up with the words, so now we gotta play 20 questions and narrow things down with yes or no answers.
“Is it the Latin?” I’ll be the first to admit I got a terrible accent, but Aunty Ray don’t even use the same Vocal Component. Fact is, she rarely uses any Latin or language at all and prefers to hum a few bars for most her Spells. Not from any particular song, just a few notes that fits the magic, as she would say, though I’ve no earthly idea what that means. It not always the same notes either, so I’m pretty sure Aunty Ray’s just gotten proficient enough with her Spells to eschew Vocal Components through raw familiarity. Said it before and I’ll say it again, but there ain’t nothing magical about the words or finger waggles themselves. Those are just a prop, a key for your mind to keep you from accidentally firing off Spells willy nilly. In theory, if you work hard enough at it, you can sling Spells without Somatic or Vocal components once you familiar enough, though there are plenty of drawbacks to going without.
The last two World Wars showed us that much. Was a big push to teach soldiers how to sling Bolts and Blasts without Vocal or Somatic Components, because then you could throw them out without warning. Like when you pretend to surrender and throw out a Blast instead, or when you deep in the trenches and come across an enemy you want dead without the noise from a proper Aetherarm. Metamagics put a whole lot more oomph in the Spell and push their projectile speed past the sound barrier, but a base Bolt or Blast don’t move fast enough to make no sonic booms. Problem was, them soldiers that made it back stateside became a liability when they started slinging Bolts every time they was surprised or firing off Blasts when they got steamed up, which made for a real mess on the home front.
Imagine that, your own government shaping you into a weapon of war, then declaring you a danger to society after the war’s end. Best case scenario was getting clapped in anti-magic manacles and mandatory check-ins, while worst case meant getting thrown into a ‘home’ that was no different from a prison camp.
Unfortunately, Chrissy shakes her head no in response to the question, and I realize it was a dumb one to start with. Since words and waggles don’t mean nothing to the magic, then there’s no reason for her to get all worked up about them. Doubt she even notices the Vocal or Somatic Components most of the time, because Lord knows Chrissy rarely uses them. With her, keeping Spells contained or letting them flow is no different from breathing, which is why she’ll sometimes accidentally throw out Commands when she’s feeling particularly emotional, like when the queenie bee died some weeks back before the boots set off for Pleasant Dunes.
After a few more questions, I stop to consider what I know, and I’m left with only one possibility that doesn’t seem possible. “Am I doing something different from your Mama?” A nod, and my heart skips a beat. “Something physical?” A pause, then a shake of her head as expected, but I had to ask to be sure. “Something with the magic?” Chrissy perks up and nods like a chicken pecking grains, because I’ve finally hit the nail on the head. Aunty Ray is just plain better with the Spell than I am, meaning she’s able to squeeze more out the Spell than I can even though we using the same Structure and flows. Which is only to be expected, given all her hard work and natural talent, but the real surprise is how Chrissy can tell that I’m not doing the same things. I didn’t think that was even possible, to perceive the flows of Aether while the Spell Structure is still Priming and know that I’m not doing whatever it is Aunty Ray does to make her version of Mental Fortress better than the default option.
And yet it clearly is possible, because Chrissy can tell I’m doing something wrong. That’s all she can convey though, because it’s difficult to explain how one finagles the flows of Aether to better do your bidding, and I’m not sure Chrissy even understands it herself. Like I said, she does it as naturally as breathing, so she doesn’t understand why everyone does it too. More impressive is how she can recognize the flows to a Spell she herself doesn’t know, since Mental Fortress don’t come naturally from either of the bloodlines she inherited. Uncle Raleigh was an Enchanter, pure and simple, and while Aunty Ray is no slouch in that particular school of Magic, her bloodline leans more towards Illusion than anything else. As for Mental Fortress, that’s an Abjuration Spell Aunty Ray learned the old-fashioned way, because no one knows the dangers of Enchantments better than a natural born Enchanter.
Maybe that’s why Chrissy understands the Spell so well though. Mental Fortress was tailor made by a Proggie to defend against Enchantments, so it stands to reason an Enchanter would understand how it works best, and Chrissy takes after her daddy in more than colouring. A natural born Enchanter she is, while Tina favours Illusion more much like her mama, but truth is they both go it in them to be top-tier talents in either school like their Mama, who’s so good at Enchantment they gave her the callsign Siren.
As for me? Enchantment is my worst School of Magic, followed by Illusion, with Abjuration coming in as a close third. While talent don’t mean much in the long run, there’s no arguing the facts that I’m ill-suited for the Mental Fortress Spell, what with it being linked with two of my worst schools. That said, my ineptitude only affects how well I can finagle the Spell. I can still cast it at base values, but I suppose Chrissy needs more protection than most due to her high Aetheric Sensitivity. A concept I still don’t entirely understand, nor have I found anyone who can explain it. Stronger Spellslingers tend to have higher Aetheric Sensitivity, but it’s not a given, while low Aetheric Sensitivity doesn’t mean you’re no good at slinging Spells. Now though, now I’m thinking might have something to do with how well one is able to perceive them Aetheric Flows, with Chrissy here being so sensitive she can feel the flows through other people.
All of which takes some doing to confirm through yes or no questions. Far as I can glean, she’s always been able to perceive flows this way, and she doesn’t understand why I can’t do the same, because if I could, then I’d obviously see what was wrong and fix it. It’s an obvious and simple thing, like if there was an open door sitting in plain sight, but I keep leaving through the window instead. Wrong, like she says, and she don’t know how to explain what’s right, because it’d be like explaining why up is up instead of left, or why down isn’t backwards. Try as I might to sense the flows whenever she stops me, I’ve no idea what it is that I’m doing wrong, not even after a good few minutes of aborted attempts.
“Wrong,” Chrissy says, sounding so small and frustrated over not being understood, and it breaks my heart to disappoint her so. Fact that I’ve no idea how to manipulate the flows to a Spell I just learned yesterday and cast the one time ain’t helping matters much. I’ve barely got an idea of how they’re supposed to look, so how am I supposed to know how to change what I barely understand? The mute leading the blind, that’s what’s happening here, and we’re still trying to figure out how to get it done right when Aunty Ray drops in to see what’s taking us so long.
Rather than tackle the issue head on like I would, Aunty Ray tries to solve our problem in a roundabout way. “How about this then?” She say, taking a seat on the bed and stroking Chrissy’s hair while giving me a consoling look. “Why don’t we switch things up. I’ll cast the Spell on Chrissy, and Howie can cast the Spell on me. Then we’ll keep doing what we been doing and meet up every two hours at the church. Sound good?”
Which is inconvenient for Aunty Ray, because she’s got things to do and places to be. Me and Chrissy, not so much, but while I don’t see no other option, Chrissy sits up to study her mama’s expression. “Howie cast on Mama?” she asks, which is a rare bit of articulation. “Mama needs Spell?” Blinking tears out of her eyes, Chrissy reaches up and touches her mama’s face, who’s all smiles until her daughter’s fingers brush up against her cheek. “Hurts?”
“Just a little, Princess,” Aunty Ray replies, nuzzling Chrissy’s hand and leaning in to touch their foreheads together. “It’s okay though. Howie knows the Spell now too, and he learns quick, so Mama’s gonna be alright.”
Chrissy frowns, just a slight one that puts a small wrinkle in her brow. Glancing at me, then back at her mama, then back at me again, she wrinkles her nose like when one of the wallies just made a mess of her dress and heaves a little sigh. “Howie,” she says, sitting up straight and reaching out to take my hand. “Spell please.”
“No honey, I’ll cast it on you,” Aunty Ray says, but Chrissy shakes her head.
“Howie,” she says, holding my hand tight with her jaw set in grim determination. Which is lovely and all, seeing her make this big sacrifice so Aunty Ray can keep the better Mental Fortress for herself, but leaves me feeling lower than a snake’s belly seeing how I’m the option of last resort.
So I give Aunty Ray a little shrug, then Intone the words of the Spell once more while picturing the flows in my mind’s eye. A hive-like hexagonal structure that wraps around the target’s mind, that’s my perspective of Mental Fortress, but Chrissy sits there with a glower and a pout like I just served up a heaping portion of plain porridge for the tenth day in a row or something. Sure takes the wind out of my sails over learning my second Third Order Spell ever, but Chrissy don’t spare my feelings none as she turns to her mama and says, “Your turn, Mama. Slow please.” Then she glances at me to make sure I’m paying attention, and says, “Slow slow.”
This is why I say Chrissy and Tina kept me humble growing up. Me, I’d spend hours and hours over the course of weeks and months to learn something, over for the both of them to pick it up like it was nothing. Can’t help but smile to see it, because if I’m gonna be upstaged, better by my sorta-sisters than anyone else. “Howie,” Chrissy says, when she sees me kneeling there with a wry grin on my face. “Watch Mama.”
“Yes ma’am.” The humour is lost on Chrissy, but Aunty Ray chortles to hear it before launching into her slow, Spellslinging process. Ain’t much to see as she sits there, hums a few notes with little to no melodic sense to it all, then gives a little flourish to say, ‘that’s all’. As for Chrissy, she nods in a matter-of-fact fashion before turning to me with a tilt of her head to see if I understand. I don’t, and I ain’t got no shame in admitting as much, which puts another micro-glower across Chrissy’s porcelain features, one I think is just darling to see. Not that I’m aggravating her intentionally or nothing. I’m just happy to see her being so lively and emotive for once, driven by an issue out in the real work instead of just drifting along in between bouts of daydreams lost inside her head.
Don’t love that it’s the pain of the Mindspire compelling her to act, but it shows that Chrissy is capable of coming out of her shell. All she needs is the right motivation, so that’s something for the rest of us to work on.
Though Chrissy seems adamant to get me learning right then and there, Aunty Ray coaxes her out of her big mood and gets me started on brushing her hair. To make up for my magical failings, I plait her silver locks in an elegant French braid, which is something I’ve been practicing for weeks now. My Mage Hands start work up top the crown of Chrissy’s head and weave strands of her hair into a long, singular braid while keeping it snug enough to stay together, but not so snug she can’t throw the braid over her shoulder and fiddle with the pink ribbon I use to tie the bottom end off. As an added bonus, I throw a smattering of subtle pink highlights into the mix using Prestidigitation, a trick I picked up from Noora. Get’s Chrissy sitting in front of the mirror to admire my work when I’m done, running her fingers over the interwoven strands of silver hair while staring at it something fierce, like she can see something in the patterns that draws her in.
Cheers Chrissy right up to see it, because it’s been a while since I’ve done more than a plain ponytail. Ain’t enough to make up for my lacking Mental Fortress, but it puts a little bounce in her step as we head off for breakfast. Soon as we’re done eating our biscuits, gravy, and sausages though, she grabs my arm, pulls me aside, and says, “Howie. Spell please.”
“You want me to cast Mental Fortress again?”
“No.” Tilting her head, Chrissy then says, “Show.”
Which is enough for me to piece together what it is she wants. “You want me to start casting the Spell, then stop before it goes off?”
“Yes please.”
So I go ahead, moving through the flows as slowly as possible and waiting for Chrissy to tell me what’s wrong. I stretch the Spell out long as I can, visualizing the Structure in my mind’s eye as a mass of moving lights working together to create this intricate framework of trails arranged in all manner of various shapes, a complex network of moving parts that form something greater than the whole of it would suggest. The trails are static, the pathways set, but the flows themselves twist, turn, and tumble while moving through the structure itself, and it is here where most of my attention lays while waiting a word, a motion, any indication from Chrissy regarding what to watch for.
Only for me to reach the end of the Structure and have to let go of the flows before they take form in the physical world and waste a whole third of what I got in the tank. Cutting the Spell short with a focused effort of will, I meet Chrissy’s guileless eyes with a quizzical look, one raised brow to ask if she got any notes. She don’t pay it no mind though, just sits there with her eyes locked on mine while seeing nothing of anything before her. Her thoughts are adrift in the magic, her focus turned inwards to what only she can see, so I stand there in awkward silence unsure what to do next. Leave her to her thoughts, or ask if she can explain what’s happening here? I thought she wanted to teach me how to sling the Spell better, so it seems a little strange for her to drift off like this.
Less than a minute later, Chrissy furrows her brow in thought, then blinks and comes back to reality. Needs a moment to figure out where she is, but she gets right back on track soon enough. “Howie,” she says, in the same cadence and intonation as before. “Spell please.”
“Okay.” After going through the motions a few more times without any change, it finally occurs to me that this practice might not be for me. From there, it only takes a couple questions and a few short leaps of logic to figure out what’s going on. “Chrissy,” I ask, keeping my voice low and tone neutral even though I’m both excited and incredulous. “Are you trying to learn the Spell from watching me drive the flows?”
She takes a beat to consider the question, and even longer before she responds. “Yes.”
Which is to say she’s trying to learn the Spell the way an Intuitive would. That’s all sorts of amazing, because I didn’t know she could do that. Still don’t if I’m being honest, because no matter how many different ways I word the question, I can’t get her to tell me if she’s ever learned a Spell in this manner before. I’m thinking it’s because she doesn’t know the answer either, because regardless of whether it happens Innately or Intuitively, new Spell Structures just sorta pop into her head, so who’s to say if it came from her bloodline or from her own Intuition? Chrissy ain’t ever learned a Spell the Orthodox way, not with the math and numbers at least. We all helped her form Cantrip Spell Structures by showing her the flows one step at a time, but that only works with Cantrips because they’re three-dimensional constructs. Complicated ones with plenty of moving parts, but still three-dimensional in the end, meaning you can go at your own pace without any concern for the passage of time changing all the variables in the mix.
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That’s the whole idea of Cantrips after all. Spell Structures that work independent of the great big universal metronome in the sky, the drumbeat to which the metaphysical world marches and the heartbeat of all magic in the universe. That’s what we need all the math for, to set up the right timing for every twist and turn of the Aetheric flows, because only then can they bring forth the Magic those Structures entail. Not so with Cantrips. So long as you got the physical aspects of the Structure down pat, then the Cantrip will take form, simple as that, and while most learn through mathematics, there’s no reason you can’t learn the Cantrip Structures with visual aids.
Like using the Silent Image Spell, or Minor Illusion if you know the trick of turning still images into moving ones. That’s how Chrissy learned all her Cantrips, but I guess now she’s trying something different with a Third Order Spell, by not just visualizing the flow, but sensing the timings in a pattern so long and complicated a 3-D model of the Structure would take months to put together, if not years. That’s without accounting for all the minute changes in the Spell Structure that take place with each passing second, all so subtle and profound we hardly even notice them, but that don’t mean those changes ain’t there. We navigate those imperceptible changes using math to predict how the Structure should flow as we build it out in our mind’s eye, a feat made possible because everything is a number. That’s what Pythagoras said at least, and Galileo went on to say that the book of nature is written in the language of mathematics, and sensational as magic might be, it can also be described as science we have yet to wholly comprehend.
Which makes sense to me, or as much sense as magic can make at least. What Chrissy is trying here though? Or what Errol does without appreciating the grandeur of it all? Picking up Spell Structures through informational osmosis like some sort of Aether sponge, that’s some real magic there, and I envy him for his ability. Chrissy too if she’s got it, though I’m also happy for her, because it means she’s got even more talent than any of us thought before. Assuming she’s actually capable of Intuitively learning Spells, which ain’t certain just yet, though I am a little miffed she thinks learning the Spell herself is easier than teaching me how to do it right.
“You know Chrissy,” I say, after praising her to high Heaven about her Intuitive ways. “A lot of people think I’m real smart and talented when it comes to magic.”
My wry statement is lost on Chrissy as she pats me on the head, as if to say ‘good for you’ without really putting much heart into it. “Spell please,” she says, in the same monotone intonation as usual, and I’ve no choice but to oblige the Princess as I go about my day.
Getting the chores done back at the house is a must, and Chrissy tags along to say hi to the animals and give them all the love and attention they so desperately crave. Not from me of course, because I’m just the guy who makes sure they got food and water and a warm dry place to sleep. Least Cowie is still sweet as honey, trotting over for a good hug and a scritch, while his lady cows Dumpling, Momo, and Samosa all crowd in around Chrissy for their fair share of attention. The horses are getting used to the Mindspire’s Dissonant Whistle, but if not for Old Tux, Sunshine and Winnie would stay cooped up in the barn all day instead of following him out for a trot. Ivory and Fifi are out with Tina, so here’s hoping they enjoyed their time away from the Mindspire, but seeing how it’s been a while since I brung them out, I fit Sunshine and Winnie with bridles so we can take a ride out into town.
No saddles, if only to reassure Cowie I ain’t gonna go far, but he is not a trusting bull. Ain’t no keeping him in the barn neither, not if he really wants out, so might as well save me the work of patching up the door and bring him with us to the Sherrif’s office after a stop at the Anita’s for some snacks. Figure it’s time to let the law know about my run-in with the Mafia, the parts I care to share at least. Judging by Uncle Teddy’s lacking response to Carter’s predicament though, I’m guessing Sherrif Patel won’t be raring to take on the Mafia, which is honestly kind of disappointing. I get that crime can never be completely eliminated, and better the devil you know, but it really grinds my gears to watch good, hardworking folks get taken advantage of just because they want to live their lives in peace. I can’t really blame Carter for giving in to the Mafia’s demands and not wanting the law mixed up in all this, because there’s no real way for the law to guarantee his safety, or more importantly, the safety of his family and community. As for Uncle Teddy, the Rangers can’t act in matters of domestic law without a request from the Sheriff’s Office, and Sherrif Patel can’t open up an investigation without a crime being reported, which Carter expressly asked me not to. It’s all very circular, in that no one can or wants to do anything about it, because soon as someone steps out of line, some thug like Joseph or Michael shows ups to set you straight.
Hate to admit it, but even I’m feeling a bit leery of going too far with the Mafia after my talk with Uncle Teddy. A straight up fight? I’ll take that any day of the week, but you can’t guard against all comers every minute of every day for weeks without end. They ain’t all gonna come at me out in the open the way short-stack and his buddies did either, fully dressed for the part and obvious as all heck. What happens when they send some poor schlub who’s in deep with the mob and got no choice but to take a run at me to clear his debts? Or worse, a professional hitter who blends in with the crowd and takes me out before I even clock their existence? How many strangers do I walk past each day? Dozens at the very least, and I can’t stay guarded against them all, not here in New Hope. Not even out in a homestead really, so there’s no winning, not when they won’t fight you fair and square.
Which makes me glad I covered up my killing of Joseph and his buddies, and all the more appreciative of Carter’s willingness to keep my secret. With how cut and dry my conversation with the short-stack went yesterday, it seems like the Mafia don’t care much about Joseph, not really. They just want to be sure there ain’t no one taking out mobsters, because like Uncle Teddy said, they can’t let a death go unanswered. Would make them look weak, which you can’t have when you rule by fear.
So here’s hoping the Mafia buys my story about staying over at Carter’s, but I’ll still feel better if the Sherrif knows about the encounter too. That way, it don’t come as a complete surprise if I happen to gun down a few mafiosos in town one day soon, only a rude and unpleasant one.
Striding into the Sherrif’s Office, I’m greeted by the familiar sight of the security desk, manned by none other than the cowardly Deputy Walt seated behind the tinted security glass. The burly fella’s eyes go wide to see me, but he recovers right quick and scowls instead. “What you want?” he asks, feeling safe and sound behind the Bolt proof barrier since the only way in is through the locked gate to the right.
“A good morning to you too, Deputy Walt,” I say, stepping up to the wooden counter and resting my arms up top. Got me an urge to try and reach through the slot to spook him a bit, but that’s just an intrusive thought. “Was hopin’ to get a word with the Sherrif if he’s in.”
“He’s busy.”
That’s all Deputy Walt says while glaring at me to get gone, but I ain’t so easy to get rid of. “But he’s in, right? Any idea when he’ll be free?” I ask, doing what I can to squint and see past the Deputy into the bullpen behind him. That’s where they got all their desks to do their paperwork, while the armoury is off to the right, sharing a wall with the morgue next door. Way at the back is where the jail cells sit, though I can’t see much of anything through the double thick panes of Aberrtin reinforced glass, which I suppose is the point of all of it then.
Well, that and to stop folks from coming in and shooting the place up for whatever reason.
“Ain’t a personal visit,” I add, seeing how Deputy Walt was about to tell me to pound sand. “I seen something in town he gonna want to hear about.”
“Takes as long as it takes,” Deputy Walt replies with a huff, looking all smug and self-satisfied now that he can get one over on me.
“Well, I got time,” I say, striding off to take a seat at the side. Ain’t got nowhere to be since Chrissy is happy studying Magic beside me while Noora and Josie got classes at the school. As for Tina, the earliest she’ll be back is late afternoon, because even though it’s 3-day trip to Summerbloom by wagon, it’s only 2 days by horse meaning the boots should be back before the gates close tonight. That’s assuming no wagons broke down and they didn’t run into trouble neither, though if something had happened out on the road, I presume we would’ve heard about it already.
Walt don’t look none too happy to have me sitting in wait, but I pay him no mind and flip through Astrid’s notebook for lack of anything better to read while Chrissy cuddles Cowie and pokes me every now and then to say she wants to see the flows once more. Not the most relaxed reading environment I’ve ever had, but the ambiance more than makes up for it every time some townie comes in with a complaint. A farmer claiming his neighbours have intruded on his grazing lands, a storeowner in to file a report about petty theft, a lady with a complaint about the public health hazard that is the pub/diner. These are the sorts that file in over the next hour or so, without hide nor hair of Sherrif Patel to be seen, but to be fair, if I were him, I’d steer clear of all this too. I get that it’s all part of the job and all, but they all seem like non-issues really. There more grass out there than we got animals to graze it, while petty theft is hardly worth the effort to prosecute, and if you got issues with how the pub/diner handles their food, then don’t eat there.
Simple is as simple does, though I suppose my way of thinking won’t ever win me no elections.
This the first time I’ve gone through Astrid’s notes, as I been too busy with Mental Fortress. For the first little bit, it’s mostly questions and thoughts regarding the Mage Hand Cantrip, as well as frustrations regarding how my mama’s trick worked. As I get past the initial growing pains though, I see that Astrid got a good head on her shoulders and understands how to get at the root of the issue. Asks a lot of insightful questions too, like, “Why can’t Mage Hand be upcasted?”, or, “How do they move at a fixed speed without any acceleration or deceleration?”. My answer would be, “Because it’s magic,”, but then again, I never really gave it all that much thought.
Now though? Now she got me wondering the same thing. Why can’t I upcast Mage Hand to make it stronger and more durable? Take Bolt for example. I don’t have a First Order Bolt Spell Structure memorized, but I can upcast the Bolt Cantrip at First Order to hit just as hard. Or Blast, a First Order Spell I cast at Third Order to make sure I put them harpies down all those weeks back when Errol ran headlong into the fray without thinking about the consequences. Upcasting is rarely worth it from an efficiency standpoint, as a proper Third Order Spell typically does the job better than an upcasted one, but sometimes, you gotta work with what you have.
All food for thought, and Astrid’s notes provide few answers, only more questions to pore through and perspectives to consider. While I’m studying away, I keep an eye on Chrissy’s mood to make sure she’s not suffering too much from the Mindspire. I’ve long since stopped keeping track of the various ways in which the Proggie of the Lake tries to mess with our heads, because they all pale in comparison to the constant Dissonant Whistle which varies in pitch and frequency just enough to keep you from ever tuning it out. When Chrissy’s head dips low and finds its way to my shoulder after an hour of sitting around, I figure it’s time to head back to the church, so I do what I can to coax her to her feet and wave at Walt, saying, “Let the Sherrif know I came by? It’s important.”
“Sure,” Deputy Walt says, with a sly look about him that says I’ll probably have to come back later. Petty man, Walt is, still sour about Juan’s death and how I recorded the whole thing, like the video of his racist rant is what paints him in a bad light, and not the rant itself.
Silly that, but Carter might be right about how I need to pick my fights, so I leave Walt be. Chrissy takes some coaxing to get out of her chair, mostly because she’s still carrying Cowie and neither one wants to move. While I’m doing that though, the front door opens with a chime and a couple men in town guard uniforms walk in, all grey polo shirts and khaki pants with skinny red ties that I hate and ugly baseball caps to top it all off. “Prisoner transport,” the lead guy says, in a voice that sounds strangely familiar.
“I don’t got no transfer on the schedule,” Walt says, shuffling around some things on what sounds like a real mess of a desk.
“Well I got the paperwork right here. One Jeremy Fulton, nickname Tank.” Takes a moment for the name to sink in, but when it do, the realization hits like a truck. Tank is Sasquatch, the Vanguard National biker I done shot in the leg after he accidentally shot Sarah Jay in the knee. Funny thing about that is getting arrested might well have saved his life, else Tank would’ve probably been part of the crowd I done hit with Fireball, gotten blown up in the bunker, or shot dead on my way up to see Ron. Never bothered following up on what happened with Sasquatch, but I always assumed he would’ve been charged and sentenced in a court of law by now, not sitting around in a jail cell for the better part of seven weeks.
Glancing up at Walt, I open my mouth to ask why it took so long to process Tank, only for the words to get caught in my throat as I lock eyes with the guard. Man wasn’t looking at me exactly, just throwing a casual glance around, but the second our eyes meet, we both freeze up, because we recognize one another all too well. It’s the mini mafioso with the square jaw, looking all spic and span in his fresh guard uniform and clean-shaven chin while carrying a clipboard under his arm. Seems just as surprised to see me as I am to see him, and we stand there staring at one another without a clue on how to proceed, until I glance away and keep my hand clear of my gun without turning to show I ain’t looking to jam them up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the mini mafioso deflate just a bit, and for a moment, all is well in New Hope and ain’t no one gonna get shot.
Right up until the mini mafioso’s buddy senses something up with his leader and turns to give me a gander too. The man’s eyes go wide as his hand goes for his sidearm, and time stops as I’m forced to decide. Do I take my chances and hope he don’t shoot me outright, or do I respond in kind?
Ain’t much of a question really, the answer already given as my Rattlesnake clears the holster and spits hot death at the offending gangster. The Bolt hits centre mass, and the Toppling Metamagic sends his corpse hurtling into his two buddies behind him. All of them are armed, and with Chrissy behind me, I take no chances, but I can’t just fire willy nilly into the crowd. Nor can I risk watching and waiting for them gangsters to act, so I fall back on my tried-and-true intuition. My jimmies are a-jangling as I trust my gut and pick my targets, letting my Portent do all the heavy lifting as I fire two more Bolts on pure instinct. A second mafioso goes down hard with a grunt, then a third takes a shot to the chest and joins the first alongside the far wall. From there, my training and experience kicks in as I squeeze off a fourth shot at the thug standing just behind the mini-mafioso. Obscured by his boss, I clip the final flunky in the shoulder who spins dramatically in place, only to stumble into clear view as I take aim and squeeze off a fifth shot that takes him in the head.
Two seconds tops. That’s all it takes, and now four men are dead or dying while their leader, the mini-mafioso stands untouched and utterly still. Man saw this coming from a mile away and didn’t even try to stop his friends or go for his own weapon because he knew he was beat. Instead, he slowly raises both arms as his dark, beady eyes fill with rage and the promise of violence for spoiling his plans by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Youse gonna pay for this kid,” the mini mafioso says, sounding as threatening as a man can with his hands in the air. “You messed with the wrong people, you hear? You’re dead. Done for. You, the girl behind you, your little cow there. All dead.”
I don’t say a word, just narrow my eyes and keep my gun trained on him while my Mage Hands disarm him. Not because I’m the tough and silent type. Truth is, I’m still reeling from the encounter and processing it all after the fact, realizing that I done shot four men dead only after they went for their sidearms. Only had to beat the first one to the draw, as I already had my weapon in hand when the other three went for their guns, but it was still some impressive shooting if I don’t say so myself. More to the point, I realize how bad it could’ve been if I’d’ve missed, because in addition to the standard guard sidearm, the mini-mafioso has three more guns and a half dozen knives concealed about his person.
I miss one shot, flub one kill, and then I’m stuck in a shoot out in a closed room with Chrissy and Cowie behind me and our only way out on the other side of a group of armed thugs. A terrible fight to take, but my hand was forced, so all I can do is thank my rustling jimmies for giving me the edge I needed to hit all my shots without fail.
As the last knife hits the floor and slides off into the corner, Deputy Walt finally finds his nerve and peeks up over the counter, his knuckles pure white and eyes opened up wide. “You’re crazy,” he says, shaking like a leaf with no care at all to draw his weapon, which is good because it's much easier for him to shoot me through that slot than it would be for me to shoot him. Not that I’d want to, and doubly so considering I got Chrissy and Cowie stuck in here with me and only one round in the chamber, so I thank the Lord for small mercies and cowardly deputies. “You just gunned down four guards in broad daylight!”
“They ain’t guards,” I say, really hoping that’s true, because I didn’t get that great of a look at the four men I just mowed down. “Mobsters.” Gesturing at short and square, I explain, “This one came at me yesterday afternoon, asking about a run in I had with another mafioso last Friday. That’s what I came in to talk to the Sherrif about,” I add, giving the mini mafioso a small tilt of my head to apologize for the awkward circumstances. If the man had business in town, then he shouldn’t have approached me like that, because that’s just sloppy work. He sees it too now, but he don’t blame himself. Doesn’t entirely blame me neither, as I can sense that most of his anger is directed elsewhere, because he doesn’t bother threatening me again.
Chrissy’s slender finger pokes me in the small of my back, but I pay her no mind. A second poke comes almost immediately, then a third before she opens her mouth to speak. “Howie. Spell please.”
“Not now Princess,” I say, still with my gun trained on the mafioso while waiting on some other deputy to unlock the gate into the waiting room. “Little busy. Gonna need a couple minutes okay?”
“Okay.” Completely unaware of the danger around her, Chrissy takes a seat with Cowie and starts humming a merry tune, and keeps humming while I explain what happened to the Deputy, and again to the Sherrif soon after. Thankfully, no one tries to shoot me, which is a nice change for once. Still gotta hand over my weapons like I’m a criminal, but this time I get it. Luckily, my little shootout was caught on Recording and none of them are actual guards, while my recording of yesterday’s little chat with the mobsters in question is enough to clear my name.
The Sherrif still makes me sit down in an interrogation room to sweat me a bit too, long enough so that Aunty Ray has to come pick Chrissy up. As for me, Sherrif Patel rolls out the red carpet and makes me tell the story three different ways and ekes out every detail he can about my meeting with Michael at Carter’s. When all is said and done some three hours later, he still don’t look none too pleased as he sits across the table from me, joined by the Marshal who looks serious as the grave. “So,” the Marshal begins, shuffling a few papers in front of him before folding his hands over the desk. “Our friend in the other room is one Sandro ‘the Jaw’ Bonelli, enforcer and button man for the Pugliano family.”
“The Jaw?” I chuckle. “Michael had an Innate with him named Cold Cuts.” Shouldn’t have mentioned that, but too late now. “Who comes up with these terrible nicknames? They’re worse than Ranger callsigns.”
“Terrible nicknames not withstanding,” the Marshal says, fighting to hold back a smile, “He’s another made man in the Pugliano Family, so it’s good thing you didn’t kill him. The others are all affiliates, thugs with records but no outstanding warrants.” Shame. Means I won’t be getting paid for all the trouble I’ve gotten myself into, but in my defense, this is really Sandro’s fault, not mine. “The Mafia won’t pay much mind to their deaths,” the Marshal continues, “But you have gone and ruined their plans. Seems the Pugliano Family wanted to break Jeremy Fulton out of custody, and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What they want Sasquatch for?” I ask. “And why hasn’t he been processed yet? Man shot a boot, so I figured him for a work camp by now, instead of sittin’ pretty doin’ nothin’ and gettin’ three squares a day for it.”
Rather than answer, the Marshal looks to the Sherrif, who’s sitting with his bare foot up on his chair again. “We make deal with Jeremy,” Sherrif Patel says, refusing to call him Tank or Sasquatch, because he’s far too serious a man to use a silly nickname like that. “In return for a commuted sentence, Jeremy has agreed to help Federal Government uncover Vanguard National’s explosive caches to be ‘safely disposed’ of.” Or commandeered more like, which the Sherrif is clearly unhappy about.
Uncle Teddy don’t like it much either, but he hides it better while wearing his mantle of the Marshal. “We we’re in the process of putting a team together when the Mindspire went up, and that’s delayed our plans long enough for the Pugliano Family to catch wind of things. Seems they want those explosives for themselves. To use or to reverse engineer, which is why they sent a team out here. If they hadn’t revealed themselves to you yesterday, and you hadn’t come in to report them, they might well have walked right on out of town with Jeremy Fulton in their custody. They had all the proper papers and authorizations, including a permit to get them through the gates even in the event of a lockdown.”
Meaning the town guards, the Sherrif’s Office, and maybe even the Rangers are compromised, because you can’t just forge papers and permits like that willy nilly. “Least now y’all can clean house,” I say, and neither man looks happy at that, because don’t no one like being told there’s a rat infestation afoot. “So what now then?”
“You are free to go,” the Sherrif says, waving me off like he trying to shoo a chitter rat out the door. “Clean kills, all shot after they drew their weapons. Very impressive, but very risky Howie. Very risky. I know I tell you to follow the law, but first Bolt sets the precedent, so commit or keep your weapon holstered.”
“Wasn’t sure if they was all gangsters,” I admit. “Only really remembered the one face, so I was worried they might’ve had a hostage or something.”
Earns me a proud nod from the Marshal, because he got high standards that go beyond ‘justified’, and I done met them here today. The Sherrif though, he looks at me like I’m a fool, then heaves a sigh and glance over towards the other room. “This is not over, Howie. Sandro in there is telling his lawyer everything that happened, and the Mafia will seek retribution.”
Uncle Teddy’s gaze is also concerned, but there’s plenty of pride in there too. “You’ll have to stay in town and lie low for a bit,” he says. “Give us time to sort things out with the Pugliano’s. We will not take Sandro’s threats lightly, but I’ll reach out and let them know in no uncertain terms what the consequences will be if they escalate the matter any further. They won’t risk all out war so long as the official story does not cause the Pugliano Family to lose face, so chances are they won’t retaliate once we let them know the price they’ll have to pay.”
“And if they come at me regardless?” I ask, my stomach sinking at the thought of Chrissy, Tina, Aunty Ray, or Cowie getting hurt because of me. I hate having to sit on my heels like this, because my gut is telling me things are already too far gone and it’s time to go to war, to strike first and get the Mafia bleeding before that lawyer there has time to send word back to Mount Rimepeak. Fat chance of that happening though, which means the ball’s in their court again, but them’s the breaks when you playing the part of law-abiding citizen.
“Then we’ll be ready and waiting,” Uncle Teddy says, letting the mantle slip just a bit as his slate grey eyes go cold and hard, reminding me that I ain’t the only one he thinks of as family. Aunty Ray, Chrissy, and Tina are all family to him too, so the Pugly-Annies got another thing coming to them if they think my family is easy game. Which is the bright side of paying taxes and obeying the law I suppose, knowing the Rangers got my back. Still don’t keep me from wishing I’d left a note with Walt or something, or better yet, just gave him the crystal and told him the Sherrif would want to see it right quick. Even if it means Sasquatch getting sprung by the Mafia, that’s better than the passive situation I got myself stuck in here.
Don’t get me wrong. I ain’t scared of the Mafia. If they come at me hard, then they best be prepared to bleed, but what I don’t like is the fact that I gotta sit here and wait, as that exposes my people to danger. Better to go at them on their home turf and make them bleed there, but they got their hands in too many pockets for the Rangers to go whole hog on them without cause. A backwards way of upholding the law, only enforcing them when it’s convenient and profitable to do so, but seeing how everyone says this is how it’s gotta be, I suppose there ain’t no other way to go about it.
Guess there ain’t nothing to do now besides hope for the best and prepare for the worst, a job my daddy trained me to do right.