The Melancholy Truth

Fifty minutes ago, I tried to kill a magician. It’s not the stupidest thing I’ve done for money. There are stories about magicians, but they are just people. Wards or not, protections or not, they can die as anyone else does. I’ve killed two in my time, though the second one brought down half a city block and left me in a hospital for six months. You live, you learn. One to the chest, two to the head. Triple-tap and dead. That’s how it should have been.

The third shot winged him, I think. The others missed. I don’t miss, but the shots missed and the magician paused, turned toward me. You live, you learn. I got on my motorcycle, drove out of dodge, crossed a state line. Made it to a safe house. Magicians are bound to the town or city they become a magician in. I’d like to say it means I’m same, but I’ve never missed like that before. I grab a light beer from the fridge, fingers shaking a little.

I sense movement behind me, spin. I have only killed one person before with a beer can, but I know four ways to do it. Two of which are practical. The magician sighs. He’s standing there, real. Ordinary. There is a bandage wrapped about his left arm. I move, but this is a safe house. Somehow he’s safe here, and I miss with the gun and knife both.

“Who do you work for?” he says, and his voice drives itself into my head with the force of a thousand repetitions. Power upon power, piled on power.

“The Club,” is dragged out, before I can stop myself.

“And your name?” he asks, without that terrible force underneath the words.

“Barbara. Barbara Winfield.”

“How much do you know about The Club?”

“Nothing. They hire me, pay in untraceable deposits. They know what your kind can force from people.”

“Did they tell you that I am the wandering magician?”

I don’t move. I’ve trained in that, along with other things.

“Do you pride yourself in not knowing things?” I don’t move. “You’ve killed other magicians. Where?”

I name the cities.

“And have you paid attention to what happened while there was no magician? What happens in other places where you kill those who could help others?” He walks past me to the fridge. “You think you’re strong of course. And The Club, what did they pay you? Enough that you believe I am strong as well?”

“Enough to retire.”

“And you didn’t wonder about that.” He sounds disappointed as he turns back, holding up a watermelon. “I’ve been told these can kill people if they fall from trees. But everything that makes them important is inside them. Soft. Kind. You see hardness, and think the surface has to mirror the depth. You see the power a magician has, and think it makes me powerful. Your masters see power they cannot coerce, and they get afraid.”

“They are not my masters.”

“Do you think they’d let you leave? Retire? Talking about them?” The magician’s smile vanishes. “That is power: to be bent to the will of another and never notice. A magician’s voice is always noticed. We do not hide it. Nor do we pretend we are not soft. Ask any magician what they are, and they are human first. But you just see a threat.”

He glances down, and the watermelon is gone. Vanished. Elsewhere. “I am powerful, yes, even by the standards of magicians. And I ward myself against harm in ways other magicians never have to. Because I travel with a child whose powers only has limits because he believes they do. If I died, Jay might unmake the world in his grief. That would be the least of what he could do, and those who employed you wanted to kill me. You may wish to think on that.”

I want to say something. I have no idea what. The magician opens the kitchen door and walks somewhere other than the hallway. A hotel room, with a boy with a huge grin and cheerful voice and there is a thud behind me.

I spin, and find the watermelon is on the table, cut cleanly in half. I was raised and trained to do whatever was necessary.

I can’t bring myself to try and eat it. I go the garage, check the motorcycle. Begin driving.

To places I have been. To see if they have new magicians.

To talk. And to learn.