“I am sorry,” he said as he went over to the sink. He picked up a bloody knife and came toward her. “You don’t understand what it is like. No one does. It’s like a furnace. It demands to be fed.”
The house began to vibrate again, but the source of this new rumble was closer than the bombs. It was a truck! The killer looked toward the window and she used the opportunity to scramble to her feet and run for her life.
The truck engine stopped and metal doors clanged open. Someone shouted from the yard, “There’s nowhere left to run. Come out and finish this.”
Panicked, she ran for the door and into the light. She tripped over her mother’s outstretched arm and tumbled down the steps. Her leg twisted and she cried out as a terrible pain shot through her, but she was so scared that she got back up and limped as fast as she could until she found a space to hide behind the woodpile.
Seven men climbed off the truck. Most were wearing workers’ clothing, but two were dressed like soldiers from her country, and one was even wearing the grey uniform of the Germans. All had guns. They spread out as the one in the center walked toward the house. “Your madness ends here!”
“So you are all that is left.” The killer tottered outside, pale and close to death. He surveyed the strangers, then leaned against the wall to stay on his feet. “What did you start with? Twenty?”
“And you’ll pay for every last one of them!” shouted one of the others.
“A waste! Imagine the mysteries I could learn, the answers I could find. Yet, you chased me away. The greatest expenditure of life in the shortest period of time in the history of man is happening right over there!” The killer pointed toward the east where the sky was a black wall of smoke. The gesture caused him to grimace and clutch his side. “The mysteries of the cosmos would have been laid bare.”
“We knew this battle would attract you like a moth to the flame,” replied the leader. He looked to his men. “Kill the Spellbound.”
When it was over, the grey-eyed man that had killed her family was dead, but so were most of the strangers that had arrived to rescue her. Even near death, the murderer had been able to disappear and reappear in different places faster than she could comprehend, and he had inflicted many wounds on her saviors before succumbing to his own. There had been crackling lightning, freezing sheets of ice, and men moving faster than was humanly possible… and so much death. She had been unable to look away.
The leader of the strangers had lived, though he was bleeding and hurt. He spent a minute at the side of his last living friend, until he passed away as well. The survivor went to each of his fallen companions and collected a ring from their fingers. Then he found her, still hiding behind the woodpile, curled into a ball and crying. Older than Father, the stranger seemed thin and tired. Kneeling, he offered her his hand. She took it, his hands were softer than expected, certainly not the hands of a farmer, and he was wearing a gold and black ring. “It is safe now.” Her answer was too quiet to hear. “Are you hurt? Do you have anywhere to go?” His eyes were filled with gentle sadness.
She tried to answer again, but her voice didn’t want to work anymore. Sobbing, she got up and hugged him. Awkwardly, the man held her close. “They are all gone? There is no one left? I’m so sorry,” he said as he lifted her and carried her away. “I’ll find someplace safe for you, I promise.”
A group of soldiers had been marching up the road, heard the shooting, and come running. From the way they sounded as they shouted orders, they were Americans. Rifles were pointed their way, but the man that saved her life addressed the Americans with a dignified, commanding voice. “I am a commandant in the Gendarmerie on special assignment. Here are my orders.”
The American officer was a large and frightening man with a huge mustache and sideburns, but he understood French and seemed impressed by the papers her savior had produced. “These are signed by Foch!” The American snapped rigid and gave a salute, even though her savior wasn’t wearing a uniform. “Very well, sir. What can we do to assist?”
The guns were turned away as her rescuer gently placed her into the passenger seat of the truck. “See to it these people are given a decent Christian burial, except for him…” He pointed at the body of the grey-eyed man. “Burn that corpse. Burn it to ash. Then I have a message for you to convey to General Pershing at AEF headquarters. He will understand. Tell him that the Warlock is dead.”
Chapter 1
I swear before my God and these witnesses that I will stay true to the right and good, that my magic will be used to protect, not to enslave, that all my strength and wisdom must always shield the innocent. I swear to fight for liberty though it cost my life. The Society will be my blood and its knights my brothers, and that I will always heed the wisdom of the elders’ council. I willingly pledge my magic, my knowledge, my resources, and my life to uphold these things.
Miami, Florida
1933
Franklin Roosevelt must die.
The angel had said so. No matter what, the president had to be killed, but it hadn’t told him what to do about the crowd that had gathered to see the new president. Giuseppe Zangara decided he’d best murder all of them too, just to play it safe. It would be easy, since it felt like the angel had given him magic sufficient to burn the whole world. Roosevelt first, though. The last thing he wanted to do was upset the angel.
Other than a generalized hate for all rich capitalists, Zangara didn’t know much about the man who had been elected President of the United States. Hoover, Roosevelt, they were all the same to him. Names changed, but all were filthy capitalists, these American politicians, crushing the workers underfoot. He’d come to this country and they’d stolen his health, ruined his life, and destroyed his dreams. Some said that those failings were his own fault, his health problems were just bad luck, losing his job was because he wasn’t a very good bricklayer, but he knew the truth… Oh no, Zangara was not to blame. The capitalists were to blame. Capitalists were always to blame.
Florida was warm, even in winter. He’d come here because the humidity was supposed to be good for his health. Now, packed into the crowd, it was too hot. Excited, the mob waited for their false savior to arrive. Many of them had made signs, painted on cardboard or sheets. He could not read the words, but he could guess what they said. We need jobs. We are scared. We are pathetic. Protect us from magic. When these fools had heard the new president was coming, they had painted signs. When Giuseppe Zangara had heard the new president was coming, he had begun daydreaming about how to kill the man.
Originally, he’d planned to shoot the president with a gun. Sure, he’d been born with magic, but not enough to make a difference. His connection to the Power was weak. Zangara had just enough magic to be branded a freak, certainly not enough to kill a capitalist and the many guards he was sure to have.
Then the angel had come to him last night, and everything had changed.
It was as beautiful as only something that had escaped from heaven could be. The angel had heard his prayers and come to bless him because of the righteousness of his cause. Its magic touch had fixed the sickness in his guts. It had drawn a spell on him that had made his magic a hundred times stronger, and even given him a fancy piece of jewelry. All it wanted in return was for him to destroy a man whom he’d wanted to kill anyway. Only it had demanded that he do it in a spectacular fashion. It had been his lucky night.
Giuseppe Zangara was very short. All the stupid Americans in front of him were tall, making it difficult to see past them. As the bodies shifted, he caught brief glimpses between them of the president’s big automobile arriving.
