Rowe looked alarmed.
“Ignore it,” Max suggested.
The buzzer rang again. It had a harsh, angry edge to it. Peter went to the bedroom window and gazed down at the street. A motorbike was parked at the curb with a helmet resting on its seat. The bike’s owner stood on the stoop, hidden from view. The only people who used motorbikes in the city were couriers and drug dealers.
“Are you expecting a delivery?” Peter asked.
“My travel agent is sending a ticket over,” Rowe said. “I have a cousin in Ireland that I haven’t laid eyes on in twenty years. I thought it was time we became reacquainted.”
“Don’t let him in until you get confirmation,” Peter said.
“Good idea.”
Rowe walked out of the bedroom and went down the hallway to where the intercom was located. He looked shaken by what had happened, and was muttering to himself. Peter turned to his teacher. “You’d better watch him, Max.”
“Right,” his teacher said.
Peter returned to the window and gazed down. The man on the sidewalk was gone. The icy feeling returned to his bones, and made him shiver.
Beside Rowe’s bed was a bookshelf. For a person who was against technological progress, Rowe had a large collection of DVDs, with labels like LIVING DEAD/BOMBAY 1/19/76, FIRE BREATHERS/BALI 3/16/88, WITCH DOCTORS/JAMAICA 9/07/94. One title caught his eye, and he pulled it from the shelf. CLAIRE amp; HENRY WARREN 12/10/92. His parents, filmed right before their deaths. On the cover, Rowe had scribbled a note which Peter now read aloud. “First encounter with the Order of Astrum. Claire and Henry showed us things that were beyond the realm of our imaginations.”
A yell sent him an inch off the floor.
“Peter!” Max called out. “Come here. Hurry!”
“I’m coming!”
He slipped the DVD into his pocket with a promise that he’d return it once he’d had a look. Then, he rushed out of the bedroom and down the hallway. Max and Rowe stood with their shoulders to the front door.
“What’s going on?” Peter asked.
“It’s Wolfe,” Max explained, frantically dialing his cell phone. “One of Lester’s neighbors mistakenly buzzed him in. I’m calling 911.”
“He’s in the building?” Peter asked.
“Yes!” they both said.
Peter’s vision clouded over. A burning rage swelled his chest and made his breathing shallow. Since he was a boy, he’d wanted to meet up with someone connected to his parents’ deaths. How he would act had played itself out countless times in his imagination. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
Entering the kitchen, he grabbed an empty whiskey bottle from the trash. It made a harsh sound against his palm. Returning to the hallway, he placed his hand on Max’s shoulder.
“Stand aside,” he said.
“Peter, don’t be foolish,” his teacher said. “I just spoke with an operator. A cruiser is on its way.”
“I said, stand aside.”
“Peter, no.”
“Do it. Both of you.
Peter had been told that he looked like a demon when he became enraged. It must have been true, because Rowe and his teacher backed away from the door.
“You going to fight him?” Rowe asked.
“That was the idea,” Peter replied.
Rowe grabbed a walking stick out of a bucket by the door, and thrust it into Peter’s other hand. It was made of walnut, and felt good and solid.
“Take this. It’s got some heft to it.”
“Thanks. Don’t come out until I say so.”
Max grabbed his arm. “Peter, please be careful.”
“I will, Max.”
“Make sure you hit him first, and hard.”
“Good idea.”
“Good luck, my boy.”
Rowe did him the courtesy of throwing back the dead bolt and opening the door. Peter squared his shoulders and stepped outside the apartment. He supposed he should have felt apprehensive, yet for some reason, he felt more confident than he ever had in his life.
He walked onto the landing, ready to slay the dragon.
16
Everybody had a history.
Peter had read that in a book whose author had survived the Holocaust. The book’s message had been clear. Every person had events in their past which were painful, and hard to bear. It was part of life, and there was no getting around it.
Deal with it.
He had been dealing with his parents’ deaths for as long as could remember. So long that it had become a fabric of his life. He had learned to cope during holidays, birthdays, and when he needed a shoulder to cry on, or an ear to listen. He had accepted that the two people who loved him most were gone, and that there was nothing he could do about it.
Deal with it.
He had, as best he could. Becoming a magician had let him escape to a make-believe world where he could manipulate reality, and pretend nothing bad had ever happened to him. But the anger was still there, and always would be. It rumbled inside of him like a volcano, bubbling just below the surface, hidden to everyone but himself.
Until now.
His footsteps sounded like cannons going off as he ran down the apartment stairwell. The coldness had returned to his joints, and he could not stop shivering. He stopped to look over the railing. Wolfe was on the landing below, holding a metal pipe in his hand.
“Hey, asshole,” Peter shouted.
Wolfe looked straight up. His mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Remember me?”
Peter threw the whiskey bottle at the wall behind Wolfe’s head. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spraying tiny shards of glass into his enemy’s face. Wolfe let out a startled yell, and bolted down the stairs.
“Coward!”
Peter hopped over the railing, and landed on the steps below. Wolfe was already to the next landing, and running hard. The young magician hopped over the railing again, then again. He’d never been much of an athlete, yet now he felt like he could have won a decathlon. Reaching the first floor, he stopped and looked around the empty lobby. Wolfe was gone. His breathing grew short, and his vision narrowed. In the theater of his mind, he saw Wolfe hiding outside the apartment house on the stoop, waiting to strike when he emerged. He could see the tiny cuts on Wolfe’s face, and even smell his foul breath. It was like having a target in his sights.
He clutched the walking stick. He’d never been able to project his thoughts like this before. A new gift, courtesy of the spirits. How long it would last, he had no idea.
Kicking open the front door, he came out of the apartment swinging. Wolfe was right where he’d expected, and he caught him on the side of the face with the stick. The cry of pain was worth savoring. He chased Wolfe into the street, and began to strike his enemy at will. Every blow found its mark, and produced howls of excruciating
