Dark Magic

pain. Each time Wolfe attempted to counter or strike back, Peter saw the blow or kick coming seconds before it was delivered, and parried it. Wolfe was bigger and stronger, yet hopelessly outmatched. His eyes took on a desperate look.

“No more,” Wolfe said.

“You quitting?”

“Yes. Stop hitting me.”

“Put your arms in the air.”

Wolfe raised his arms in surrender. Blood was pouring out of his mouth and nose. Peter fought back the urge to strike him again, and finish the job. Looking into Wolfe’s soulless eyes, he saw a little boy who’d been tortured by his father, who’d grown up to be a torturer and killer himself. He had a history, too, only it was no excuse for who he’d become.

“Start talking,” Peter said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the Order.”

“No thanks.”

Peter raised his stick and took aim. One blow was all it would take to send him straight to hell where he belonged. Wolfe recoiled in fear.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell you the little that I know. There are three elders of the Order. I’ve never seen their faces, nor do I know their names. They send me jobs to do, and pay me well. That’s the arrangement.”

Peter thought back to the three men he’d seen whisk his parents away. Were those the elders? Something told him they were, and he said, “One of the elders has crooked teeth and a twisted nose. What’s his name?”

“Like I told you, I’ve never seen their faces,” Wolfe said.

“You must have some idea.”

A spark of recognition sparked Wolfe’s eyes. He knew something. Peter whacked him in the kneecap. His enemy let out a muffled cry and sank to the ground like he was melting. Peter brought the tip of the stick beneath Wolfe’s chin, and raised his head so their eyes met. Wolfe’s life flashed before his eyes.

“Last chance,” Peter said.

Wolfe blinked. He was not ready to die.

“I don’t know who the elders are,” Wolfe said. “But the other members of the Order might. There’s one here in New York. A spy. I’ll bring him to you.”

“What do you mean, a spy? What does he do?”

“He gathers information. Before I arrived he emailed me the list of names of people I was supposed to kill.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know his name. Just his cell number.”

“Would he know who the elders are?”

“He might. He’s been with the organization for a while. Longer than me.”

“Give me his cell number.”

“It’s in my wallet.”

“Get it. And no funny stuff.”

Wolfe pulled out his wallet and extracted a slip of paper from his billfold. Peter leaned forward in anticipation. It was just the opening Wolfe had been waiting for. Springing up, he shoved Peter and sent him backwards, then hobbled over to his motorbike and jumped on. The engine barked to life.

“Bastard!” Peter shouted.

The bike sped away. Their eyes met in the motorbike’s mirror.

Wolfe was laughing at him.

The rage swelled up inside of Peter. The walking stick flew out of his hand and gyrated through the air, slicing the raindrops like a scythe. He hadn’t thrown it; it had just gone.

The stick smacked Wolfe in the back of the skull. Wolfe lost control of the bike, and it went down in the intersection of Second Avenue and Houston. Several Good Samaritans got out of their cars to give help. Wolfe jumped into an idling vehicle, and sped away.

The slip of paper with the phone number lay at Peter’s feet. He picked it up, and unfolded it. It was a receipt from a restaurant.

“Damn you,” Peter swore.

Max had appeared on the stoop. He hurried over to his student.

“Peter, come with me.”

“Did you see that, Max?”

“Yes. You gave him a hell of a fight.”

“I mean the walking stick. It left my hand on its own accord. Did you see that?”

“Yes, Peter, I saw it.”

“How did I do that?”

“You did it very well. Now come with me, before the police arrive.”

Max pulled his student beneath a shop awning across the street, and hid in the shadows. Two police cruisers pulled up, and the sidewalk in front of Rowe’s apartment turned into a crime scene in the blink of an eye. Max suddenly looked afraid.

“I must get you out of here,” Max said.

“But I need to talk to the police, and tell them what happened,” Peter said.

“No, you don’t. You’ve got to stay away from the police. Let me deal with them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me, it’s for your own good.” His teacher pushed him down the sidewalk toward First Avenue. He did not stop pushing until they’d reached the busy intersection.

“Now go home. I’ll call you later, once the dust has settled,” Max said.

“All right, Max. But first answer my question. How did I do that?”

“I think you know.”

“With my mind? But that’s not possible.”

“For you it is, Peter.”

Peter didn’t understand what Max meant. A psychic’s powers were limited, and did not include mind over matter, or the ability to instantly anticipate what a person was going to do, as he’d done with Wolfe. He’d never heard of such powers before. Across the street he spotted a uniformed cop taking a statement from an eyewitness, who kept pointing in their direction.

Max pushed him. “Go. Before it’s too late.”

Too late for what? Peter had more questions, but the tone of Max’s voice was enough for now, and he hurried up First Avenue, away from the chaos he’d just created.

PART II

THE CHILDREN OF MARBLE

17

With his ears ringing and his vision blurred, Wolfe staggered into his seedy hotel room. He’d ditched the car he’d stolen, and made his way back to where he was staying, through a series of alleys and crowded sidewalks. The police were everywhere, and he’d been lucky to escape their manhunt.

He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed. For a few minutes he stared at the water stains on the