Dark Magic

retrieved, and studied.

It was time to bring Garrison into the loop. As he pulled up Garrison’s number, something on the floor caught his eye.

He gasped.

Zack’s neck was glowing like he’d turned radioactive. Peter had never seen anything like it before. He placed his cell phone onto the table, and went to have a look.

He stopped a few feet from the body. Zack looked dead. Just to be safe, he nudged him with his toe. His assistant didn’t move.

He knelt down, and studied the glowing skin. It was the size of a half-dollar, and was shimmering. The Order of Astrum’s symbol had been tattooed into Zack’s neck, and covered with a piece of flesh through plastic surgery. Zack was dead, yet the Order’s symbol lived on. Garrison needed to see this.

He went to the table and retrieved his cell phone. A voice was coming out of it. Had he put the call through without realizing it?

“Hello?” he said into the phone.

“Peter-is that you?” Garrison asked.

“It’s me. You need to get over here, and see this.”

“See what? What’s going on?”

“I just killed one of my assistants.”

“You did what?”

“His name was Zack, and he was an assassin and spy for the Order of Astrum. He’s lying dead on the floor, only the side of his neck is glowing. I think the Order is somehow keeping tabs on him. It’s freaking me out.”

“Why did you kill him?” Garrison asked.

“He attacked me with a sword.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“No, I used a screwdriver.”

“A screwdriver?”

“It’s a long story. I also found his laptop.”

“Tell me where you are, and I’ll be right over,” Garrison said.

Peter looked back at Zack. The side of his assistant’s neck looked like it was on fire. Zack had traded his soul to be a member of the Order, and was now burning from within.

He gave Garrison the address.

37

Wolfe sat in the corner of a West Side bar called The Gin Mill, tending to the dog bites that covered his arms and legs. None of the bites were particularly severe, yet they still managed to sting like the devil each time his clothing rubbed against them. Dipping a paper napkin into a glass of vodka, he cleaned the wounds to avoid infection.

Music played out of a jukebox. The Rolling Stones’s Some Girls. Above the bar was the prerequisite flat screen TV; across the room, a foosball game. Wolfe found himself longing for a simple pub with a dartboard and a snoring dog. He’d had enough of bloody New York, and was ready to go home again.

He placed down his empty glass. His waitress hit the table like a shark. She’d told him her name while taking his order, but he’d promptly forgotten.

“Ready for another Stoli?” she asked.

“Yes. And a beer chaser,” Wolfe said.

“You got it, cowboy.”

He snorted contemptuously. He hardly felt like a cowboy. What he felt like was a battered and beaten soldier. Every job came with a price, he’d learned that long ago. Each time he took a life, a tiny piece of his soul was taken away, until he had no soul at all. He could live with that aspect of his work. What he couldn’t live with was getting eaten alive by a pack of lunatic dogs. He was going to walk away, the elders be damned. He’d never done that before, and he supposed there was a first time for everything.

His drinks arrived, and he belted back the vodka. He wasn’t sure how he’d get out of New York, or for that matter, the country. Using any mode of public transportation was out of the question. He needed a new identity. He supposed he’d have to kill some bloke.

He threw down money, and headed for the door. The pay phone next to the dart board started to ring. The waitress who’d been serving him answered it. “Hold on, I’ll check.” She cupped the receiver into the crook of her neck. “Is your name Jeremy?”

Wolfe’s hand was on the front door. He shot her a murderous look.

“What if it was?”

“Someone’s looking for you,” she said, gulping hard.

“Who?”

“Some guy with a funny accent.”

“Does he have a name?”

“He wouldn’t give it to me.”

Wolfe crossed the bar and motioned for the receiver. Lifting it to his ear, he felt the cold plastic seep into his skin. The waitress skipped away.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Hello, Major Wolfe,” said the elder with the BBC accent. “When you didn’t contact us at the usual time, we decided to track you down. How is your mission going?”

Wolfe parked himself onto the stool next to the pay phone. He had not decided how to break the news to his employer, and supposed now was as good a time as any.

“I’ve hit a bump in the road,” Wolfe replied.

“How so?”

“I tracked down Reggie Brown this morning, and got attacked by a pack of dogs. There was a young woman with him, chanting some sort of spells. I think she’s a witch.”

“Will you be able to continue?”

Wolfe laughed to himself. Nothing like getting right to the bloody point, was there?

“No,” he said flatly.

“You can’t continue, or won’t?”

“Does it matter?”

“Answer the question, Major.”

“Won’t. I’m finished. Game over.”

“That’s our decision to make, not yours.”

“The police have circulated my photograph, and everyone and their brother is looking for me,” Wolfe said, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “It’s just a matter of time before I’m caught, so I’ve decided to chuck it.”

“We have an agreement,” the elder replied. “You signed it in your own blood when you became a member of the Order. There is no quitting on our watch.”

“Oh, piss off,” Wolfe said, letting the alcohol talk for him.

“How dare you speak to me in that fashion.”

“I’m hanging up now. Have a nice day.”

“Wait!”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

The elder hesitated. “What if we change our deal?”

“What are you offering?”

“More money.”

“I’ve got all the flipping money I want. It will have to be something fresh. Put your thinking cap on, and come