“I don’t know,” Larry said.
He’s hiding something boss, the new pen said.
Marco dropped the pen like it was made of red hot metal. He kicked it to the back of the van.
You wanna file a grievance with me? the gun asked. I think we got grounds ‘gainst this pansy.
“SHUT UP!” Marco shouted.
This had gone far enough.
Hilario unlocked a sliver of his reserve. Just enough to smooth over the cop’s mind. He’d fuzz out the cop’s memories of the last few minutes. Make him take a nap and drop him off somewhere.
He concentrated on Marco. Sent a tendril of of consciousness out to him.
Only to have the tendril smacked back. Smacked so hard it slammed back into Hilario’s mind.
He rocked back in the seat. A spike of pain radiated out from the middle of his forehead.
What the heckity poop?
He reached out a more cautious tendril. Probed the outer edges of the cop’s psyche. Found an impenetrable wall.
The man was shielded. He had stronger psychic defenses over his mind that most wizards Hilario had ever met.
He probed it further. Cautiously. Ready to withdraw in an instant if the shield decided to attack.
The shield was more than capable of attack. It was spiked with defenses. Hilario had to admire it. If it had been crafted he would have pronounced its owner a warlock of the highest order.
But the shield wasn’t crafted. It showed none of the marks of a casting. It had no weave. No seams.
It had been grown.
Naturally.
Somehow, Marco the cop had grown himself a psychic defense shield.
How?
And why?
11
There were forty-two classes of wizard within the coven. Classes eight through forty-two really weren’t worth talking about. Most of those classes were something tacked on so someone’s snot-nosed kid wouldn’t feel bad about not making the cut for being a real wizard. The equivalent of participation trophies. Something a helicopter soccer mom had thought up so her little darling wouldn’t feel excluded.
The trouble was, being excluded was supposed to be a way of telling someone: Hey, you suck at this. Maybe you should go try something else.
But then, that might hurt someone’s feelings.
Even the beings of the unseen world had no protection from overbearing mothers.
The seven real classes of wizard took pride in their powers. They studied the musty–and often booby trapped–tomes of the ancient masters. They practiced their casting. Their shaping. Their plane shifting and parsing of the many energy fields that made up the unseen world.
In other words, they worked their posteriors off to be the best. And they were in constant competition with each other to move up the ranks.
Something they often did was test each other’s psychic shields. And by testing, what they were really doing was attacking and trying to take over their fellow wizard’s mind. Cracking a shield, or sneaking through gaps in a wizard’s defenses was the best way to make sure that wizard didn’t move up in the ranks. And also kill them in the most horrible ways possible.
It wasn’t unusual to find a lesser wizard with his hands around his own neck, having strangled himself while under control of a more adept wizard.
That was one of the more gentle, if boring, methods of reducing the competition. Other wizards liked to make a statement.
Once, early on, after Hilario had made his escape from the bad places, he was apprenticed by the coven council to a wizard by the name of Jorknar.
Jorknar was getting on in years, but was somewhat well regarded among the other wizards. Other than he smelled like rotten garlic that had been plucked out of a pile of cow plop. And he had a habit of calling everyone he met a wanton bastard slut, regardless of their gender. Also he constantly picked his long, wart covered nose and flicked boogers at everyone and everything.
Actually, he was pretty much hated and reviled. But Hilario had seen worse. He’d been in the bad places. Only having to deal with booger flicking and rancid body odor would have been a good day in the bad places.
So he was a little surprised when, one balmy afternoon in Jorknar’s dank, dungeonous abode the wizard suddenly dropped the book of spells he’d been telling Hilario he was too stupid to understand. Jorknar’s eyes went wide, his mouth fell open in an O of astonishment. He started to say something. Something that started with Sh.
Then his whole body exploded.
Orangey-red bits of Jorknar pelted the front of Hilario. A fine, red mist filled the room.
Jorknar’s eyeballs hung in mid-air, trailing bits of muscle and ropey blood vessel. The gray irises pinched shut, then the eyes fell to the floor with a wet plop.
Before he could even contemplate what to do next, the door to Jorknar’s workroom blew apart. Wooden splinters pelted the back side of Hilario.
A man Hilario had never seen before strode into the room. The man wore the flowing black robe of a wizard. He was young, with jet black hair that held closely to his skull. The man’s eyes were black. His face lean and cruel.
The man stepped up to the mess. Spat upon the eyeballs lying there.
“Suck that old man,” the new wizard said.
Then he spun on his heel and strode out.
Hilario looked to the door. To the mess. To the door and back to the mess.
These were supposed to be the good guys?
It was at that moment Hilario decided he’d rather not be a wizard. Not even a Class 42. Which really wasn’t a wizard at all. A Class 42 was also known as a Gnat Whisperer. Because, well, they could talk to gnats. Communicating with tiny buzzy insects didn’t seem like a brag worthy power.
