6. Patrick

Chapter six

Patrick

T he drive into town only took a couple of minutes. I might have been happier and more content to be isolated and alone, but some conveniences like access to fuel and emergency groceries needed to be nearby.

Having Allan in my home, though, had spurred some long-forgotten feelings of what it was like to be around other people. Other good-looking people. People who I might have found attractive. My mind kept replaying his naked torso wrapped up in my bed linens.

He had really nice pecs. Little dusting of hair. Pert nipples, and abs! I lost my six-pack a decade ago. Still, I retained a flat tummy, but between my love of wine and a good coat of man fur, my hard ridge days were over.

I also felt bad for the kid.

Not knowing where he was, who he was, and that he accidentally had ushered forth enough magic to kill his friends, would be enough information to confuse and befuddle anyone. The deaths were collateral damage of the worst type. It was completely his fault, and yet, how could I blame someone for a power they had no idea they possessed and had no ability to control?

I had been lucky when my powers manifested themselves. My awakening happened through an animal attack. I hadn't killed anyone. The bear didn't survive, so he might have minded.

The geyser of power that erupted from an individual, thus ushering in a new witch, was usually a self-preservation mechanism when the individual is threatened. So, something happened last night to Allan. Something he hadn't told me. Something that threatened his safety. But I can't blame him. No witch should ever be blamed. Obviously, Allan had been in some kind of danger.

Maybe the Fae had shown up?

Still, those grey-green eyes of his had wormed their way into my brain and were currently living there rent-free.

As water witches, we all had the same eye colour: grey green. Funny how the light made them appear to shift in tone and hue, just like light hitting a body of water. The colour couldn't really be pinned down and most people stared for a bit until they made up their minds one way or another on what to call them.

Most people settled on grey. But truly they were grey green.

"Focus, Patrick. You have a job to do." I admonished myself.

The town's shopping center was just off the highway and consisted of a gas station, a small groceteria, a general store, the ice cream shop, and a tourist stop that had all manner of trinkets, clothing, and edible goodies emblazoned with "Sylvan Lake" on them. That particular store I never went into—too many tourists.

But what the locals didn't know was the back door to the ice cream shop doubled as the only doorway for hours around that would lead to The Magic Shop, if you knew how to get there.

Thankfully, I did.

And I needed to get into The Magic Shop in order to access the Magician's Council where I hoped Reginald, our lead witch, would be able to give me some assistance with Allan.

Parking the car off to the side of the building, I got out, locked the vehicle (not that there was anything in it worth stealing), proceeded to the back of the ice cream parlor, and walked in through the rear door.

To my right, a delivery door had been propped open that allowed the frozen delights to be delivered. To my left nothing existed but a blank wall.

Pointing my finger at the wall, I drew an old symbol.

A witchy hex mark.

Squiggly writing that few in this world would ever be able to read.

As I completed the mark, I stood back, waited, and within a few heartbeats the white-painted wall morphed and shifted. Before my eyes a paneled door with a brass doorknob became visible with red neon lettering on the door.

The Magic Shop.

"So original," I harrumphed.

Turning the knob, I swung the door open, and took two steps into the portal.

Air whooshed around me as I stepped through.

A sign I had crossed a time-space barrier.

Glancing around the interior, I could see the size of the magical boutique defied the limits of the size of the building this portal was contained in. Rows upon rows of magical accoutrement spread out before me like a buffet just waiting to be touched, tasted, and consumed.

Every time I came here, a tug and pull of need and desire ran through my body, as if the items stored on the shop's shelves called for me to take them home.

But, as much as I may have wanted to buy things, I really had no need for anything, except to perhaps get to the Magician's Council chamber, and there was only one way to do that.

I needed to go through the shop's proprietor, a tall fellow, who always wore a top hat. I've never caught his name, and as nondescript as his features were, he wasn't someone you would ever forget. One of those people who you occasionally run into or see out of the corner of your eye, but then you turn to look for him, and he's gone…and it makes you wonder if he had ever been there at all.

I wandered through the store, my gaze scanning for the thin and black-eyed man we all simply referred to as The Owner. The central checkout counter was empty, and come to think of it, I don't recall having ever seen anyone manning the till here. With that in mind, I made my way through the myriad of shelves toward the back of the store.

As I exited the maze of bookshelves, doing my very best to ignore the taunting lull of wanting to buy things, I spied the back counter, and there behind it, shuffling a deck of tarot cards, was The Owner.

"Hi," I waved.

He glanced up at me. His nimble hands didn't stop. Cards flapped and popped, flittered, and flew from one hand to the other and back again. He smiled, crooked, as one side of his mouth showed the barest hint of teeth.

"If I may, I would like to access the Magician's Council chambers?"

The Owner nodded, then gestured with one arm toward a wall beside him. The cards continued to shuffle on their own, despite one hand being used to show me the way.

The blank wall morphed, just as the entrance had, but the doorway this time did not reveal a cheap, white-paneled door like my entrance into The Magic Shop.

No.

This door was arched. Heavy ancient wood, carved with all manner of magicked symbols, and an undulating dragon arching its wyrm body over the top of the door.

Big black metal hinges kept the door in place, and the latch set—wrought iron—consisted of a handle pull. The metal ensuring nothing of a supernatural bent could enter. Iron ore prevented most other beings from trespassing.

Gripping the cold ebony handle, I pulled.

The door, heavy, and the hinges seizing from not being used often, screeched as it cracked open.

I had to turn sideways in order to enter, and as soon as I was on the other side, the door slammed shut.

Whoosh.

"Patrick! Good to see you." A voice said from behind me.

I spun around to find a long marble-top table, complete with a dozen chairs, each with a tall back, but upholstered in different fabrics. Each chair represented one of the twelve enclaves that governed our division in Western Canada.

There was a central division, and an eastern, but only the three enclaves that ruled the country.

"Please, sit." The man, in flowing purple robes, heavily accentuated with hand-stitched runes and glyphs, nodded toward one of the chairs. "It's been a dreadfully long time since you graced us with your presence."

"Truly, I am sorry. The human world keeps me busy!"

"Ah, yes. We do need to talk about that. But before we do, I sense there is something heavy that weighs on your heart?" Reginald squinted while he studied me. His eyes were unsettling. As an air witch, his irises were an odd shade of ochre. Rather disconcerting on a human.

Reginald had been voted in as the head of the Magician's Council and was easily the most powerful individual I had ever met. Clairvoyance and communication were his specialties. A good fit for leading a miscreant band of rogue witches. And witches did, almost as if it was an inherent characteristic to wielding magic, want to do our own thing.

"Thanks, Reginald." I took a seat.

"Tea?"

I grimaced. Hated the stuff.

"I'm good, thank you."

"So, I hear you have a new disciple."

"How?"

Reginald glared at me with a smirk. Then laughed out loud. "My dear, the wind whispers its secrets to me."

"Yeah, you air witches. Can't keep anything from you."

"True." He nodded in agreement. "But you are concerned?" He reached toward me with a strong hand. The dark hair of his forearm became visible as his robe pulled back with the motion. He gripped my upper arm and squeezed.

"I am. The boy seems…angry? Certainly sarcastic, and perhaps not ready for tutelage. Plus, his powers have already taken three lives. But, more importantly, his abilities stole the lives of his friends while on protected Fae land."

"Oh, dear."

"Exactly. I have met with an emissary and have heard their demands. They want the boy in a month's time. They want the fledging witch's magic in their realm, and to keep him for a full year."

"Well, I'd say you have your work cut out for you, then."

"But that's just it. I can't possibly train a fledgling in the space of twenty-eight days!"

"It would appear you must."

"Which is why I am here. I need to beg for extra resources, or at least another witch. I can't attain a reasonably acceptable level of mastery in a fledgling witch within the time frame set out. And the Fae have made it known that failure to produce what they want will potentially cause another ‘mass disappearance'."

"I see." Reginald went quiet as he contemplated. Being the head of the council meant it was his responsibility to make sound decisions for the greater community of both the magical and mundane denizens. "We are in a tight spot then. There are no other available witches. All have disciples of their own or are currently assigned to intensive projects. I'm afraid this falls squarely on your shoulders. But I have every confidence you will succeed."

He patted the back of my hand, which I pulled away.

I had considered this response, thinking of worst-case scenarios, but Reginald and I got along really well, and I had done a lot of favors for him. I had been certain he would have reassigned Allan to someone else or at the very least given me another witch to help train a newbie witch.

Rarely did magical challenges present themselves that were whisked away with a wave of the hand, a simple herbal tincture, or a sigil placed in an unassuming place. No, problems always presented themselves in the worst possible way with little to no time to prep or get things done right.

"Are you certain there's no one?"

"Quite, I'm afraid." He continued to stare at me through narrowed eyes. "There's another pressing matter?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Yes, yes there is, I can see—oh. Oh dear. Well. I'm sure you'll navigate your way through that. "

"Sorry?"

"I must take my leave. Other matters to attend to!"

Reginald stood, then flung an arm over his head. His draped robe spiraled out, flared briefly, then wrapped itself up until the material, and Reginald, disappeared.

"Well, fuck." I sat there for a moment.

I was going to have to do this on my own. Judging from his last statement, there lay at least one more hidden barrier I hadn't seen yet.

The next twenty-eight days were going to be interesting, and probably a real test of my patience.

As I exited the council chambers, not having gleaned any additional knowledge or assistance from the magical community at large, a giant weight of desperation settled in my guts. The Owner still resided at the back counter where I had left him.

He continued to shuffle the tarot.

Glancing down at his hands, I watched briefly, mesmerized with his agile fingers as he cut the cards, slipped a section from the front to the back. Split the deck, then shuffled them together again.

A tap of the deck on the counter sorted them all into perfect alignment.

He stopped.

Glancing at me, he tilted his head to one side, then pulled the top card off and laid it out in front of me.

The Magician.

He tapped his finger on the card, then pointed at me.

"Yes, well, that's rather obvious. Isn't it?" I said.

He cocked an eyebrow in response, but the gesture left his emotional stance a secret.

Then he pulled out another card and laid it in front of me.

The Hierophant.

The Owner glanced at me again.

Then, without averting his gaze, keeping me dead center, he flipped over the last card.

The Lovers.

As I peered down to the counter, the three major arcana cards lay there, mocking me. The three cards together read in a row, brought the current situation with Allan all together. An entire novel of stories, the plot all laid out bare, knitted itself into my mind as I backed away from the counter, shaking my head.

"No, no. No, no, no." The meaning was obvious, but it wasn't one I was willing to accept. I certainly wasn't going to conjure into existence the Tarot's vision by saying anything out loud. What we speak goes out into the universe and has a haphazard way of coming back to us.

The Owner smiled that crooked grin, then almost imperceptibly shrugged.

He scooped up the cards he had pulled for me and slipped them back into the deck, then resumed his shuffling.

I left the shop.

Back in my car, I held on tightly to the wheel, staring out through the windshield at the rustic wood paneling of the ice cream shop.

"Fuck."