2

I spent three hours in the garden, alternately relaxing and spellcasting. I managed to cast another new spell, a first order transmutation that turned a pebble into rock dust. We had a large backyard, in addition to the 25 meter roofed pool. The garden was mother’s pride and joy, and she frequently worked on it herself. We went to a plant nursery every month or so, picking up some new flowers, shrubs or baby trees. When they returned from a trip abroad, they usually brought back a statue or a windchime or something. There were bright reds and blues, flowering yellows and quite a few thorns. I couldn’t name a single one of the flowers to save my life.

A single path around the pool and the house was about all there was to the garden, but that was quite a lot. The wall was barely visible, covered by a thorny creeper of some sort. The temptation to slowly and gradually turn one or two of the more hideous statues to dust, a Ganesha they’d brought from India or a couple of silly horse heads, was almost overwhelming. Nonetheless, I sternly resisted. Mom wouldn’t be happy. There was also the danger that too much magic could kill me.

I found myself almost constantly eating. It was chew and cast, swallow and chant. This time, I was mostly confining myself to sweets and munchies, from candied figs and honeyed dates to chocolate chip cookies and doritos. I walked in to make a sandwich or five, and noticed the time. Monday and Thursday 18:30 sharp, martial arts class. Thursday, and I had forty minutes, which was time enough to prepare and wrap half a dozen cold-cut and pickle sandwiches.

It might be a waste of food, but I wasn’t going to take any chances on fainting while driving. I’d also practiced using the flamefinger cantrip to actually hit moving things – mostly leaves I’d released and let fall. It was surprisingly effective, burning them to very fine ash that disappeared before they hit the ground. When I managed to hit anything, that is. At first, I constantly fumbled the spell, lowering the index finger and nulling it. Later, I tried to mumble the incantation, to disguise the words of the spell. That didn’t work too well, but I learned that whispering very quietly did work.

The book informed me that there was little spellflames could not harm, little other than the denizens of the courts of elemental fire. It also added that more effective covert casting techniques would be introduced later.

I showered, depilated, sprayed (deodorant) and dressed in a frenzy. I froze for a moment, trying to think and see if I’d forgotten anything, and couldn’t come up with anything. Picking up the bag with the sandwiches, towel, spare clothes and a half frozen bottle of water I’d taken out of the freezer and filled with mineral water, I ran to the garage.

Then I ran back to my room, and picked up the keys, license and insurance for the bike, and ran right back. I was packing a pistol, a dinky little .22, for the first time ever. It felt… strange. I certainly didn’t feel any more secure. Actually, the pistol wasn’t important. I felt like a rabbit painted with bright orange neon, with a flagpole up its ass. In hawk city. Exposed. Vulnerable.

The list of ‘potentially dangerous’ crossed my mind again, and I cycled through vampire-demons, cloud rays, mantimeres, crystal scorpions and what little else I managed to recall from the demon and elemental list. I had a feeling a wizard would at least try to talk, on first sight, rather than just blasting away. It’s what I would have done when faced with an obvious novice. I didn’t really understand how I showed up on their radar, which left me even more insecure.

I thought about calling in sick, but I just couldn’t spend the next couple of months cocooned at home. Well, actually I probably could have. But I won’t. Courage, remember? Stupid, possibly, but there it was. I wouldn’t let all of ‘them’ defeat me before they actually faced me.

Of course, if I did find one of ‘them’, running away seemed like the only intelligent option. Seeing as bullets had a fairly limited impact on hostile critters. I hadn’t forgotten that some demons don’t mind lead pellets traveling only slight below the speed of sound. Probably their version of peanuts.

It was only the fact that traffic was fairly heavy, and that I was driving again, that allowed me to concentrate on something other than what might disembowel me on the next turn. Imagination is not always good for you.

I did vow to minimize the excursions from home. Showing magic or not, I felt safe there. Stupid, once again. Considering further, I determined that I needed to find an isolated spot to practice spellcasting. Smarter. Stettin park had any number of crannies, nooks and little known and visited corners, and barring wood and earth elementals – I’ll have to ask the book – it would do better than home for a battleground. Have to remember not to practice in a single place, to map escape routes, prepare traps (consult book, again), to avoid a predictable pattern.

A car horn blasting by me came very close to killing me. My heart tried to leap out of the bone cage, my breathing halted, and only the fact that I was paralyzed kept me from running off the road.

“Hey, kid, what’s wrong?” detective Karla Rolve was looking at me from the driver’s seat of a beat up Suzuki. She was not in uniform, and she was one big black woman. Almost a head taller than I am, her tits were humongous, her arms broader than my thighs. She’d actually babysat me a couple of times, and she had one raunchy sense of humor. Underneath the tough girl façade, she was just as tough as she looked. No shrinking violet anywhere around. She was also as rock solid as she seemed, or at least that was the vibe I’d picked up.

Very fortunately, she did not practice Jiujitsu. The thought of unarmed combat against her was very unwelcome, the thought of practice not much more so. She could probably pick me up with one hand. Without any effort.

“God Karla, don’t do that!” I only just stopped myself from screaming at her. “You almost killed me here. I know you’re a sneaky badass, but not on the road, woman!”

The roach was grinning. “What’s the matter, sweet? Driving to a funeral? Your girlfriend dump you?” she mock-commiserated.

“Practice,” I replied, “don’t have a girlfriend. Don’t have time for one. Didn’t I give you the ‘make money, don’t work’ lecture? When I was, like, twelve?” I grinned right back.

She laughed loudly, and snorted. “Right, boyo. So that’s why you’re working so hard you don’t have time to bonk anyone? Oh, thanks for the books. You know, there’s a meteor shower next month, August 23^rd. There’s an open day at the observatory.”

Karla was, of all things, an astronomy nut. I’d sent her a few hard science books a couple of months back, and she had the most interesting ideas concerning worm and hyper space. Totally bonkers, but still interesting. Or maybe not so crazy. If magic existed, what else might be true?

“Well, darling, conquering the world is hard work. Money alone don’t cut it. The mastermind I have, it’s the evil I’m working on. Any progress on the physics degree?” I asked, remembering that I’d given her a reference to a couple of online colleges she wouldn’t have too much trouble starting on.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ve started… oops, that’s my turn. Bye!” she began her turn, and I raised my voice, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the shower, but we’ll see!”

The reaction from the fellow who was standing on the sidewalk just ahead was utterly hilarious. He looked at her, at me, and actually took a step back as his face curdled up. Middle aged and wrinkled, hair mostly gone, with that expression on him… it had me in stitches. Shower, ha!

That bit of fun was enough to keep a smile on my face for the rest of the short drive to the community center, where the gym we used for a dojo resided. Ballet class was scheduled just before us, and a small flood of pink, fluffy, flat-chested girls was departing into a line of cars. If there were any boys amidst the crowd, I just couldn’t tell them apart. With long hair in fashion (probably – I didn’t know how to follow trends, even if I wanted to, so I might not be up to date) they could be hiding there.

Not that I had anything against ballet. I just thanked god… ahem I’d have to rethink that expression. I was just thankful that my parents hadn’t gotten around to sending me to ballet class. According to what I’d read, professional ballet was a nightmare of pain. Of course, that probably had nothing to do with the junior class, but I wasn’t taking any bets.

This was the advanced martial art class, and there were fifteen of us in all, plus the instructor. Dan was thirtyish, a former unarmed combat instructor for the infantry who retained that buzz cut. Tanned, tall, obvious muscles, a couple of tattoos, with dark hair, penetrating eyes and a sharp voice and attitude.

None of us were studying for competition, it was purely for self defense. So we frequently dealt with weapons, but until now they’d always been cold. Clubs and knives, exclusively. Nobody outside of theater club would go after you with a sword.

Instead of leaving the .22 in my locker, I unloaded it and dumped the magazine there. I carried it in obvious-like, holding it by the barrel. I’d been so concerned with arriving on time, I’d made it several minutes before almost everyone else.

We had four women and eleven guys including moi, but with summer vacation seven were AWOL. Jenny and Sara were sisters, 26 and 28 respectively, and I’m pretty sure Jenny had been raped, and her sister had dragged her into martial arts practice. Jenny was a nurse, caring for old and disabled people, while Sara was a lawyer. I think she worked in the City Hall, probably the legal department. A real cold fish, while her sister was awfully quiet. Both were gorgeous, athletic looking blondes.

Sara was here with Dan, and so was Frederick Tsivis, an Austrian immigrant whose accent was much better than Schwarzenneger’s. Fred was a safety instructor and supervisor, specializing in evacuation and hazardous materials. Dark haired and pale, he wore old fashioned, enormous glasses that made him look like an owl. His hair was streaked with gray, and he was probably closing up on 50. He had the most astonishing treasure trove of impossibly funny stories about the safety inspections and drills he’d run.

If half of the stories he told were true, disasters could not possibly be more dangerous than drills. The one about the bugspray warehouse was not for the weak of stomach.

“Hey, guys! Brought a training aid,” I lifted the gun. “Isn’t it about time we graduated to the real stuff?” I looked at Dan. He didn’t look too happy, so I showed that there wasn’t a bullet anywhere inside.

He gestured, so I handed it over and started on my own warm up. Not that I needed one, with the day I’d had, but I never tried to argue with Dan. Stone walls were only slightly more accommodating.

The rest of the gang began to trickle in. Kirk, Doug and Marv (Mickey the Marvelous) were college students, art, literature and drama, and all three were gay. Being picked on had proven to be an excellent incentive to learning how to protect themself, and they’d gotten very good at it. Marv was a stage magician, and was pretty slick about it. He was making a living out of entertaining at kids’ birthday parties and such, like my kid sister’s recent one. Quite a performance he can put on, too.

Mellanie was black, but she wasn’t Afro-American. She was actually Ethiopian. Her stepfather had been on some sort of humanitarian mission there, and married her mother. She was six at the time, and quite frankly I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone quite as unabashedly patriotic. A senior at high school (not my high school), she played volleyball and was only half a head taller than I am. She was pretty aggressive, possibly too much so.

The last one to straggle in was Harry-call-me-Hank, who’d originally started on martial arts to lose weight. He was still a big guy, but most of it was now muscle. Strange, but his face still seemed a bit piggish. Hank was one of those Harley mad guys, and ran an outfitting store for bikes. He really didn’t like my bike, but he no longer thought of me as ‘that pussy’. Not since I took him out three out of three in his trial last year for brown belt. He was bigger and stronger, but I was faster and more practiced.

The class wasn’t formal, with white gis and belts. We all wore soft clothing, and took off watches, footwear and jewelry.

Since we were even numbered for once, Dan just paired us off. I ended up with Sara, who’s a bit smaller than I am, but pure vicious. I didn’t bother smiling at her, as it would only make her hit harder.

“Kicks and blocks!” Dan barked, and she launched a kick to the middle. I knew that she’d aim for the crotch, so I started moving early. I stepped aside, caught her foot, jumped and twisted my whole body, which twisted her leg with me. That left her falling face down on the mat. She bodyslammed the mattress, and if it had been a real fight, I’d have landed on her back knees first, quite possibly destroying a kidney or breaking the spine. As it was, I managed to catch myself almost upright on foot and knee, and didn’t bother tapping her out. I let go, and took three steps back, right to the initial position.

I let her get her breath back, and her face was red. Probably anger. There wasn’t much room for embarrassment in her narrow universe. The only good guy was a guy whose balls were mashed up. I didn’t quite understand why Dan took her on for the advanced class. He habitually kicked the ‘I’m the toughest motherfucka and I’m gonna learn how to kick everyone’s ass even better then I already can’ gorillas off the class, and Sara wasn’t much different, in her own special way.

I feinted high, not with a kick but with a step forward and a shift of balance, and struck low, aiming for the shin. She missed the block, but managed to dodge, staggering back off balance. Vicious or not, she was in excellent shape, very fast and quite skilled.

I’d managed to steal a couple of looks at the others, and no one had bothered to try for a high kick. They had their moments, but facing an opponent who’s not only ready, but expecting a kick, it would be suicide – or at least, ridiculously easy to block.

Sara didn’t try for anything fancy, a straight knee snap. I knocked it aside with my wrist, and it left a sting. I nodded and waited for her to regain her balance. That was a good one.

This time I feinted low, and struck for the middle. She fell for it, hook, line and sinker. I hadn’t stinted on power, and it struck her above the pelvis, knocking her back and driving all the air out.

Normally, I’d have stepped up and offered a hand. Not with Sara. I just waited. It took her nearly a minute to get up, and she delayed a bit longer by playing with her hair, adjusting the ponytail. I had a feeling she wanted to avoid another exchange.

Which she managed. Dan clapped his hands, the signal to face him. We formed a semi-circle automatically, and looked at him expectantly.

He held the pistol I’d given him in one hand, a couple of wooden sticks we used to simulate knives in the other. “Logan brought this toy, and quite rightly suggested that we should practice for the real stuff. The bad guys will usually be toting something a bit larger, but this will do for practice. Now, listen carefully. When facing a gun in open terrain, when you’re not close enough for a rush, what you do is surrender. Weep, beg, promise heaven and earth, but do not, I repeat DO NOT rush the bastard. If there’s a chance of cover, take small measured steps in that direction, preparing to leap, and by god think of something to distract him. The oldest trick in the book, as TV shows, can work. Look behind him and smile. Point somewhere, say something, anything you can think of to get you into rushing distance or cover. Throw a quarter behind him, Marv.

“Now, rushing a gun is the last resort sort of thing. But you can take a bullet and live, if you do it smart. If you’re fast, lucky and smart enough, you’ll avoid that, but it’s unlikely. Dodging bullets is for science fiction. The best way to take a gun is ambush, and we’ll get to that next week. Today you’re going to eat a bullet and carry through. You’ll take a fist to the stomach, and then charge in from two meters. Fast, dirty takedown, so our daring pistoleers will put on some extra padding. Sara, if you aim for the crotch, this is your last lesson. Now get to it!” he clapped again, very loudly.

The next hour was exhausting and very painful. But I thought I had a better than even chance of surviving that sort of encounter. Especially against someone armed with a .22, which wasn’t really enough to stop a man… or a woman, for that matter. The bruises usually faded by the time the next lesson came up.

We were too exhausted to talk, so we just mumbled farewells and made our way out. I did not forget to load the .22, but was quite sure that I wasn’t really safe. Driving in the dark with that sort of feeling, and knowing all the monsters I believed were now looking for me were out there, was not pleasant. A good thing the lighting was excellent.

Home sweet home. I activated the night security system, stripped and threw everything in the laundry bag. I locked the pistol in my room, and hobbled to the hot tub. Half an hour of jets massaging every ache and pleasant warmth leaching fatigue poisons away, and I was feeling mostly human again.

I covered the tub, did some stretches, and ate a light meal interspersed with random gouts of fire. Practice, practice, practice. I’d learned a mere three spells today, but I’d had a lot else on my hands. The only non-wizardly thing I had to do tomorrow was go over what I’d prepared for the Bluestar Company, and I had enough material ready for the next five years. All I really had to do was prepare for the unexpected, as my thespian abilities were somewhat limited. I really hated to ask for five minutes to think, or a switch. They always got that gleeful ‘we spiked the DM’ look. Like little kids, really. I hated that.

Of course, when I was sitting on the other side in Matt’s Exalted game, it was different. That was the only reason those maniacs were still alive. Since I felt it on both sides, I was capable of being fair. Mostly. Those little snickers lost them ever so much treasure.

It was only 22:00, but I was utterly dead. I’m pretty sure I’d replaced half my molecules today, going by the sheer amount of food I’d been through. I looked at the fridge and the freezer, and decided that my estimate hadn’t been too far off. I had enough to last for five, maybe six days.

Yawning like mad, I collapsed on the bed. I didn’t have enough energy to check the mail, let alone make any replies. It was lights out in an instant.