The New Magic - The Revelation of Jonah McAllister - Landon Wark (bill gates best books TXT) 📗

His mouth opened of its own accord, against the wishes of his mind and he asked where exactly they were going.

“Come with me,” was all she said and in an instant he knew that she really knew very little German. An American tourist, backpacker or something. Again he felt a twinge of aversion, but it was instantly shoved aside.

“I know English,” he said. "Well, some."

“Good. That will make things easier.”

Before he knew what was going on her face was buried in his chest, her arms around him. He paused to wonder what was going on, the inhibitions allowing him to forget to return the gesture and, at the same time, allowing him to pick out the police car that sped past. The part of his brain that was still thinking began to wonder if it was pure coincidence that the embrace ended as soon as the car was gone. He frowned, but said nothing.

“Where are we going?” this time in English.

“Somewhere fun,” she replied.

Harold’s heart skipped a beat and the inhibitions that plagued him seemed to skip out the door as she flagged down a taxi and practically pulled him inside.

As it turned out, her idea of somewhere fun was a back alley in a run down part of the city. The alarms in Harold’s head blared when she pulled him past several garbage bins and around a puddle of what looked like urine and motor oil and he resisted as she tugged him towards a corner that would put them out of view of any people on the street, of which there were few.

“Come on,” she said with annoyance. “We’re almost there.”

Still he resisted. Around the corner he could hear the sounds of people, sort of a tensed hush and a milling about that came at the beginning of the things people weren’t sure they were supposed to be at. At first he was certain they were a gang, waiting for a new initiate to bring in a victim, but then something tickled his brain. A thought about things that had been mentioned recently, in passing mostly.

“You’re one of those people,” Harold blurted.

“Sshhh!” she hissed.

There was a fair sized group crowded around what looked like a hastily constructed stage made out of a few two-by-fours and a top of layered particleboard, beside it stood a man; although man was a loose term. His eyebrows were plucked into thin arches and his hair likely reeked of spray and gel. It was dyed a shining black the way one might do with shoe polish, though this looked more like it was bought at the cosmetics counter. He was wearing make-up, black lipstick and eyeliner that matched the mostly leather clothing he was wearing.

Harold felt another twinge of revulsion mingled in with the sense of confusion over what was going on.

The girl gave a quick gesture and the man on the stage held up a hand for silence. There was little at first and then the air above him exploded into a blaze of light and sound. After that the entire alley was quiet.

“They call me Tom Nightshade,” he shouted in a voice that was recognizable neither as male or female, but was definitely British. “And before you start talking amongst yourselves, yes we are the ones you’ve heard about.”

There was a moment of murmurs among the people assembled. Harold turned to the girl, but she elbowed him in the side to keep him quiet.

“Some people call us liars, some frauds, some call us worse. They say we’re a cult, religious zealots, we spread lies and fear and undermine governments. We’re communists and the like,” Tom continued. “Depending on what your views are, these claims vary in truth. But one thing they aren’t telling you is true.”

With a flourish and a word there appeared in his hand a glowing fire. It expanded as he drew in breath until it was a fiery sphere the size of a basketball. He passed the orb from hand to hand, his voice never ceasing. The crowd stood, some in awe, some in suspicious silence as another appeared in the opposite hand. Harold’s attention was distracted as the girl beside him shoved her way through the crowd and up onto the stage. The man called Tom Nightshade lifted the orbs and tossed them both towards her. Harold started as she reached a hand out towards them and they fell into orbit around her with little more than a word. The girl reached a hand into the air and the two fireballs arced into the sky, building, shimmering, stretching and then… Erupting into a cascade of wondrous lights and colours, perpetuating itself into weaves of designs, birds and butterflies and streamers that floated down around the observers, some of whom stared with wonder, others with impressed satisfaction.

“Magic is real!” Nightshade shouted. “It’s waiting for you!”

Harold’s eyebrows arched.

Aegera slumped down in the nearest chair, exhausted. She leaned over to the nearby refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water for her parched throat. Twice a night was getting to be too much.

All in all there were maybe twenty people out of fifty who had taken the books that Jonah had prepared for the new initiates. The Basics they were called, they made food and they could make money (Penny-come-quick as Tom had taken to calling it. The phrase had not caught on.) and a few other small wonders that Jonah had deemed worthy for the masses. Most, of course, had walked away with the only happiness of having seen a free (faked in their minds, but impressive none-the-less) light show and, she supposed, that was enough for them. It was enough for her, anyway. She would have been content if they could just keep the secret to themselves, but Jonah was not happy. She wondered if he was ever happy lately.

The burning