Withering on the Virgin Vine

“Everything that occurs has a balance,” I recited. The old man’s rapier slid past my own, missing my face by centimeters. “Balance may be static or dynamic. Static balance tends towards entropy and is the source of power for lesser practitioners. Dynamic balance is entropy and is therefore stable. Dynamic equilibrium is the heart of sorcery.” My sword clicked from third position into a lunge. The flat of the Master’s blade cracked against my wrist, sending mine to the floor.

“Dobix.” A flash of power at the spoken Word knocked me on my ass. It was a simple spell; I’d learnt it a year ago. I should have been able to block it. Instead I stared at the domed ceiling, the words I had just recited inscribed there in flowing Renaissance Italian.

“Better,” the old man said. A junior at the University of Wisconsin, I’d been traveling back and forth between Madison and Tuscany for two and a half years to continue my training. My Italian was excellent. Better than my fencing anyway. “But your thrust is weak, boy. Your concentration slips when you finish the words. You should be dead now.”

Straightening, I rubbed the back of my hand, an ugly welt already forming. At least he had used the flat this time. “Sì, Maestro.”

“Even Aleister no longer makes that mistake. Two hours of meditation today, Marcus.”

“Sì, Maestro.” I watched the sorcerer walk from the room. Despite being older than God, the man called the Demiurge kept in better shape than most professional athletes.

Of course he had to bring up Aleister. The Master’s bastard son and I got along well. At first. When I realized he was a talentless hack, and then he realized I realized, things went down-hill swiftly. It probably didn’t help that I had a better relationship with his father than he did. How that idiot became an Adept escaped me.

“Oh, and Marcus,” the Master said at the massive room’s arched doorway, “a new Disciple shall join you later this afternoon.” He walked from the room, the heels of his expensive shoes clicking on the marble floor. He always wore them when we fenced, to show me how far I still had left to go.

Did he say “new Disciple”? In the past sixty years the Demiurge had taught exactly four Disciples. Five counting Aleister, which I didn’t. Of those four, one still breathed. Me. Amongst the Magistri the Demiurge was famous for both not taking Disciples not having his students survive for more than a few years. I was already ahead of the curve on that. The few other Masters I’d met usually had two or three fawning over them at any given time. The Demiurge didn’t encourage that kind of behavior.

“Why don’t you have more Disciples, Master?” I asked him once, after he met with a man the Magistri had dubbed with the title Alfodr. “The other Masters see us as a source of power.”

“Why would I wish to saddle myself with more versions of you, Marcus? I assure you, one is quite enough.” he had answered.

And now there would be two of us. What would he be like, I wondered. Would I finally have someone to talk politics with? I was majoring in Classics at the time, but my minor was PoliSci. Something about Italian Renaissance politics fascinated me, especially the Medici family. The Master owned too many politicians to have any real interest in the subject anymore. I tried having a conversation with Aleister about it once. Once. Those two hours of meditation, imagining a black dot the size of a pencil point on a field of white, seemed to stretch on forever.

I never heard the boots clacking across the floor. Or apparently the polite cough or calling of my name.

“Marcus!” Dark brown fingers, the color of aged oak, grasped my shoulder.

“What, Marie?” I asked the liveried hamadryad. I didn’t know her real name, and probably couldn’t pronounce it if I did. The wood spirit had worked for the Master longer than I’d been his student. She was older than the Master by centuries; as old as the villa, maybe older.

“Antonio’s calling for you,” Marie said. Her tree, an enormous Holly Oak, grew near the center of the estate. If I happened to visit in the fall I had the job of pruning dead branches from it. The damn thing was almost a hundred feet tall and the Master didn’t believe in ladders. He did, however, believe a sound mind should live in a sound body.

I rose, slowly, and let the blood start circulating through my legs again before hobbling after her. She didn’t wait for me. I caught up to her before she could enter the great room.

“The half-wit, sir,” she said, jerking a thumb towards me.

“Thank you Marie, that will be all. Marcus, Griffiths will be here shortly. I would like perform a test. Please stand inside the door. When she arrives, kill her.”

I blinked back surprise and then shrugged. “Yes, Master.” It would hardly be the first time. Sorcerers were not nice people, their enemies less so. Did he say “her”? Not that it mattered, I had my orders.

I had twenty minutes to decide how to kill the new Disciple. Two sets of boot steps filled the villa as the hamadryad led the soon to be dead Griffiths through the foyer and gallery to the great room. Brown-black skin and dark green hair passed and then the woman herself appeared. Long raven hair, tanned skin and large . . . never mind.

With a snap I sketched a killing spellsign. “Olpr–”

“Bransg!” The whorls of an elegant spellsign flashed into emerald life at the woman’s hand. Lightning lanced from my own, scattering across her shield. A slight movement from Griffiths and she was on me, grabbing my wrist. I countered the lock and slammed her against the opening archway. A folding knife appeared in my hand, drew a thin line of blood at her neck.

“Stop.” The Master’s quiet command echoed through the room. We both froze. “That will be enough, Marcus. Release her.”

I leaned close to the young woman. “Before all else, be armed,” I whispered in her ear. It wouldn’t be the last time those words would pass between us.

Releasing her, I took two quick steps away, putting myself out of her range. Griffiths was my height, i.e. short, and I knew my distancing very well now. Rather than turn my back on her, two more steps took me to her side, a safe-ish distance away.

“Excellent,” the Demiurge said. “I think you did very well against our Marcus, Beatrice. You may wish to heed his advice. Signore Faust is generally quite astute when it comes to death and the causing thereof.”

“Yes, sir,” she drawled.

“You two shall be training partners until further notice,” he continued. “Or until one of you kills the other.”

“Sir?” Griffiths said. “I don’t think Marc can show me anything useful when it comes to magic. You saw how easily I countered his spell.”

She didn’t catch the Master’s almost imperceptible signal. I did.

“Only my friends call me Marc. Olprge!” The electric blue spellsign flashed at my fingertips. A newly formed ward caught the lightning almost before it left my hand. A smirk formed across her Cupid bow lips. “Drilpi olprge.” A different sign formed at my hand and death scintillated towards her again. It hit her hastily formed shield and scattered. A second later the reflecting lightning struck her in the back. Smoke rose from her crumpled form. Kneeling, I checked for a pulse.

“She’s still alive, Master.”

“Thank you. Please take Corporal Griffiths to her room. The one across from yours will do. No. On second thought, the room at the end of the west wing. No need to put her closer to Aleister than necessary. When finished, another hour of meditation. You shouldn’t have allowed her to catch your wrist like that. You may stare at the young lady’s breasts on your own time, Marcus.”

“Yes, Master.” Gathering the woman in my arms I carried her upstairs to her new room and lay her on the floor. A military duffle bag already lay inside the doorway, Marie, as usual, having anticipated the Master’s decision. Griffiths could get into her bed on her own. I walked down the hall to a bathroom, filled a glass of water and returned to her room.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I said, emptying the glass on her face.

Griffiths’ eyes flashed open, a Word escaped her lips and fire soared at my head, a malicious grin on her pretty face. I smiled as my ward ate the pathetic spell. The protective magic lit the room in crimson, turning my grin the color of death.

“It’s good that you have at least a little training,” I sneered, bloody light still playing around my head. “Maybe I won’t get bored with you. But you’ll have to do better than that,” I sneered, bloody light still playing around my head. “Dobix.” The spellsign flared gray, the pulse of compressed air slammed the woman’s head against the hardwood.

“What the hell are you?” she gasped, grin withering on her lips.

“A sorcerer. Pay attention and you might live long enough to become one as well.”

#

Griffiths made an interesting training partner. For instance, unlike Alesiter, she could tell her left from her right. After training with the half-wit for a couple of years, even the little things were refreshing. I found her to be smart, mentally agile and a quick learner. Her concentration, however, sucked. Sure, for a normal person, or even a U.S. army trained sniper, which she was, her concentration was excellent. But not for a sorcerer. Sorceress. Whatever.

“If your focus is off you’re dead,” I told her. Again.

“You’re not that good,” she breathed as I put her through her paces. I wasn’t even sweating.

“First, yes I am, or do I need to open another one of your veins?” Lightning sizzled from my hands, arced around a corner of the training room and took her in the back. As per the Master’s instructions, I kept the amperage down. I turned the corner and watched her twitched on the marble floor. “And second, I’m not talking about me or any other opponent.  If you don’t harmonize the Pale’s energy correctly it will kill you. If your spellsign is incorrect, it will kill you. If you pronounce the Word incorrectly it will kill you. Make a mistake and you die. You won’t need someone else to pull the trigger. Now get up and start from the beginning.”

Bica struggled to her feet, ignoring the scorch marks on her clothing. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“Yes, actually I am, at least until the Master says otherwise. Now recite.”

“Everything that occurs has a balance,” she began. Lightning, fire and other bits of death streaked from my hands as she dodged and shielded herself, all the while repeating the basic precepts of sorcery. This time she didn’t make a mistake.

“Impressive work, Corporal Griffiths,” the Demiurge’s voice called from behind. “It took Marcus a month to progress that far.”

Bica grinned at me. A muttered Word and hidden gesture sent her sprawling on her ass.

“Ah, yes,” the Master said, “he was rather faster at preventing that sort of thing, though. Please indulge in your emotions on your own time, Corporal.” The old man paused, allowing Bica a chance to cease dusting the marble with her oversized sweatpants. “Now, I have some work for you two. Success shall bring you . . . let’s say a night in Florence on me.”

“And failure, sir?” Bica asked. I winced on the inside. Never give the Demiurge additional reasons to devise new punishments.

“A month of training under my son.”

Dammit.

“What do you require of us, Master?”

“One of my senatori has come under the mistaken impression that he may think for himself. It would be unfortunate if this notion spread to my other employees. You have two weeks.” A movement of his hand sent something flipping through the air. I caught it without taking my eyes off man. Without another word the Demiurge turned and strode from the room.

Bica looked at me, confusion on her face. “So, he wants us to do what, exactly?”

“You were trained to shoot people in the head from ridiculous distances, right?”

“More or less.”

“He wants us to do something like that.”

“Kill a man, just like that?”

“You shoot people in the head from ridiculous distances. Sort of a pot/kettle thing, don’t you think?”

“I’m a soldier, I kill the enemy during war.”

“You kill who you’re told to kill. You’re here because you were told to be here. How do you think you got here in the first place, anyway? I’d bet your soul your Capitan is owned by the Master. Just like us. How much research do you do on the people you shoot?” I didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “If it makes you happy we can do find out about the guy before we kill him. We should do so, anyway; it’ll make the job easier.”

“Why don’t I just put a bullet in the guy’s head? How hard can that be?”

I had to shake my head. “They don’t let you plan the attacks, do they?”

“What the hell doe–”

“On the off chance that sniping the man wouldn’t cause an international incidence it still wouldn’t get the Master’s overall message across. Ultimately this has little to do with the target. He’s making a point to the rest of his ‘employees.’ Ourselves included. Beyond that, did you hear the Master say which Senator he had in mind? Is your mind just withering inside your head or do you water it occasionally?”

“Screw you, Faust.”

“Maybe later, we have work to do first. You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Adept Giacobo,” I almost chocked on the brainsuck’s official title. “Believe me when I say it’s a joy you can do without. Now, we have two jobs. The first is to find the target. The second is to remove him in an appropriately dramatic way.” I held up a small gold ring, the object the Master had thrown me. “Now, how would you like to learn a tracking spell?”

“I shoot people in the head from ridiculous distances. Knowing where they are first would make that a lot easier.”

“Good. We’re going to use something called ‘contagious magic.’ Yes, there are other ways to do it. No, I’m not going to go into them now.”

“Why?”

“Because we only have two weeks and you’ll take a week and a half figuring this out. Now shut up and pay attention. Contagious magic works on a principle of touch. Anything that touches anything else remains in contact with that thing, even if separated.”

“That stupid.”

“And that’s why this is going to take forever,” I said. “Please refer to the previous ‘shut up’ comment. Let’s assume I know what I’m talking about, or would you prefer a demonstration?”

She took a long look at my expression, shuddered and shook her head.

“Good. Now, I’m going to assume that this ring is somehow connected to our target.”

“But we don’t know for sure,” she drawled.

“Correct. That’s probably part of the test.”

“Killing someone is a test?”

“Think of it as pass/fail. We’ll track down who the ring belongs to, make sure it’s our mark, find out what we need to know and then send the rest of the Master’s employees a message regarding the making of improper choices.”

The spell was simple, the first tracking spell all Disciples are taught, with a bit of a kick at the end for digging out some basic personal information. She managed to understand it’s principles in only a few hours.

“Alright, now try it,” I said, handing Bica the ring.

The spellsign formed at the sorceress’ hand. I examined it, made corrections and had her start again. Messing the spell up wouldn’t kill her, but she didn’t have to know that. Again she drew the spellsign in the air, filling it with power as her fingers moved. This time I nodded my approval and she spoke the Word. The sign flashed. Nothing happened. At least nothing I could see. Everything happened inside her mind. I watched as her eyes widened and her pupils dilated. The spell lasted some twenty minutes. At the end Bica collapsed to the floor, unconscious. Really?

“Dammit, Faust, stop that!” she sputtered as she came to, dripping wet from the large cup of water I had dumped on her.”

“You’d prefer I smack around instead?”

She gave me a saluting finger in reply.

“What did you get?” I asked.

The information was relatively mundane. She had a name, address and a play-by-play of some of the man’s less cleanly habits.

“Huh,” she said, “he owns the patent on Rosa virginis.”

I blinked at her.

“The virgin rose? It’s world famous. The petals remain pure white until the flower’s been pollinated, then dots of crimson appear.”

“Soo . ..  you’re some kind of flower person?”

“I have an interest in roses. At least I have a hobby, Faust. What do you do for fun?”

“Summon demons.”

She stared at me, waiting for me to crack a smile at the joke I’d made. I didn’t.

“Riiight. Anyway, I got a name. Ucello Adamo. So now what?”

“Now he dies.”

“Just like that?”

“I thought we went over this already. No, not ‘just like that.’ We need to think of something appropriate, first. If his death appears natural it will not have the desired effect. I think we should get a look at the man.”

“I’d ask why, but I doubt I’d like the answer. How are we going to see him?”

I raised a finger, no, not that one, and pulled out my cell phone. Number entered I waited as it rung.

“Hello? Yes, I’d like to make an appointment with the senator, please,” I said in fluid Italian. As the secretary spoke I drew a spellsign on the receiver and whispered its Word. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, “could you tell me his schedule instead?” The voice on the other side didn’t hesitate to tell me everything I wanted to know. “Thank you. He’ll be at La PetalorumApertum having dinner in two nights.”

“Oookaay.”

“It’s a restaurant.”

“I gathered as much.”

“Good, I’ll make reservations. You do have something other than fatigues and sweatpants to wear, right? We’ll head to Rome tonight. It’s about a three hour drive, if traffic holds. We’ll stay at my hotel and see the good Senator tomorrow night.” I ignored her as I got back on the phone and made reservations. She was still staring at me when I finished. “What?”

“You own a hotel in Rome?”

“No, my family does, great uncle’s side. In the mean time, I think I’ve figured out an appropriate demise for the good Senator. Just how much do you know about these flowers of his?”

“Enough,” she said. “For instance, they have the longest thorns of any species of rose.”

#

The night in Rome was less than exciting. Good; we had work to concentrate on. Bica spent the next day sightseeing. I spent it meditating. I’d been to Rome before after all. Evening finally fell and I drove us to the restaurant.

“You need a new dresser,” I told Bica in the car.

“I dress myself, thank you very much.”

“I know. We’re going to a four star restaurant. A dress would have been more appropriate.”

“I don’t own any dresses. You walk around with a draft up your ass for a few hours and tell me how you feel.”

The Maître ‘d showed us to our table. The Senator had already arrived and was in the midst of his antipasto with a woman who wasn’t his wife and who might have been his daughter had she not been Asian. I pointed out three men who sat around the room, not eating the food in front of them. They were immense, their suits bulging in places normal people don’t bulge in without doing a lot of bench presses.

“They could at least try to hide their weapons,” Bica muttered. “You can see where their holsters cut the line of their suits.” She took a longer look and then blinked. “Is it just me or is he not quite right?” she drawled.

“He’s not human,” I said, “none of them are. Stop looking at me like that. You practice sorcery but don’t believe in monsters?” I shook my head.

“I believe in you,” she said.

“Nice. Whatever they are, I don’t think they’re all the same thing. I’d suggest leaving them alone for now. Do you remember the listening spell I taught you last night? Good. Use it.”

The nearest hired good began moving before Bica finished the spellsign, the other two shifted into action a moment later. All three headed straight for us, trying to look inconspicuous and failing.

“Shit,” Bica muttered. I shrugged and sipped at my water.

“Gentlemen,” I said to the brutes as the surrounded the table.

“Signore Adamo would like you to leave, witch,” thug number one said to me. Something slithered behind his eyes as he spoke, something reptilian and hungry. The other two stood there, looking mountainous, promising unpleasantness should we decide not to cooperate.

“I believe you have the wrong party,” I told him. “I, you see, am not a witch.”

“I smell the magic on you.”

“Interesting.”

“Signore Adamo would like us to have a word with you outside,” the thug continued. “Don’t think you can get away with anything. Your witchcraft won’t work on us.”

Very interesting. There aren’t too many humanoid species that are immune to magic. These three didn’t fit the description of any of them. It didn’t really matter. That the Senator had them at all and not human bodyguards meant he was expecting retaliation from the Master. I guess he wasn’t as stupid as I thought.

“Nice bracelet,” Bica said to one of the other goons. The chief thug glared at his subordinate who quickly hid the jewelry.

“It’s like that, is it? I guess we should accompany these gentlemen outside. I’m sure the Senator will be good enough to cover our bill.” I rose, gesturing for Bica to follow, and calmly followed lizard, flanked by whatever the other two behemoths were into a parking lot devoid of life.

“This is not the brightest of things you’ve ever done,” I said as we walked outside. “I mean, if we’re witches, aren’t you afraid that we might be more powerful than whoever gave you those charms?” The lead goon slowed for a second. Apparently he hadn’t thought of that. “Do you know much about witchcraft? Not being a witch, I don’t. I hoped you’d be able to tell me something about it.”

The lizard man spun, a huge hand catching me in the face. The other grabbed my jacket, hauled me into the air and slammed me again a Mercedes.

Air rushed from my lungs as light split my skull. Ouch. Fortunately, the Master had long since taught me to concentrate through pain. “Dobix.”

I heard metal snap from a dozen feet away.  A license place buried itself edge first into the side of the Porsche next to us a second later. The thug’s body stiffened and a thin line of turquoise blood appeared at his neck. Lizard guy’s head toppled sideways, the body falling in the opposite direction. I slid down the Mercedes, managing to land on my feet.

Two soft coughs that didn’t come from a human followed. I looked up time to see bloody holes in each of the other bodyguards’ chests. Both stood there looking at the wounds in their chests. I then watched as the blood stopped flowing and fur sprouted from suddenly lupine faces.

“What the hell?”

“You don’t watch enough horror movies,” I said. “Invest in silver bullets. Rorolpirt.” A spellsign flashed golden at my hands and light blossomed in the night. Fur flowed back into the two men’s bodies as they regained their mostly humanoid form. “Good morning, gentlemen.” There’s a reason why there are no werewolf sightings in the morning. Another Word flashed fire to my hand. “Contrary to popular belief,” I said to no one in particular, “silver is not the only way to kill a lycanthrope. I wonder if you little charm bracelets protect your clothing as well as you?”

“We’re not paid enough for this shit,” one of the men growled. “Let’s go, Alberto.” The two straightened, looked around and sauntered off into the night. I made sure they were well and truly gone before I turned off the sun.

“Neat trick, that. How do you do it?”

“You have to understand fusion,” I said.

“Really?”

“No. You had a gun?”

“I usually do. I, however, have my clothing cut properly to hide it. Not everyone is an armature, Marcus. So, now what?”

“We give the Senator his ring back,” I grinned, heading back towards the restaurant. I didn’t wait to see if Bica followed. Inside I headed straight for the Senator’s table. Alas, he found himself fresh out of bodyguards.

“She’s a little young for you, isn’t she?” I said by way of greeting. “I assume you chose that dress for her. I can’t imagine any self-respecting woman dressing like that of her own accord. Your mother must be so proud of you,” I told her. “I think you dropped this, Signore.” Reaching out I grabbed one of Adamo’s hand, pried open the fingers and forced the ring on. “The Demiurge sends his greetings.”

We drove home that night. We spent the next week watching Adamo surround himself with every protection, every practitioner of the art he could hire, anything he could think of to ward off his impending doom. The one he wore around his finger.

Four days later, a day before the Master’s deadline, Ucello Adamo was found dead, a white rose growing out of his mouth, his heart impales by a dozen thorns. The autopsy files “mysteriously” disappeared the night they were filed. The media reported his death as “cause unknown.”

There are parts of Florence that still haven’t recovered from Bica and my night out.

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