The Last American Wizard (21 page)

Barnaby spoke from Send Money’s speaker. “Steve, I think your skills would be far more useful tracking the changes in Washington. You’re the journalist. Any
suggestions?”

“Buddy Ringwald,” Steve said instantly. “He’s been covering the Capital since the British burned it. If there is anything going on inside the Beltway that he isn’t aware of, it’s not worth knowing. I’ve been stealing from him for
years.”

The cell phone
buzzed.

“Yeah, now that you mention it, he did. Passed away right as he finished his election roundup column.” Steve shook his head in admiration. “What a way to
go.”

“You mean you could find his ghost?” Steve asked. “How are you going to do
that?”

With an impatient buzz, this disappeared and was replaced
by

“You think that’s a better translation?” Steve said. “Well, I’ve heard stranger things. I’ve heard stranger things in just the past few hours, now that I think of it. OK, see if you can rustle up Buddy’s shade by tomorrow morning–and not a moment before. I’m going to sleep, and if you bring in a ghost of any kind, I’m resigning
from my position as the Fool. After I pound you into small, dust- like particles, of
course.”

“Don’t even joke about Send Money, and anyway, you can’t resign.” Ace turned and headed for the guest bedroom–or at least the bedroom equipped with a bed and not an indoor garden. “According to the Manual, it’s a lifetime commission and there are some subclasses in the appendices that indicate it could go far beyond
that.”

“You mean I have to do this after I
die?”

“Don’t worry,” Ace said as she closed the door. “You really couldn’t do worse than you’re doing while you’re
alive.”

She closed the
door.

Steve shouted, “Hey, why do you get the only real bed?”

“Because
I’m
a
girl
and
you
were
raised
to
be
polite.”
The answer came back over the sound of the lock being thrown. “That and I’m better armed. Good
night.”

In the morning, Steve awoke feeling definitely disgruntled. To be accurate, this was better than he felt most days, but he didn’t consider the lack of a hangover sufficient to compensate for the lack of coffee. For a while, he just stood in front of the refrigerator and idly considered the possibility of concocting a cup out of Miracle-Gro.

“That would definitely kill
you.”

He jerked upright, dropped the bag of fertilizer he was
holding, and for an instant noticed a golden sheen in the air around him. Ace, who had approached quietly, nodded approvingly. “Nice reflexes. You had that bubble up pretty quick.” She sat down on one of the kitchen’s high stools. “I could have killed you several times before it was up, but it’s a lot faster than
yesterday.”

Steve stared at her. “Do you always begin your mornings with a discussion about killing the people around
you?”

“Not always, but it’s far from
unusual.”

“Who would have thought life in a SEAL team was so much fun?” Steve closed the refrigerator door and regarded the granules of Miracle-Gro now spread across the kitchen floor. “Does the ambassador have a cleaning
service?”

“I think it’s a Naval Intelligence squad with top secret-code word clearance and a death curse in case they feel
talkative.”

“Serves them right,” Steve said. “I never could stomach the way television makes those idiots in the NCIS look good.” He turned and headed for the door. “So, I vote we get out of here and find some coffee. Also, unless you’ve been sneaking MRE’s on me, we haven’t eaten in twenty-four
hours.”

They took the underground tunnel and emerged on 3rd Street SE, just north of the strip of bars and restaurants along Pennsylvania Avenue. Steve led the way to the Tune Inn, which stood next to the more famous Hawk ’n’ Dove, but, happily, didn’t share the Hawk’s popularity with young congressional staffers. The Tune Inn, an old-time bar-restaurant of the type now known as a “dive bar,” had long been one of Steve’s favorite places, but as they walked up, he noticed something he’d missed over the
years.

In bright blue neon script, there was the motto OFF THE CORNER. ON THE
SQUARE.

He pointed at it and asked, “That would be a Masonic phrase, right?”

Ace glanced up. “I think so, but even Masons have to eat.” Without a pause, she pulled the door open and went inside. Steve shrugged and
followed.

They sat in one of the pleather booths and ordered breakfast. Steve was surprised when Ace asked for a double order of scrapple with her scrambled eggs. “Most people won’t touch that
stuff.”

“Shows how little they know,” she answered. “One of the healthiest things you can eat. Pork stock and
cornmeal.”

“With a couple of tongues and snouts for extra flavor.”

“Adds to the overall excitement of a healthy
breakfast.”

She appeared to retreat behind her Ray-Bans and Steve assumed
that
conversation
was
over
for
the
morning.
Or
at
least until they had finished their first cup of coffee. He looked around the place. There were a dozen men at the bar, clearly regulars and enjoying their first beers of the
day.

“Seven of
Cups.”

A tall, slim man in a dark cloak slipped into the seat next to Ace, who ignored him completely. Steve was amazed that the man still had all his parts and then realized that Ace couldn’t even see him. She continued to scan the door and everyone who passed on the street, but it was as if no one was sitting next to
her.

“What’s the Seven of Cups mean?” Steve
asked.

The man gestured at the morning drinkers. “Debauch. Indolence. At least, in most of the decks. The Italians used to read
it as a precursor to waking
nightmares.”

“I’ve had a good number of mornings like that. Waking nightmares, that is.” Steve pointed a thumb at Ace. “Why hasn’t
she killed
you?”

“She can’t see me.” The waitress brought two coffees and the thin man immediately took Ace’s and started drinking it. Fearing for his own safety, Steve shoved his cup in front of Ace and motioned for the waitress to bring
another.

After a long and apparently satisfying sip of coffee, the man said, “I’m Buddy Ringwald. Your little Chinese friend said you were looking for me. I would imagine it’s about all the changes
that happened
yesterday.”

“Changes?”

Ringwald gestured at his cloak. “Yeah, changes. I mean, since when has anyone worn a cloak? I may be dead but I still have limits.” He pulled at the dark fabric with clear irritation. “I woke up this morning carrying a lantern and wearing this. I feel like a damn fool.”

“No. I’m the damn Fool,” Steve said automatically. “I think you’re the Hermit. Seeking wisdom and all that.” He looked around. “What did you do with the
lantern?”

“I left it outside.” Ringwald gave a disgusted scowl. “I keep trying to get rid of it and it keeps popping back into my hand when I’m not paying attention. Irritating as hell.” He took another sip of coffee. “So, what do you want to know? The Asian kid on the intercom said it was
urgent.”

“Really? So there is a ghost intercom?” Steve asked. “Damn. I was sure Send Money was wrong on that one.” He looked at Ace again. Then he reached one hand slowly across the table and waved it in front of her
eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” she said. “Just drink your coffee like an ordinary person, will
you?”

“Sorry, I was just stretching.” Steve turned back to Ringwald. “So, she can’t see
you?”

“Yeah, she won’t even hear when you talk to me. I figured this conversation should be strictly between journalists–undercover military assassins tend to make me jumpy. Regardless of how cute they are.” Ringwald settled back. “So, something is going on. You tell me what you know and I’ll
reciprocate.”

Steve ran through the events of the previous day. He didn’t try to hide anything, because he had no idea what was worth hiding and what wasn’t. Ringwald listened and occasionally nodded as if he was just getting confirmation on a lot of the facts. He only looked surprised at the mention of the alien ambassador.

“Damn.” He said. “You mean that old carrot exists? There’s so much crap written about Roswell that I just stopped paying attention.”

“Yes, he’s real.” Barnaby spoke up for the first time–the smartphone had been cutting into Steve’s side when he sat down so he’d unclipped it from his belt and laid the phone on the table next to his plate. “He finds humans to be tiresome. He insists that the only reason he demands that all world governments keep his existence a secret is to keep from being invited to appear on
Dancing with the
Stars.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” Ringwald responded. “I would guess that you’re
Barnaby.”

“Yes. Nice to meet
you.”

“And this phone is the Chinese kid who hit my etheric buzzer last
night?”

The screen
flickered

“Oh, you mean the suicide net around the factory?” Ringwald asked.

“I’d guess it would be. Not much else to do around there, I’d suppose.”

The screen showed a thumbs-up
picture.

Steve decided that he’d heard enough introductions. “So, what can you tell me about Washington since the magic hit
yesterday?”

Ringwald pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and lit one up. He offered one to Steve who asked, “Can you
smoke in
here?”

“Sure. I’m a freaking ghost, remember? No one can see me and these are only the memory of real cigarettes anyway. I’d guess you’d call them ultra-ultra low
tar.”

Steve took one, lit it up, and inhaled gratefully. “Hey, these taste as good as I
remembered.”

“That’s because they’re your memory of… Never mind.” Ringwald shook his head sadly. “Let’s move on to what’s new in this already peculiar city. Some things are obvious–now Ted Leonsis’ basketball team really are wizards. They still can’t win, but the light show after a jam or a three-point shot is spectacular. The Mystics are doing palm-readings in the stands after the game, but they still can’t draw flies.” He chuckled briefly. “The best
thing is that Danny Snyder has turned a pleasing shade of deep burgundy. Not only is it just desserts for the worst team owner in football, but also it just might get them to change the name to something less blatantly racist than the
Redskins.

“OK, that’s enough back-of-the-book tidbits.” The older man’s face turned serious. “The Republicans are becoming increasingly shorter, hairier, and angrier, hard as that last part might be to believe. Their conservative wing is literally digging in–about two hundred feet down the last time I heard–and the most radical have begun to carry pickaxes. They say it’s only a symbol of a national desire to cut the government down to size, but they’re damn sharp all the same.”

He shook his head. “So far, the Speaker is still the Mountain King and able to keep the most volatile members of his caucus in line through his floor leaders and whips–well, his floor leaders using whips, to be
precise.”

“And the Democrats?” Steve
asked.

“Well, the president has renamed the White House the Alabaster Palace, the old bulls in the Senate are cultivating floor- length beards, and there’s a movement to replace armed drones with dragons, but those are all fairly minor changes, if you ask me. In general, being flighty and enigmatic simply means more of the same with those guys. No, the real problem is on K Street.”

“You mean the
lobbyists?”

“Of course. They were pretty evil before, and now they’re downright demonic. The power nexus is centered on Scott Circle– midway between the Chamber of Commerce and Moveon.org– with large economy-size ley lines stretching out to the AARP, Freedomworks, the Podesta Group, and the Heritage Foundation. The smaller fish take power feeds of the bigger ones. It works just the way money always did
before.”

Steve considered the tidal wave of political contributions that regularly swept through Washington and wondered if the
equivalent amount of magical power could be any worse. “So, are the K Street dwarves and elves the same as the
politicians?”

“Hell, no.” Ringwald shook his head. “These guys are out to do battle, so everyone has a lot of Fire mixed in, and they all need money, so that means that there are Pentacles involved. The result is everything from ogres and cherufes–those are lava creatures–to selkies and ice demons. Then you have the foreign trade groups, which means djinns roaming around Massachusetts Avenue and a wendigo camped out in the upper reaches of the American Indian Museum. Just yesterday, the Australians had to dump a deputy ambassador in the pond below the Capitol after he woke up feeling extremely ‘bunyippy.’ Apparently, no one noticed much of a change until he began to eat the junior
staff.”

He puffed on his cigarette for a minute. “Now, I’ve been told of a few dragons and some minor deities, but they’re as hard to
find now as when they were when they were human. You know, you didn’t see the Koch brothers or George Soros wandering around Farragut North before the Change and you aren’t likely to find them
now.”

“Any chance that the competition will turn physical?” Steve thought. “Or metaphysical, as the case may be. More violent, at
any
rate.”

“Well, I think most things are going to trend towards violence eventually. For example, someone sent a Honey Island Swamp Monster through those big glass walls at the Cato Institute–no one is talking, but the smart money is on James Carville–and the Libertarians had to muster all their economists on the second balcony and drive it off with a massed reading of Ayn Rand. Poor thing was last seen heading for a sewer grating on 11th Street with smoke pouring out of its
ears.”

Ringwald leaned back and lit another cigarette. “No harm was done, but when the next idiot’s idea of a joke ends up with
opposing ideologues turned to stone or burned to cinders, we’re talking about mass violence at the World of Warcraft
level.”

Barnaby spoke up from the speakerphone. “Have you picked up any chatter about who performed the
Sacrifice?”

“Nothing substantive.” Ringwald shook his head. “My sources at the CIA have gone all Delphic–not that you could understand them at the best of times–and the FBI has its hands full. The Catholic agents are trying to deal with appearances by every angel from Azrael to Zephon, and the Mormons are busy answering phone calls from a good number of their ancestors who just woke up baptized into a religion they never heard of when they were alive.”