Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands
Chapter Forty-Four

“What—” Nick tried to say more but his throat was parched.

“Don’t talk,” the old man gestured at a glass filled to the brim with crystal clear water, sitting on the table in front of him. The water reflected off the polished quartz ball in the center of the Circle, illuminated by candlelight like the ocean waves off cruise ship windows.

“Just drink.” While Nick drank, the old man continued, in a slow tedious manner, as if fearful of mispronouncing the smallest word. “They call me the Mythmage, but my name is Crowley. I trust you’ll forgive me for that illusion I forced on you, but it was necessary.”

“Necessary?” Nick said, still a bit hoarse. He could say no more, for he was too tired.

“I needed you to kill me in your mind. It was the only way to get it out of your system without actually letting you kill me.” The Mythmage—Crowley—smiled at this declaration. “Now that your aura is considerably calmer than it was when first you entered my house, I will answer your questions. I notice you appear curious about the Circle and the quartz ball. Well, that is actually a foe glass; it allows me to determine if we are being watched.”

“Watched?” Nick rasped out. “Watched by whom?”

“Oh, we all have our enemies. One of mine is a former witch. She transcended her body to become something more. And she has made it her ambition to destroy me. I believe I scared her off when I caught her spying. But, every so often, she tries again.”

Nick greedily gulped down the last of the heavenly water and then sat with the glass cradled in his hands on the table—for what else could he do against such a man but listen?

With the wand held behind his back, Crowley began to pace the foyer. “When I heard your fathers’ summons for help fifteen years ago, I appeared before him. He thought I was an angel come to save his family from barrenness.”

“The voodoo infertility curse, you mean,” Nick said. “You agreed to lift it?”

Crowley shook his head, glanced out at the street as if expecting someone to appear out there. “No, that was not necessary. In my world there is little magic. What little there is, a corporation uses—used—it. Mythcorp combined magic with genetic engineering to create remarkable beings called Mythicons. I performed a quick but thorough search of your world and discovered that, saturated as it was with magic, its genetic science was somewhat lacking—but still sufficiently capable. So I directed your parents to Alexander Dupree, the geneticist at Genucorp who accosted you nearly two months ago in the food court. Using buffer scientists to overcome a curse is not something practitioners from your world would consider.”

Inconceivable—that was the only word Nick could assign to these declarations. The Mythmage’s abilities were inconceivable.

“Mr. Dupree overcame the voodoo infertility curse using genetics, and then, as per my agreement with your folks, I visited you when you were merely an eight-celled embryo, whereupon I altered your genetic makeup to include a portion of my own DNA. Effectively, I gave Alexander Dupree the seed for creating a Mythcorp in your world.”

“Wait, what?” Nick’s heart raced. “I have your DNA?”

“That is why you can control the mythics,” Crowley explained. “I can control them. It is also why you were able to use my front door as the gateway to my world through the blood lock, and it is why you are able to use this device” here he brandished the wand “without resorting to either bioplasmic magic or sorcery.”

Shaking his head, fighting shock and heart palpitations, Nick set the glass aside and stood on shaky feet. “It’s not sorcery?”

Crowley grinned knowingly. “No. And you are not a sorcerer, not entirely and not yet, anyway. You utilize a different form of magic. My magic.”

“But my name is in the Unmentionable Accords.”

Crowley nodded. “It’s just a piece of paper. It can be torn out.”

Relief flooded his spirit. “And my parents knew about the DNA thing,” Nick said, as much to himself as to the Mythmage. “They agreed to this. Why, what did they hope would happen when I developed your magic?”

Here the Mythmage lowered his head. “Do not hate them; they were desperate. When you want something as badly as they did, you will agree to almost anything. ”

“Why did they agree to it?”

Hesitation. “They did it for you—and for fame. They wanted a son to complete their family, and they wanted a unique child who could one day introduce a new branch of magic to their world.”

Nick turned his back on the man and faced the window.

“Do not think poorly of them,” the Mythmage said, setting a long gnarled hand on his shoulder. “If they had not done what they did, I would never have become aware of your world, and we would not be in a position to save it now.”

“Save it?” Nick turned back to face him. “Save it from what?” But he knew the answer.

Leaning down and speaking in a hushed, reverential voice, the Mythmage said, “The sorcerer Agravaine has succeeded in his long endeavor. He has awakened the Old One.”

“He’s borrowed into it?” Nick whispered in reverential terror. The Mythmage nodded. Nick could hardly believe it. For all Agravaine’s chatter and plotting, actually borrowing into the Old One had always seemed like a pipe dream, some loony tune sorcerer’s crazy idea for glory. “Is he controlling it?”

“I will need to meditate more to know the answer to that. Either way, the Old One has begun its rampage. Whether controlled by Agravaine or operating under its own steam, this creeping chaos is awake and it will not stop until someone stops it—or until it has destroyed all life on earth.” He sent his gaze deep into Nick and took a long deep breath before continuing. “Events in my world are also unfolding, and I must focus my energies on helping my people. So, you will need to stop the Old One without me.” He handed Nick the wand and stood back.

Looking at wizardkinds’ most powerful weapon, Nick wondered if it could really work against the ancient alien being Agravaine had so stupidly awoken.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Take your friend with you. He has his own brand of power that I believe may be of great value in this battle.”

“Bruno?” Nick scowled. Impossible. What power did Bruno have?

But the Mythmage shook his head. “Not Bruno. Richard Warfield. I have reason to believe that his faith is something the Old One has never encountered in any of the numerous worlds it has destroyed.”

Nick thought back to his talks with Richard, about how the strange preacher boy had spoken of faith moving mountains, and of how the boy with the grin had levitated when no one else could, apparently by his faith. Was it possible?

“How do you know so much?” Nick said. Then, observing the Mythmage gazing out nervously through the window again, exchanged this question for a better one, one that had partially driven him here in the first place. “Why did you open the doorways to the mythics’ worlds? Did my parents agree to that too? Was that part of the bargain for making me the frigging chosen one in the Petri dish?”

Still gazing out into the night, the Mythmage said, “When first I discovered the existence of the Old One, a being from the Dark Tapestry, I could not fathom its power and age. Knowing it was there, a sleeping giant in your world, I realized I had not been summoned by accident, that some great Fate was behind your fathers’ call for supernatural assistance.”

“Wait,” Nick held a hand up as though to restrain the avalanche of knowledge. It almost amused him; here he was finally getting his answers and all he wanted was for them to slow down. “What in blazes is the Dark Tapestry?”

The Mythmage turned and faced Nick. Behind him a tiny light flickered, as if someone had switched on a light in the distance.

“The Dark Tapestry refers to the black space between the stars, where eldritch beings dwell. These entities have been around since before life began, and they represent the greatest threat to the universe. They want nothing more or less than to spread carnage, chaos, and death, slumbering for ages only to awaken to commit bouts of planetary destruction and rampages of unspeakable horrors. I had to be careful, for these beings can sense when they are being spied upon, but eventually I was able to learn how this Old One arrived in your world.”

“How?” In his rapt focus Nick forgot to breathe. He inhaled deeply to remedy his stupidity.

“In 1905 a former student of the Institute, a brilliant lad by the name of Howard Phillips Lovecraft, discovered the existence of the Dark Tapestry and somehow managed to open a gate way to this abode of pure malevolence. He was subsequently expelled, his name placed in the Unmentionable Accords, and managed to escape before they could lobotomize him. He opened the gateway for only a brief moment, but it was enough for something to come through.”

“And then you what, decided to follow his example, open some more doorways?” Nick accused, trying but failing miserably to sound tough.

The Mythmage took a sip from a flask he’d recovered from his jacket pocket. A nightly nip of the old sauce? He looked down at Nick. “A very clever restriction on my power and influence, set in place by the cunning being from whom I acquired my gifts, restrains me from certain direct intervention. I could not craft that device for you that you hold in your hand. So I had to do something extremely dangerous to inspire your warlocks to craft it themselves.”

“Are you saying you opened the mythic gateways just so we’d be forced to craft a more powerful weapon to deal with them?”

The Mythmage nodded. “In the hope that this device, this weapon, could help to defeat the Old One, should it ever awaken—or be awoken.”

For a long moment Nick contemplated the vast store of knowledge bestowed on him. When he thought he could speak without unleashing a torrent of questions, he opened his mouth and said, “I don’t suppose you could’ve just told them ‘Hey warlock dudes, this is how you make a W.A.N.D. to kill this old mangy thing in the forest, okay?’ or something like that?”

The Mythmage snickered. “I truly wish I could have, but that would have violated my deal, and cost me all my powers. I believe the wand you have crafted—and the aid of your friend Richard—will suffice. For events here in my world require my attention.” He took a deep breath, pushed his half-moon spectacles up higher on his nose, and said, “I regret that I will not be returning to help you.”

“Returning?” Nick said, brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“As I said,” the Mythmage gestured at the window. “Events here in my world require my attention.”

Nick stood and walked over to the window. After prying opening a space between the venetian blinds, he peered out into the night. Harlan’s body was no longer there. Looking out towards the center of Philicity, where Genucorp with its huge green and yellow neon sign should’ve been visible, stood a different building. Lights illuminated only two of its windows, one on the top floor, and another on what looked to be the eleventh.

“I don’t understand . . . are you saying we’re in your world?” Nick asked. “As in, not in my world anymore?”

Slowly, the Mythmage nodded.

Nick stumbled back into the chair at the divination table. Another world. It was inconceivable. He dropped the wand onto the table and lowered his head into his hands.

Sometime later—Nick was not aware how long he’d been attempting to grasp his drastically altered circumstances—the Mythmage’s voice reached from across the gulf of disbelief. “You are at a crossroads, Nick. You can stay here in my world and help me. Or you can return to the Preserve and fight the Old One with the help of your godly friend.”

“The Preserve,” Nick raised his head and laughed nervously. “Everything inside that place wants me dead. The Old One will kill me just because that’s what it does. The warlocks will execute me and pawn it off as ‘accidents happen’ because of what I did to their Project. All the teachers at the Institute have been trying to get me expelled all semester. And that’s not even mentioning the troll king and all the other mythics that’ll kill me just for being not-a-mythic.”

Beside Nick, looking extremely tall and ancient, the Mythmage said, “Tell me; what was your plan after coming here, getting your answers, and killing me?”

Nick thought for a few moments, and then threw his hands up. “I don’t know. I guess I kind of figured I’d wander the countryside. Maybe start my own magic show, make a ton of money.”

Out of nowhere the Mythmage walloped Nick upside the back of his head.

“Hey!” he shrieked, rubbing his throbbing noggin. “What the frick was that for?”

“Go stand before the door.”

Though furious, Nick detected a Command in the words, and was not inclined to disobey. He got up, crept around the tall man, and marched over to the front door. Up close, carved sigils revealed themselves, faintly but skillfully gouged into the wood.

“Okay,” Nick snorted. “Now what, old man?”

“You must make a choice.” The Mythmage appeared behind him, his voice like a hiss in Nick’s ears. “Here and now, your future will be determined. Who you will become. How the world or worlds will remember you. Now close your eyes.” The Mythmage waited. Several long moments later he commanded, “Enter your astral sanctum. Are you there?”

Nick, eyes closed, slowly projected consciousness into his miraculously peaceful sanctum in the Dreaming. “I am.”

“Good. Now, without distractions, absent any outside influence, ask yourself: Who am I? Am I a sorcerer, a practitioner whose every decision is motivated by selfish greed and lust, and one who causes problems everywhere I go? Or am I a David Copperfield, the hero of my own story? Will I open that door and step out into a wider world, and seek to protect it, fight for it, and provide it a worthy example of a noble warlock? Ask yourself these questions, and then make your decision. But know this: whether you asked for this sort of life or not, no matter what decision you make here tonight, you will help to shape your world. For better or worse, for good or evil, you possess the power to make a difference.”

Contemplation—even contemplation on this deep of a level—was much easier here in the sanctum in the absence of all exterior stimuli. Nick felt nothing except for the urge to decide.

Eventually he grounded out of the Dreaming and opened his eyes.

The stout oak door stood huge and foreboding before him. It was indeed a gateway. But a gateway to much more than just another world. This was the door to another way of life.

He had his answers, now all he had to do was choose. Was he a hero, or was he the sorcerer everyone assumed he was? Going back meant likely death. He looked down at the Wizarding Anti-Nemesis Device in his left hand. What hope did he have against the monsters of the world with this thing? It looked so slender and shoddy, something some buffer might cobble together in his garage as an addition to his kid’s Halloween costume.

For some reason he couldn’t understand, this thought made Nick smile.

He looked back up at the door, pressed a few fingers up beneath his shoulder bandage until they were wet with blood, and then pressed the bloody fingers against a sigil on the surface of the oak. The blood lock responded.

Nick opened the door and stepped through the gateway.

As always, I hope you enjoyed this book, and ask that if you did, you take a moment to jot down an honest review of it. The careers of authors depend on readers like you participating in this simple but vital step. I am, as always, truly grateful for you.

Also set in the W.A.N.D. world:

Last King of the Vampires, a short story prequel to W.A.N.D.

The Mirrorman, a short story prequel to W.A.N.D.

Or visit my blog buckelsbooks.com to discover more.

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