At night, as he’s done for the past week since the killings started, Master Grim sits at his desk. He examines the notes Jones emailed to him earlier. Like the other cases, none of the spells match with any spell used by the Four Arcana Houses. What seems strangest, he thinks as he stares at the pictures, is the physical harm the spells created. Most, if not all spells leave behind no marking or residue. These must be caused by a very powerful mage, he thinks, one who wishes to wage a war on all four of the Houses simultaneously. Master Grim feels what he thinks is fear for what feels like the first time in a long time but easily dismisses the notion. He is the Head of the House of Grim after all, and one of the four most powerful magi in the city.
For reasons unknown, Master Grim decides to type Detective Christian Jones into his computer. The first dozen or so pages turn up old cases Jones worked on (all solved, of course): cases protecting his fellow ignorant New Men from attacks involving magic or punishing (i.e. killing) magi for attacking New Men. He skims page after page until he finally finds one that isn’t an assignment.
It’s an old news article taken from a New Man newspaper. It’s an old article, roughly thirty-five years old. Too long ago for Jones to have been a threat to the magical community. Perhaps another person with the same name, he thinks. Master Grim reads on with curiosity. Witnesses stand around the wreckage of a bus fire. Probably a cover up of the reckless activities committed by another young mage playing god amongst the New Men. Master Grim knows he, back in his younger days, was the same way – thinking himself a deity compared to the abundant New Men. Master Grim sighs as he recalls the days (not too long ago actually) when showing dominance over New Men wasn’t so frowned upon.
In the article, authorities claimed it was a gas explosion and everyone on board, all two dozen, were killed. In addition to the article is another picture – a little boy whose mother was killed. He skims the article. Diana Jones, survived by her son Christian Jones. “Shit,” Master Grim says as he hears a foreboding knock at the door. Master Grim feels fear he cannot ignore this time. Slowly he reaches for the wand which he keeps hidden under his desk.
Jones kicks the door in, knocking both of Master Grim’s bodyguards to the ground. Both men reach into their coats for their wands. The first barely lays a finger on his before Jones puts a bullet into his head, splattering the floor with the back of the man’s skull. The second man manages to actually point his wand at Jones. Before he can open his mouth to cast a spell, Jones fires two rounds into his chest (magic is slower than bullet, after all).
With the two men dead, Jones walks toward Master Grim’s desk, the barrel of his gun pointing squarely at Master Grim’s head. He wears a smile on his face, but no cigarette in his mouth. Jones carries a small red container in his hand. A familiar smell wafts through the room.
“You know, I almost gave up searching. Then I saw your wand, heard your alliterations. What really gave you away though was your spell signature, that distinctive green light,” says Jones as he takes a seat across from Master Grim. “Before you die, I want to tell you a story, though I’m sure you’ve heard this one before.
“Thirty-five years ago, a single mother boards a bus to her second job after getting off a graveyard shift just three hours earlier. She waves at her son as she leaves him to wait for his school bus. As she boards the bus, a man approaches the boy. The boy is wary of strangers and so the stranger introduces himself and lets the boy know that they can be friends. He asks if the boy wants to see a magic trick. The boy, curious as all boys are, agrees. The man pulls a stick from his coat and, with a wave, a ridiculous rhyme, and a green flash, the bus he just saw his mother board erupts into flames. The man just laughs. The man who introduced himself as –”
Master Grim finally seizes his opportunity. He has no intention of dying at the hands of a filthy New Man. Master Grim pulls the wand from under his desk and points it at Jones. “Wrathful, raider, righteous, –”
“Jonathan Grim.”
The light at the end of Master Grim’s wand fades as he feels power flow out of his body. For the first time in his life he feels frailty, weakness, powerless, helpless. He feels the approach of Death. Jones holsters his gun and Master Grim sees on his face the smile of bloodlust. Jones’s broad grin consumes his view such that Master Grim doesn’t even see or feel what hits him next. When Master Grim awakens, he finds himself tied to his chair and Jones standing over him with the red container. He hears the sloshing of the liquid moving back and forth.
“I bet now you wish she hadn’t taken a window seat. I might have just put a bullet in your head and be done with this ordeal.” He opens the container and the smell of the liquid wafts throughout the room. Master Grim tries to struggle free but the rope holds him tight. He calls for help but the walls suppress his voice. He begs and pleads but his captor’s mind is focused on revenge. The gasoline drenches him from head to toe, seeping into his clothes and filling his nostrils.
The door bursts open and several magi stand in the doorway, wands in hand. They arrive just in time to see Jones drop his cigarette onto Master Grim, his body erupting into a pillar of flames before their eyes.
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