Sorcerer's Luck (18 page)

“It's not worth it,” Cynthia said. “It's just class work, and let's face it, it's not
real good.”

“Oh come on! You really caught his facial expression.”

“Yeah, but the rest of him . . .” She let her voice trail away.

I sighed. Neither of us could think of anything more to say. When Brittany and Harper
came back out, Harper returned to consulting with the police, and Brittany hurried over to us.

“I could feel the guy's psychic vibes,” she announced. “He's really a nutcase.”

Behind her back Roman rolled his eyes. Cynthia set her lips together to prevent sarcasm
escaping, or so I figured. Tor, however, peeled himself off the wall and ambled
over to join her.

“What kind of vibes?” he said. “Can you describe them?”

“Yeah, he's an old guy,” Brittany said. “Like, maybe fifty. He's really scared about
something. He shredded my project like he shredded Maya's. I bet he picked up
that I'm psychic. I got the impression he thought our paintings were magic
somehow, and so maybe that's what he's scared of.”

“That could be it,” Tor said. “Thanks.”

For an awkward moment no one spoke. Tor glanced at each of us in turn with his nerdy
smile. “Say, do you guys want to go to brunch? My treat! Roman, I bet you'd
like to see the car I got for your sister.”

“Sure would,” Roman said. “That old Chevy of hers wasn't real safe.”

The two men strolled off together, leaving the three of us hurrying to catch up.

“Men and cars!” Cynthia muttered.

“Well, it's a totally cool one,” I said. “I forgot that you guys haven't seen it yet.”

As we walked along, Brittany said nothing. I realized that she was thinking hard as
she stared at Tor's back.

“Brit?” I said. “Is something wrong?”

“Tor's some kind of magician, isn't he?” Brittany said. “A mage, I mean, not some guy who
does card tricks.”

“Oh for crying out loud!” Cynthia broke in. “Brit, you should write fiction, with your
mind.”

“No, she's right,” I said. “He studies rune magic. He's pretty good at it, too.”

Cynthia opened her mouth and shut it again without speaking. None of us spoke again
until we reached the parking lot, where we caught up with the guys. Spotlessly
blue and gleaming in the sun, Gretel sat at the end of a row. When I pointed
her out as Tor's car, he laughed and corrected me. “No, it's your car,” he
said, “I registered it in your name, remember?”

“He bought you that?” Roman said. “Just bought it for you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what a car like that costs?”

“No.” I smiled and shrugged. “A lot, I guess.”

“Jesus fucking God!” Roman muttered, then winced in Brittany's direction. “Sorry,
honey. I'm trying to clean up my language, but it'll take time.”

It was Brittany's turn for the rolled eyes and the little skeptical shake of her head. I was more
worried about the way my druggie brother looked at Tor, narrow-eyed and
speculative. Tor, who was talking with Cynthia about where to go for brunch,
never noticed Roman's expression. Brittany did, though, with a frown that edged
toward a scowl. Eventually we all agreed on our usual café, the one near Lake Merritt with a view of trees.

Although half the morning had passed, we were still early enough to get our favorite
table by the window. The waiter helped Tor and Roman move a second table up
against it to give everyone room. We all settled in with menus. Tor and Roman
ordered beer and began talking about baseball, Giants versus the A's, mostly,
while Brittany and Cynthia discussed what had happened in the studio room. I
kept touching the bindrune pendant Tor had made me, only half-consciously at
first, until I realized I felt watched.

I turned a little in my chair and glanced out the window. No one was looking in. Stupid, I
thought, if it's Nils he doesn't have to be right here! But he was right there,
I was sure of it, and turned a little more. Someone was standing across the
street and looking our way. Tor must have noticed my motion.

“Shit!” Tor stood up so fast that he knocked his chair over. “There he is!”

He turned and raced out of the door of the café. I got up and ran after him, but I stayed
in the doorway. For a moment Nils stood stunned on his side of the street. Tor
strode to the curb on our side and yelled in Icelandic. Nils yelled right back.
At the corner the light changed, and cars began to stream past between them.
Nils turned and started walking away. Tor kept yelling and moved along the edge
of the sidewalk to keep pace with him.

When Tor stepped out between two parked cars, Nils broke into a jog.

“Tor,” I called out. “The traffic! Be careful!”

I have no idea if Tor heard me, but Nils suddenly stopped and turned to look back. He
flung up both arms in Tor's direction. Tor raised his left hand and held it up,
palm outward. Nils screamed, twisted around, and took out running for all he
was worth. Tor set his hands on his hips and watched him go.

For a moment I thought my eyes were giving out. A cloud of fog settled between me and
Tor. A man coalesced out of the fog, standing behind Tor, still shadowy, a
figure of mist, but tall, huge, towering over Tor. He raised his hands—raised
his left hand and a stump, because he'd lost his right. Beside him stood a huge
dog—no, a wolf, made of the same mist.

“Fenrir,” I whispered.

The wolf turned its head and looked my way. The man laughed and waved to me with his
whole hand. They both disappeared into a long wisp of fog that vanished in the
hot sun. Tor, perfectly calm, came walking back to me.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got carried away.”

“What did you do, when you held up your hand, and he screamed like that?”

“Just sent his ill-will back to him. He sent me a curse, so I turned it around.” Tor
grinned at me. “That'll teach him.”

I could say nothing. We returned to our friends in the café. As we sat down, the waiter
came hurrying over. Tor ordered a ham sandwich with fries as if nothing had
happened. I managed to point to a salad on the menu, though I had no idea what
it was until it actually arrived. I gulped ice water. Tor had a couple of sips
of beer.

“Can I ask what was all that about?” Cynthia said.

Tor looked at me. I knew he wanted me to do whatever lying was necessary.

“Family troubles,” I said. “Over the inheritance, y'know, money and stuff like that.
His uncle feels cheated. That was his uncle, by the way.”

“I saw the resemblance, yeah,” Cynthia said. “Oh my god, fighting over the will! It's always so nasty.
Doesn't matter if they leave you a lot or a little. My sister still resents the
way I got our grandmother's engagement ring, and it's only an amethyst.”

“I'm sorry,” Tor said. “I never should have gone out there. He just infuriates me. He won't
let things go. I guess I said a few things I shouldn't have.” He managed a weak
grin. “I'm glad you ladies don't understand Icelandic.”

“So am I.” Cynthia raised an eyebrow, grande dame fashion, then grinned. “It's okay. We're
tough. We're artists, not ladies.”

We all managed to laugh at that, except Brittany, who merely smiled, a small knowing
kind of Mona Lisa smile. I wondered what she might have seen out there on the
sidewalk, but I was afraid to ask.

By the time we finished eating, the café was filling up. We abandoned the tables to the
busboy, straggled out onto the sidewalk, and stood around talking for a few minutes.
Roman and I walked a little way away from the others.

“The group therapy's going well,” he told me. “I'm sure glad you and Brit got me to go.
Most of the other guys in there are vets, too.”

“I'm glad you've kept going. Ro, that's supercool.”

He shrugged the praise away. “Are you okay?” he said. “Your anemia hasn't come back, has
it? Y'know, that crap you had in high school.”

“Just a little bit, yeah. I'm not working at the burger joint any more, so I feel
better.”

“Good. I wondered. You look worried about something.”

It was the first time in a couple of years that he'd paid attention to someone else's
troubles. I began to allow myself to hope that he really was recovering.

“It's this business with Tor's Uncle Nils,” I said. “He's seriously crazy. He doesn't have
any kind of legal claim on the estate, so he's made threats. Tor doesn't like
to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I can see why.” Roman smiled with a wry twist to his mouth. “Well, that's one
thing we don't have to worry about, huh? Our huge inheritance.”

Our dad had left us fifty bucks each and a couple of bad debts.

When Tor and I returned home, I decided to do some drawings. No, not a decision, a need—I
needed to draw, to immerse myself in drawing like I had as a child when I
needed to make the troublesome world go away. Tor went downstairs to study the
note from the rime jötnar. I got my biggest archival-quality sketch pad and my
selection of Conté sticks and sat cross-legged on the sofa with the pad in my
lap. I made a rough drawing, very gestural, of the scene outside the café, with
Nils and Tor, the trees and the cars just laid in almost as scribbles. I turned
the page and held the sketchbook vertically.

All at once I felt as if I'd had a couple of drinks. An image forced itself into my mind,
the mist-figure with the missing hand and the bound wolf. I began to draw,
another rough gestural sketch, then went to a fresh page and drew again from
memory. Or more than memory, because the man and wolf began to fill in and
build up so easily that I felt as if I'd left my body and joined them in the
picture. It was more like seeing than drawing. I used four different colors of Conté
and found an old tissue in my shirt pocket to twist and use as a rough stump.
When I finished, I fell out of the picture again and realized that I felt
exhausted. I set the pad and my supplies down on the coffee table and went into
the kitchen to get some water.

I drank two glasses straight down and was pouring myself a third when I heard Tor come
upstairs. I returned to the living room to find him staring at the drawing.

“What's this?” he said.

“I saw that guy standing behind you,” I said, “when you were yelling at Nils. Do you know
who it is?”

He nodded. I realized that his face had gone slightly pale. “You saw him?” he said.

“Yeah. What's wrong?”

“Nothing. That's Tyr and Fenrir.”

“I figured it was Fenrir, yeah.” I paused for a sip of water. “Wait a minute! Isn't Tyr
one of the gods?”

Tor nodded again. “The god I feel the most affinity with,” he said. “I showed you the
tattoo, didn't I? I wear his mark. You saw him?”

“Yeah, backing you up, I guess.”

Tor smiled, an amazing open smile of delight, of joy, really. That's when I realized that
he truly believed in his ancient gods of the northlands. I'd been ready to talk
about hallucinations, or to call the vision a psychic phenomenon, or even say
that maybe I'd just imagined it, but I held my tongue. How could I spoil his
moment of pure joy?

“Thanks,” he said. “I mean it. Thank you for drawing that.” He paused and looked at the
drawing again. “It's really good. Your art, I mean.”

That particular picture did work for me. I could look at it objectively as one of
the best conventional figure drawings I'd ever done, strong and clean lines,
definitive shading. Even the wolf—and I'd never even drawn dogs before—had the
look of life about it. I wondered if I'd really drawn it, or if the god had
been guiding my hand. I'd certainly felt entranced.

“I'm glad you did it on decent paper,” Tor continued. “I'll take it to a frame shop and
get it matted and framed.”

 “Thank you,” I said, “but I probably shouldn't take credit for it. Maybe Tyr wanted it
drawn so you could see him.”

“That could be. I'll hope so.” Tor hesitated, his eyes solemn. “I'm really sorry about what
happened to your class project. I mean, about the whole thing. Everyone's work,
messed up like that. I want you to know that.”

“Well, I figured, yeah, but thanks. You know, maybe you shouldn't keep pushing on Nils.
He's really out there somewhere, isn't he?”

Tor nodded and looked away. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and thought for a
couple of minutes.

“Maybe so,” he said eventually. “Maybe I should just fend him off if he tries any more shit
around here and let it go at that. It'd gripe me to do it, but it might be
smart.”

“Maybe he'll just give up. You keep winning the challenges.”

“No, we won the big one. Together, I mean. And the
trouble is, he knows it. But yeah, if he leaves us alone, I'll do the same for
him. We'll have to see.”

“See what? What he does next?”

“If he does anything, yeah. And I want to hear what Bryndis has to say. She knew him and
his mother when he was a kid. That always seems to matter, what someone was
like when they were kids.”

Tor sounded so reasonable that I felt relieved. Maybe Nils would just leave us alone now
that he'd had his cheap little revenge. But when I thought of the slashed
paintings in the studio, I felt fear down my back like a slide of ice. It took
a lot of rage to cut through paint and heavy canvas, rage and a real good
knife.

“You look pale,” Tor said. “Do you need chi?”

“Yeah. I don't know why, but doing this drawing really took it out of me.”

He led me over to the window where I could stand in the sunlight. With a little frown of
concentration, he summoned the élan. I could feel it oozing from him and began
to tremble in anticipation. Tor raised a hand and let the élan fall over me
like a perfumed shower, warm and delectable. I fed with half-closed eyes, and
when I'd had enough, I rubbed against him like a grateful cat.