The Magician: An Epic Dark Fantasy Novel: Book One of the Rogue Portal Series (18 page)

              Kit was laying on her back, and Hazel flipped the lights off. Moonlight cast a blue tone over the couch, and Kit looked oddly ethereal in its light. Connor's mind shifted to Rumsfeld. Images surfaced in his mind. Rumsfeld in the library, confronting him about his father. The vision he'd had. Being forced to witness his father's suicide. The knowledge that Rumsfeld had been a part of it. The sheer lack of control he had over any of it.

              Anger filled his body to the brim, making him clench his jaw. Suddenly he remembered what he'd read in the book earlier. Midnight. It was only ten thirty.

              He flipped open the pocket watch and made sure it was set to midnight, then settled as well as he could on the couch and willed himself to sleep.

              "What are you doing?" whispered Kit. He hadn't been aware that she'd noticed him, let alone cared if he still existed or not.

              "Making sure the portal is set. Like the book said."

              "What?" She sat up in bed and looked at him.

              "I'm going to the Celestarium tonight."

              "What for?" Her voice was as close to panicked as he'd ever heard it, save for the library.

              "I have an appointment with Rumsfeld." He looked at her, determination in his eyes.

              She hung her head slightly, understanding what he needed to do and why. She laid back on the pillows again, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

              "Connor?" Her voice was small, and it frightened him for a moment. It was the equivalent of a lion speaking in the human voice of a five year old. Unexpected. Unnatural.

              "Mmm," he answered.

              Another pause.

              "Be careful."

              "Promise," he replied.

              He glanced over to see her half-smile, and felt accomplished in having stolen the secrecy of it from her. He still wasn't convinced of her honesty. Wasn't convinced of anything. And she did have a way of being off-putting at best, offensive at worst. But in a way he understood that her bitterness and cruelty were manifestations of a deeper pain. Something he had no knowledge of and couldn't understand. At least not yet.

              But for now, none of that mattered. He had a date with the Magician, and he wasn't going to be late.

TWENTY-TWO

⌛

As usual, Connor didn't remember falling asleep. He didn't remember entering the Void, or being transported. Every once in awhile he experienced the sensation of falling through the cosmos, but aside from his first visit that had happened only on rare occasions. When he became aware that he was standing inside the Celestarium, he knew he'd successfully traveled to the Void. The portal had worked. Out of instinct, he checked his neck to make sure it was still there. It was.

              Rumsfeld was nowhere to be found. In fact, unlike other times he'd been to the Celestarium, the place looked entirely deserted. Most of the time it looked like a lively room that was in constant use. Even if nobody but Rumsfeld was present, it looked as though other people
had
been there. But this time, the lights were dimmed almost to the point of being extinguished, the room looked clean and orderly, and the giant desk in the center had not a shred of paper on it. The rows of hourglasses gleamed slightly in the dim light, givin off a reddish hue.

              The room looked like a state of the art cathedral turned museum, waiting for its grand opening.

              "Come on out, Rumsfeld! I know you're here!"

              The room was designed for outstanding acoustics, which Connor was glad for. It gave his voice the impression of conviction, confidence, and authority, though he felt none of these things. He waited for the response, which he was sure would be a sudden appearance. Metaphysical travel seemed to be one of the only tools Rumsfeld had at his disposal that he could use consistently to surprise those around him.

              Connor walked to the center of the room and stood. Motionless. Waiting.

              "Come on!" he shouted. "Magician!" He added the last part sarcastically.

              A slight swooshing sound told him that his mockery had, at least in part, done the job. Rumsfeld was behind him, and he knew it. But he didn't turn around. This visit was going to be on
his
terms. Rumsfeld was going to come to him.

              "So confident tonight, are we, Galveston?"

              "Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

              "Oh, I don't know," came the sing-song reply as Rumsfeld circled him to the left and stood in front of him, as though preparing for a dual. "That depends entirely on why you're here."

              "I thought you'd have pieced that one together by now."

              Connor clenched his jaw. He wasn't going to flinch.

              "Just because I have a lofty title doesn't mean I know everything. It doesn't mean I know anything at all. So why don't you humor me. What brings you to the Void this fine evening?"

              "Questions. To which I expect answers."

              "Oh? And what makes you so sure you'll get them."

              "Because you owe me at least that much. After what you took. Don't you think?"

              "Dearie, I didn't take anything from you."

              "Of course you did. But since you've taken so much from so many people, why don't I help you remember. It had to do with my father. And a rope. And Demafae. Bringing back any memories?"

              Rumsfeld played along.

              "Oh
him
," he said. "Well. You saw the vision, I take it. You know I didn't take him. He left."

              "You don't really think I'm that stupid, do you?"

              "I suppose not. Maybe that's why I like you so much. Maybe that's why I want to help you."

              "
You
want to help
me
? You want to
help
me? That's hilarious. I thought you were a magician, not a comedian."

              "It's true, Galveston. You've seen me accused of such, haven't you?"

              He flicked a gloved hand toward his golden staff, and the crystal ball at its top began to show a replay of the video on Stuart's computer.

              "Oh, please. So the wicked witch called you a name. What's that supposed to mean to me?"

              "Queen."

              "Excuse me?"

              "She's a Queen. Doesn't like to be called witch. Even though she is as much," Rumsfeld rolled his eyes at the idea of her.

              "Whatever. She's on the same team as you are. You're both fighting for evil, so why would I take her dismissal of you as a vote in your favor? There are some people even Hell won't take."

              Connor had heard the phrase from his mother long ago and it seemed menacing enough to throw at Rumsfeld in the moment, even though he himself didn't believe the line. It seemed to do a small amount of damage anyway. Rumsfeld winced slightly.

              "She and I are decidedly
not
on the same team, I'm afraid. Perhaps in a broad sense we want the same things. But we're" he paused and grasped at the air, seemingly looking for the right word, "irreconcilably polar when it comes to our beliefs on how to get it."

              "How touching."

              "Oh, it should be. She wanted to kill you quite a long time ago."

              "So I owe you my life?"

              "In a way, you do."

              "And what about my father? To whom does he owe his death? The same hand?"

              "Hardly."

              "You were there!"

              "Indeed, I was. But it would be a far cry to say I caused anything that happened." Rumsfeld cocked his head, never breaking eye contact with Connor.

              "Oh, really? Then please, tell me, why did my father kill himself?"

              Rumsfeld took a deep breath and sighed, turning and taking a few steps away from him. It was the first time either of them had moved since the conversation began. Rumsfeld circled Connor and walked over to the central desk, knocking it twice with his knuckle as though contemplating something. He looked off toward the Sands, his expression flashing a brief but obvious display of emotion. Was it sorrow? Concentration? He couldn't quite make it out.

              "Your father," he began "was a good man. He loved your mother very much. And there came a point in time when he learned she had cancer."

              Rumsfeld hung his head, making invisible circles on the table with his finger tip. Connor fixed his gaze on him, wanting to know anything Rumsfeld was willing to tell him about his father. Rumsfeld continued, fixing his gaze toward, at, and then through the Sands once more.

              "He went to sell some antiques at a local antique shop to obtain money with which he intended to pay your mother's medical bills. What he got instead was a lesson on the Rogue Portal."

              Recovering his showman's stance he spun around to face Connor.

              "You see," he continued "the Portal was in his collection of antiques. Only he couldn't remember how it had gotten there. Your mother couldn't either. For good reason. In any case, he met our wonderful friend Eleanor."

              "You mean to tell me my father fell for that?"

              "Well, she's quite the mistress of disguise. The old woman?"

              A brief memory from the vision crossed Connor's mind, and he nodded.

              "Oh, I see."

              "Exactly. Sweet little old Eleanor owns an antique shop. When she needs to. She posed as a witch, ironically enough, enchanted the Portal, and sent your father here through it, just like you came here."

              "Only he had a mission?"

              "More or less. And he was invisible. Snuck right by me, actually."

              "What was his goal?"

              Rumsfeld smiled in a cruel and sardonic fashion and swept his arms open in a grand gesture, indicating the room before him, as though introducing it as part of a magic act.

              "Look around, Dearie, what do you see? What do you think he wanted to do?"

              Connor looked, annoyed that in order to get answers he had to play this silly game. His eyes lighted on the Sands, then the desk, then the small hourglasses lining the walls. The hourglasses that held the lives of each individual. The hourglasses that controlled life and death - or at least communicated information about them.

              "He came to save my mother," he said. It wasn't a question.

              "He did, indeed."

              "Did he succeed?"

              "She's alive, isn't she?"

              Connor laughed. "Right."

              "Don't feel a fool. Your question has more validity than you think. Death is rarely ever the end. In fact, endings in general are usually lies."

              "But he saved her?"

              "He did."

              "So then why did he kill himself?"

              Rumsfeld sighed again and returned to his pensive state at the desk. Connor was angry. Furious, even. But for brief moments as he watched this man, he felt pangs of pity. Wanted to believe he wasn't all bad. Wanted to feel sorry for him, even. But it never lasted long.

              "Galveston..."

              "WHY did he kill himself?" he shouted.

              Rumsfeld hung his head, then looked up at the Sands once more.

              "Your father and mother had a son. And that son was born with an unfortunate condition that spelled his early demise. Your father learned by way of a messenger that this was the cost he had to pay for attempting to control fate. The Sands were taken from. The debt had to be paid. Unfortunately, he was given some..." he trailed off for a brief moment, his eyes clouding over for the span of a breath, then returning to their normal state. "Some less than truthful advice regarding the price he'd have to pay for meddling. He thought it would be a price
he
would pay. But when he found out his son's life was the price, well..."

              Rumsfeld turned and looked at him with a look of sheer pity. For a moment in time he was unrecognizable. The showman was gone, the crimson outfit just a costume, the taunting nonexistent.

              "Me?" Connor asked, his eyes watering.

              Rumsfeld nodded.

              "And just who gave him this misinformation?" Connor asked shortly. He took two steps toward Rumsfeld. Slow. Deliberate.

              Rumsfeld leaned back against the desk as though trying to recede.

              "It wasn't me, of course."

              "Oh, of course. Because you wouldn't do such a thing, right?"

              "There are a great many things I would do to get what I want, but that isn't one of them. I believe people should know what they're getting into. I never approved of that deception. And I never would have lied about something so important."

              Connor narrowed his eyes, his heart pounding, his body shaking.

              "Let's assume I believe you. What kind of thing
would
you be willing to tell him? Maybe you'd be more than happy to, what did you call it, deliver a message?"

              Rumsfeld sank into the chair next to the desk like a crumpled napkin.

              "I delivered the message, yes. The final message only. And I was there to collect him. But I wanted him to be able to leave the letter behind. You saw that."

              "Oh that's awfully kind of you. But you certainly didn't care about stopping the process, did you? Did you even bother to tell him not to do it?"

              "He would never have listened. He asked me a question, I gave him an answer, that's it. He chose to do with that information what he wanted."

              Rumsfeld was blinking furiously, which made Connor feel as though he had the upper hand in the matter. Rumsfeld was flustered - just slightly - but enough that it sent a hoard of curiosities through. Just as he began to wonder, Rumsfeld once again resumed his actor's stance, which infuriated Connor even more.

              "And just how much of a choice did he really have?" Connor shouted.

              Rumsfeld stood.

              "As much of a choice as you have now."

              "I have no choice! I don't even have enough information to make one!"             

              "Well your father did. He always had the opportunity to stop the process! To back out! Always!"

              "Oh did he? Tell me, Magician, just what is it that you do, anyway?"

              Rumsfeld blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

              "It shouldn't be a difficult question. What do you do? What's your role as the Magician, hmm? Kill people? Convince them to take their own lives? Paint the walls? Plant posies? What the hell do you do?"