Strange Aeons [Book 1]

8. Scry Me a River

The Simca 1000 was one of the worst cars around. That was probably the reason why they had been able to steal it and never had any problems. It was one of the older models, its dark turquoise color was dull, ruined in many points, scratched. But it had spirit, and they got attached to it pretty fast. The Simca had soon become Vopros's car, and thusly they used it only on emergencies. He cared for it and for its engine, which was now pretty far from the original.

He parked the car and stood still, listening to it tune down and fall asleep. Around him, outside the car, the world was twisting and swirling with life. Everything was busy, colored, noisy, while his mind craved a very different scenery. The soft-touch of fallen snow, smothering the noises of the day. People walking fast, covered with coats and fur hats, their breath white in the cold winter air. Somewhere, the rich smell of solyanka filling the air and making the worker's mouth water with expectation.

He opened the car door, and the images swelled and disappeared from his brain.

He entered the shop and grabbed a basket, wandering through the isles with self-confidence. He put some items in his basket, nothing very expensive, some duct tape, a hammer, a box of screws, and when he had carefully completed his round of the shop, went back, put everything in its place and exited.

He could feel the eyes of the people inside on his back. They probably thought he was some old, crazy man, out just to annoy the world.

He went back to his Simca 1000 and gently patted its hood turning on the engine. He had to wait a handful of seconds for it to sputter, before he decided to take the matters in his own hands and give it new life, with a slight movement of his hand and an orange flash glaring in his eyes, as he muttered the words in his mother tongue.

Now, it purred like a fat kitten.

He drove to a multi-story parking and went straight for the lowest under level, where there was plenty of space. A diffused LED lighting made it bright and sad at the same time.

He sat comfortably against the seat, put his hands in his lap and closed his eyes.

Vopros's magic was maybe the more discreet of the three Pollos. Chico did like some song and dance now and then, and Banshee's magic could be extremely loud and colorful when she felt like it. Vopros's magic, never.

He could feel the fluxes better than simply see them. With his eyes closed, he connected to them on a higher level than usual, perceiving them all around him and, more important, all around the things he needed to act upon.

He had a sixth sense for distances and dimensions, and his spells were almost never wrong.

His silent mix of concentration and precision led quite rapidly to the result he was looking for. A number of objects fell with a soft bumpy noise on his backseat. Roughly the entire previous content of his shop's basket, and some much more expensive items he had just cased to have precise detail about their position.

He let the fluxes go and turned to look at his booty. He had soon found out that it felt right and good, to teach to the American capitalists some basics of communism, like redistributing their abundance of goods to those who had none.

He had just started the car that he had to stop, with his foot on the pedal.

In front of his car stood a man. Well, a boy was maybe a more appropriate word for the young figure in front of him. He was six feet tall, with a long and strict pale face on which shone an enormous pair of dark-brown eyes. A bush of strawberry red hair decorated his head, and he was so thin that the hoodie and cheap torn jeans he was wearing hung on him like on a clothes hanger. He was just there, staring at him.

Vopros's senses were heightened enough to feel the magic surrounding them. He had created some kind of Summon magic bubble, an illusion, probably to discourage anyone to come close to their position. The Russian was impressed: it was nothing you saw every day.

But that could be expected from one of Mariposa's men. And the boy was clearly one of them.

Vopros stepped out of the car, moving slowly, without sudden movements. Then, he turned towards the boy, his hands back in his pockets.

The two stared at each other like in a Clint Eastwood's movie. The only thing missing was the passing hay balls between them. Vopros could see people passing by, with the corner of his eye, but no one was looking towards them.

That must have been the reason why they called him Whisper.

Vopros's eyes were icy and static. He was completely emotionless, but he could easily notice that this stillness was doing something on his apparently unruffled opponent.

«You want to show who the best mage. You probably best mage.» his voice resounded in the parking lot, taking the boy by surprise, the words rolling on his thick accent.

Whisper said nothing, just his left hand slightly twitched as if he was preparing a spell to cast as fast as possible if Vopros had attempted something strange. The Russian man looked at him and shook his head.

He raised a hand, slowly, to his coat's lapel. With controlled movements, of which Whisper wasn't losing a single second, he undid the big golden buttons, one by one, until the last. Then, smoothly, opened his coat's right side.

It had sixteen inside pockets.

Each and every one of them hosted a single explosive stick.

«You think: "Maybe I teleport away very fast, explosion don't get me." You think, you try. Thing is: this is all block.» he said, holding up his coat's right side. Then, as Whisper gulped visibly, he moved his other hand to open his coat completely, revealing a mirror image of the right, down to the number of sticks. «But this is whole neighbourhood.»

That Whisper didn't expect something like this was clear.

«So, I ask: is teleport enough?»

Whisper darted his eyes on the sticks, probably calculating in his mind, or trying to understand how much of Vopros's words were pure bluff. The Russian's poker face was completely unreadable.

«Oh, and I know you think I bluff. If you explode, I explode.» said Vopros, and Whisper for a moment looked like he saw a way out. «But, you see: I old. You not.»

His words fell like stones on the little, peaceful battlefield between them. Whisper's dark eyes blinked furiously a couple of time, as sweat started forming little translucent pearls on his brow. None of them moved, none of them flinched. It looked as if time had stopped around them.

Then Whisper turned on his heels, and walked away, his long arms swaying at his sides.

Vopros closed his coat, buttoning it up with the same controlled movements of before. The magic bubble popped, and reality began to flow again around him.