II
1705 Words
II
Lucan Grimoire walked through Skyscraper Park with his daughter, Madelaide, holding her hand.
The park was on the ninety-fifth floor of a skyscraper. Long bridges connected a diamond-shaped complex of several blue, glass skyscrapers. The bridges were lined with flowers and trees in planter boxes.
The path they walked on was lit by square LCD lights on the surface of the bridge, and by magical street lamps that glowed pink. The crescent moon was high in the sky, the stars like pinwheels of milky light. The air had the sweet smell of freshly watered greenery, and sprinklers sprayed fine mists of water on the plants at controlled intervals.
Lucan liked this place. It was one of the few places he could go in the city to be alone, and the tranquility was a welcome distraction from all the action in the last few days.
Madelaide let go of Lucan’s hand and looked over the bridge. Below, a shimmer of lights flickered as a cool ocean breeze blew across the city. The ocean and its endless horizon lay several buildings away, and they could hear the distant roar of the waves.
“What’s your wish?” Madelaide asked.
Lucan shrugged. “I didn’t know it was time to make a wish,” he said.
“Last week we saw a shooting star, remember?” Madelaide asked. “You said you had to take a call, but that you’d make a wish next time.”
He didn’t remember that, but that’s what happened when you only had custody of your daughter on weekends. Some weekends. Building a billion-dollar business and running for governor tended to make you forget things.
“How could I forget?” Lucan asked, smiling.
He joined her at the edge of the bridge and looked up into the navy sky with her.
“I made my wish,” he said.
“What did you wish for?”
“I’m not supposed to say.”
Madelaide’s blue hair glowed in the moonlight. The hair dye that he had bought for her was fading, replaced here and there with lustrous black streaks.
The breeze rippled her white dress. Her teeth were stained purple from eating magic pretzels. Lucan had taken her to a bakery for a late snack, feeling guilty for neglecting her these last few days. The pretzels had weird flavors, like turkey and gravy or beef stew, and they had a magical dye that made kids’ teeth change colors. It was a new fad that Lucan didn’t understand. But then again, there was a lot about kids these days he didn’t understand.
“You can tell me what you wished for,” Madelaide said. “It’s not a superstition. Miss Oakmire says so.”
“Miss Oakmire, of course,” Lucan said. “She’s your teacher, right?”
“No, Daddy. You never remember anything.”
“Heh. Heh. Of course I do. She’s the nanny.”
“That’s Miss Chriselda!”
“Oh, then I give up.”
“She’s my counselor, remember?” Madelaide asked. “Or wait, I mean—”
Her face wrinkled up as if she’d just told a forbidden secret.
“Oops,” she said.
“Counselor!” Lucan cried.
Two joggers passed by, and he waited until they were out of earshot.
“What do you mean counselor?” Lucan asked. “Please tell me you’re talking about the rah-rah let’s-pick-a-magical-career guidance counselor...”
Madelaide stared at him blankly.
“It’s for the divorce, Daddy.”
Lucan sighed. “That’s what I thought.”
He took her by the shoulder, and they stopped at a female street vendor behind a metal cart. Lucan paid the woman two golden spira coins and bought two chocolate chip scones. He gave one to Madelaide.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
“Well, I am all of a sudden.” Lucan snatched her scone and took a big bite. Madelaide laughed.
Silence grew between them.
“Listen, sweetie...”
Lucan stopped. What was he going to say to his daughter who was in therapy, probably because of him?
“I don’t know how to say any of this, so just do me a favor and hear it, okay?” he said.
“Okay.”
“I know I haven’t done the best job.”
“I don’t blame you, Daddy.”
“Right, because your mother is a b—erhm, anyway, I meant—”
Madelaide turned and watched the sea with a sad, wistful look in her eyes. He sensed her fear and he changed direction.
“I just want to say that I know I’ve been a crappy dad,” Lucan said. “But deep down, I know that you’re more like me. One day, you’ll understand why I am the way I am. You’re a Grimoire, too.”
He paused.
“You know that none of what happened between your mom and me was your fault,” he said.
“I know.”
Then why the hell are you in counseling? he thought.
He wanted to scream it, but she wouldn’t understand. No, that was an epic battle reserved for Maisy, her mother.
Lucan’s phone buzzed gently in his pocket.
Time to go. His car would be waiting for him by now.
“You know I love you,” he said.
“I love you too, Daddy.”
He put his arm around her shoulder and they walked across the bridge toward an elevator that led down to the ground floor. Two of his bodyguards in black suits stood watch.
They passed a tall palm tree. A shadow lurked behind it, and the hair on the back of Lucan’s neck stood up. Then an explosion followed.
CRACK!
Lucan jumped. Something grazed his shoulder. His eyes drifted down to torn fabric—the shoulder of his suit was ripped.
Pink light sprung up around him and Madelaide—Lucan’s protection spell.
A man scrambled out of the shadows of the palm.
Bartholomew. Tony’s dad. That snotty-nosed kid that had guided him through the bog to Old Dark’s tomb. They had tried to blackmail Lucan, and he had made sure he put an end to that.
Bartholomew’s face was bruised, and he had a cut over one of his eyes. His lips were swollen. He wore a ripped t-shirt, denim jeans, and had a graying beard. He also had a gun.
Lucan stood in front of Madelaide with his hands up.
“What the—”
“You’re a son of a b***h!” Bartholomew cried.
People nearby screamed and started to scatter.
Bartholomew pointed his gun at Lucan. “Now you’ll get what you deserve, finally.”
“Hey, pal, why don’t you put the gun down and we can talk—”
BANG!
Lucan’s bodyguards fired at Bartholomew, but he had cast a protection spell on himself before approaching Lucan, and a pink aura around him deflected their bullets.
Bartholomew cursed and dove behind a planter box as the guards fired again.
An incessant ringing sound filled Lucan’s ears, and suddenly he could only hear his own heart beating. His head pulsed as if it were going to explode, and his vision narrowed.
He grabbed Madelaide and they ran down the bridge, away from the gunfire.
“Daddy, what’s happening?” Madelaide asked. Her voice sounded as if it were underwater.
“Follow me and be quiet!” Lucan said.
A pink wall sprang up in front of them, and Lucan slid to a stop. Bartholomew must have cast it. If he touched that wall, there was no telling what would happen.
Instinctively, Lucan reached into his pocket and pulled out a grimoire.
Behind him, Bartholomew was aiming his gun at Lucan’s bodyguards, trading shots.
Lucan fingered the smooth grimoire and thought of a spell. A wheel of pink light flashed in front of him, and he selected a paralysis rune.
A blue ball of energy flew forward and struck Bartholomew, but it did not paralyze him.
A pink force field of light blinked around the man’s body as Bartholomew activated another protection spell. He side-stepped and tucked his gun in his belt. A wheel of runes floated in front of his head.
Lucan grabbed Madelaide and threw her into a bush.
WHISH!
A wave of fire slammed into him. His entire body seared under the flames and he screamed, patting himself down as the fire evaporated.
Lucan selected another rune, and a javelin of ice shot out of his magical wheel. It impaled Bartholomew’s arm, and he gave a blood-curdling scream.
BANG! BANG!
The guards seized an opening and fired at Bartholomew, but he took cover. He ripped the ice javelin out of his arm, screaming.
Nothing was going to stop the man.
WHAM!
Bartholomew sent a gust of wind at the guards, knocking them backward against the elevator doors.
The countereffect of the spell blew Bartholomew into a palm tree a few feet from Lucan. He landed with a hard crack against the cement. As he grunted and pulled himself to his feet, the man’s wild eyes went immediately to Madelaide.
Lucan’s heart raced and then almost stopped beating.
He was out of grimoires.
Bartholomew lunged for Madelaide, but Lucan tackled him.
“Run, Madelaide!” he shouted.
She dashed down the bridge, and he turned back to Bartholomew.
“You tried to silence us,” Bartholomew screamed. “You sent goons to hurt us!”
Lucan kneed the man in the groin and they rolled across the ground.
Bartholomew landed a punch. Lucan’s cheek stung. The man was too big. Lucan couldn’t fight him.
If he couldn’t spar with him, he could at least reach for his gun…
Bartholomew saw Lucan’s hand going for his waist, and he grabbed his gun and aimed it at his head.
“Let’s see how you win the election now,” Bartholomew said.
Lucan closed his eyes. Then, instead of a gunshot, he heard a gasp of surprise.
Lucan opened his eyes.
The gun lay on the ground next to him, and Bartholomew was suspended in the air above Lucan, his arms bound by vines.
Two reptilian eyes flashed in the concrete and blinked.
“That is enough,” the voice said.
The bridge rolled up into a hulking, four-legged shape, and the popcorn-textured concrete took on a new, dull gray color.
A massive gray dragon stood over Bartholomew, growling.
A dragon in Abstraction. Lucan had forgotten. The entire skyscraper complex and this dragon were one in the same. He must have been waiting for the best opportunity to strike.
Bartholomew yelled in fright.
The dragon turned in Lucan’s direction. “Mr. Grimoire, you’d best be leaving.” Then he turned back to Bartholomew and growled again.
Lucan nodded to the dragon. “Thanks, buddy.”
He ran to Madelaide, who was hiding behind a palm. Her face was full of tears.
“Sweetie, you all right?” he asked.
“What happened?” she asked, half crying. “Why did he try to kill you?”
He took her and hugged her tight.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said.
“Mom was right! You always attract drama!” Madelaide cried.
Lucan caressed her hair. “Just calm down, Madelaide…”
His bodyguards ran to him. Their eyes were wide with worry.
“Sir! Are you alright?” they asked.
“I’m fine, fellas,” Lucan said.
A sharp pain in his shoulder got his attention, and he reached to touch it. He hadn’t even noticed it in the struggle. He cursed as he felt warm wetness around his shoulder blade.
There was blood. A lot of it.
- Writer
