Power Mage 3 Read online

  Brawley had no hard feelings. If Weasel wanted to get along, they’d get along. If not, so be it. Life is too short and violent to entertain false alliances.

  “There’s the yard,” Remi said, and the forest opened to reveal a vine-covered chain-link fence topped in a triple strand of barbed wire. Within the compound, mountains of twisted scrap and stacked junkers sparkled in the midmorning sun.

  The sign out front read Cotter’s Scrap and Salvage.

  Pulling up to the gate, Brawley said, “They don’t mention the garage.”

  “Cotter gets by on word of mouth. My friend can fix anything. I mean anything. Hit the horn three times.”

  Brawley laid on the horn. “What’s his name?”

  “Who?”

  “Your Gearhead buddy.”

  Remi laughed. “Frankie.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  But Remi nodded toward the trailer. “Heads-up, handsome. Here we go.”

  The fence slid open, and Brawley pulled into the lot. The fence rumbled shut behind them.

  He pulled up beside an old blue F-150 in front of a trailer with the word OFFICE spray painted unceremoniously across its faded siding.

  Behind the office, a network of dirt paths connected a haphazard assortment of outbuildings, heaped scrap, and ranks and ranks of decrepit vehicles half-eaten by creeping vines.

  At a glance, Brawley saw hundreds of cars, several boats, and an overturned shipping container that had spewed a delta of rusting parts onto the muddy ground. The real shocker, however, sat beside the office: an honest to goodness train engine scabbed with rust, webbed in vines, and crawling with graffiti.

  Before Brawley could even guess how they got a damn train engine in here, the morning erupted in staticky barking. A silver blur streaked around the trailer and skidded to a stop outside his door.

  It took Brawley a second to understand what he was seeing.

  The pit bull-sized mechanical dog jumped, bringing itself even with his window. Its bear trap jaws clacked loudly, and its empty floodlight eyes stared straight at Brawley.

  “Cotter’s robotic junkyard dog,” Remi said. “It’s a little on the mean side.”

  “You don’t say.”

  The dog bounced up and down, wanting blood.

  A haggard old man in a sleeveless red-and-green flannel came limping out of the trailer. One orange-stubbled cheek bulged with chew. He regarded Brawley with a sour look, spat a line of dark juice on the ground, and snapped his fingers.

  Instantly, the dog quit barking, trotted back, and sat at the man’s side staring at the RV.

  Brawley opened the door.

  The dog stayed put.

  The old man eyed Brawley suspiciously as he stepped down from the Winnebago.

  “Cotter,” Remi said.

  The old man looked her up and down and spat again. “Remington Dupree,” he said. “World-famous bounty hunter and blood traitor.” He smiled nastily, showing a mouthful of brown teeth.

  “Fair warning,” Brawley said. “Whatever you say, I’m listening.”

  The old man turned slowly in his direction with a look of drawn out disrespect that Brawley recognized from a lifetime of brushing up against back country hardasses. “You’re feeling froggy, you go ahead and leap, boy. But fair warning to you, too, hotshot. You so much as fart in my direction, and my dog will rip your balls off.”

  “I’ll kill him first, then,” Brawley said matter-of-factly.

  “Enough,” Remi said. “Cotter, we need some work done.”

  The old man’s eyes flickered over the RV. “It’ll cost you. Bullet holes always cost extra. You go to Midas with bullet holes, people start asking questions.”

  “We can talk about that,” Remi said.

  “What do you need?”

  “New windshield, plug the holes, and some custom work.”

  “What kind of custom work?”

  “I’ll talk to Frankie about that.”

  “Frankie doesn’t have any say in the matter. I set the damn prices.”

  “And you gouge me every time,” Remi said, climbing back into the RV. “We’ll let you know what we want on the way out.”

  They drove deeper into the yard. Remi directed Brawley past dead cars and sagging trailers adrift in weedy lawns in bad need of cutting.

  They pulled up to a half-pipe hangar of corrugated metal thirty feet high and four times as long. Within, a fountain of bright sparks illuminated the gloom.

  They got out and crunched across the gravel. Loud music was playing inside. The Rolling Stones, Mick Jagger telling the world he couldn’t get no satisfaction.

  “Frankie!” Remi shouted at the shadowy figure busy welding.

  The helmeted head rose, and the sparks died. Frankie stepped forward and lifted the visor.

  And Brawley grinned, realizing now why Remi had laughed when he’d asked, What’s his name?

  A tremendous smile gleamed on Frankie’s beautiful, grease-streaked face. She peeled off her welding helmet, and a shimmering curtain of jet-black locks spilled onto the shoulders of her dark coveralls.

  The women embraced. Frankie shut her eyes, still smiling, and gave Remi a good squeeze.

  When they stepped apart, the Gearhead stared at Remi like a long-lost sister. “Where have you been?”

  “Key West, mostly. Now we’re on the road. Francesca Ratchford, meet my husband, Brawley Hayes.”

  “Husband? Get out. Are you serious?” Frankie’s luminous green eyes shifted from Remi to Brawley. Her A+ smile glowed brightly. “Husband?”

  Brawley stepped forward and stretched out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Frankie.”

  Frankie pulled off a glove and shook his hand. Her grip was firm. Her green eyes burned with vitality and amusement. “Nice to meet you, too, Brawley.”

  “Somebody shot the hell out of Brawley’s RV,” Remi said, drifting toward a refrigerator against the wall. “Got any beer?”

  “Help yourself,” Frankie said. “Grab me one, too. I’ve been welding all morning.”

  Frankie unzipped her coveralls and wriggled free. There was nothing cutesy in the movement. No slow reveal, no showing off. It was simply an action she had done countless times.

  But as the raven-haired Gearhead extricated herself from the dark suit, Brawley couldn’t help but stare. She was all woman. Not skinny, not fat. Curvy but firm. A study in healthy roundness. Hers was a classical beauty, ripe and timelessly alluring, with the wide hips and full breasts of a fertility goddess.

  With a body like that, Brawley thought, she could strut sitting down.

  Frankie wore a pink tank top and old bib overalls, one side of which had come unbuttoned. Darkened with perspiration, the tank top clung to her bronze skin. Beads of sweat rolled hypnotically into the valley between her large breasts.

  Frankie pulled a red, white, and blue handkerchief from her pocket and mopped her brow, where a few sweaty bangs clung to her forehead, splitting the red line left by the helmet.

  Then the gorgeous Gearhead reached behind her, pulled a blue-and-white trucker hat from her back pocket and shoved it unceremoniously onto her head. The hat read LIFE IS GOOD.

  It was a pleasure to watch her move.

  Brawley’s body responded, crackling with Carnal force.

  Remi came back with three PBRs. Frankie toasted them. They drank and carried their beers out into the sun to have a look at the RV.

  Frankie ran a hand gently over the riddled front quarter panel the way a horse lover might caress the shoulder of a wounded mare. “Buckshot?”

  “That’s right,” Brawley said. “Damage up front was from an AK.”

  Frankie stepped back, studying the constellation of holes. She shook her head, looking sad. “Why would anyone shoot a big, beautiful vehicle like this?”

  Brawley took a pull off his beer. “Don’t be too hard on them. I reckon they were aiming at me.”

  “I won’t even ask,” Frankie said, giving him half a smile. “I always knew it
would take a special kind of bad boy to tame Remi Dupree.”

  “First of all,” Remi said, “I am not tamed. And Brawley’s no boy. He’s a man. A good one. Really, really good.”

  Frankie’s grin widened, bringing cute dimples to life on her cheeks. She walked around the front and studied the grille and windshield. “How’s your Suburban running, Remi?”

  Remi frowned. “Yeah, about that…”

  Frankie turned to her with concern. “Don’t tell me you sold the Suburban.”

  Remi shook her head. “Some assholes ambushed me on the highway. The Suburban didn’t make it.”

  Frankie was horrorstruck. “I loved that vehicle.”

  Remi put an arm around her. “I know you did, sweetie. So did I. If it’s any consolation, the guys who shot it are all dead now.”

  “Wait a second,” Frankie said, and her eyes flicked rapidly back and forth between Remi and Brawley. “Are you…”

  Brawley waited.

  Frankie blinked at him, a look of terror dawning on her pretty face. “You are, aren’t you? You’re the power mage.”

  Brawley nodded.

  Frankie took a long drink, her eyes never leaving him. When she lowered the can, her body was tense, and her eyes were wary. She took a step back, retreating toward the garage, and offered a D- imitation of her A+ smile.

  Turning to Remi, she said, “Sorry, but I can’t help you guys, okay? If anyone—” She broke off. “Look, I won’t say anything, all right? I promise.” Her fingertip slashed back and forth, tracing an X over one breast. “Cross my heart and hope to… um… hope you’ll believe me. Because you should. I’m telling the truth.”

  “Calm down, sweetie,” Remi said, throwing an arm over the frightened Gearhead’s shoulders. “Brawley’s good people. You really think I’d throw in with an asshole?”

  Frankie looked at her and blinked.

  Brawley knew he could take the edge off with just a squeeze of Seeker juice. Tell the girl everything was cool, make her believe it.

  But even after only a few days as a psi mage, he had grown wary of using his power to manipulate people. Part of it was decency. He wouldn’t want people playing with his perception of the world.

  But mostly, his reluctance was due to pure, self-serving pragmatism. Because it seemed to him that once a Seeker started down that path, they would have a hard time finding their way back.

  Lies are like kudzu. Once they root in, they grow and grow and grow, twisting their way into every crack and crevice. And he sure as hell didn’t want to live his life filling everybody’s heads with false notions.

  So he watched and waited.

  Frankie kept glancing at him, her eyes growing bigger with every glimpse. “The news said…”

  Remi gave her a gentle squeeze. “Sweetie, you know I would never put you in danger. Brawley is the best man I’ve ever met. Promise. Now, what’s the news saying?”

  Frankie chugged the rest of her beer and blinked at Brawley for a long moment. Then she let out a shuddering exhalation, seeming to come to a decision. Some of the tension went out of her shoulders, and the wariness faded from her eyes. “If y’all haven’t seen the news, you’d better come on in.”

  Inside the hangar, the Stones had been replaced by the ultimate driving song, Golden Earring’s “Radar Love.”

  Frankie winked at the stereo, and it went silent. She grabbed three more PBRs and led Brawley and Remi over to one of those old 1970s TV sets built into a piece of furniture.

  Brawley’s grandmother used to have a similar set. Black and white and so fuzzy you spent half your time fiddling with the antenna. The speakers of Grandma Hayes’s TV had been weak and weird, the voices sounding like they were coming up out of a deep well.

  But when Frankie snapped her fingers and brought this ancient TV to life, the picture was crisp and colorful, and the sound was clean and sharp.

  For a few seconds, a soap opera couple argued over what to do about someone named Jessica. Then those characters disappeared, replaced by a silver-haired man whose long, lean face was punctuated by intense eyes and softened slightly by a subtle yet reassuring smile. The man wore a suit the color of orange sherbet and a matching tie striped orange and cream.

  “…assured that the Order will remain vigilant until the fugitive and his accomplices are brought to justice,” the man said. His stately voice matched his face, fancy duds, and politician’s smile. “Thank you for your continued support. Goodnight.”

  The man disappeared.

  “Janusian hasn’t given an address in years,” Remi said. “What did he say?”

  For a second, the screen displayed a white, seven-pointed star against a wavering field of navy blue.

  “You’ll see,” Frankie said. “The loop’s been playing for hours.”

  The man reappeared, greeted the psionic community, and identified himself as Pater Janusian, Arch Mage of the Order. “I would like to address the tragic events that unfolded early this morning in South Florida. Shortly after midnight, a major psionic event occurred outside Heaven and Hell, a popular Carnal nightclub in Miami. Officials are still investigating the particulars, but early reports suggest that over two hundred flesh mages were killed in the incident, making this the single most catastrophic event our community has suffered in over two decades.”

  The man paused, perhaps giving the audience time to digest his words, then sat up a little straighter. “Unfortunately, a considerable number of Federal Paranormal Investigations agents responded to the call and were also massacred by the responsible party. The Order has gone to great lengths to minimize potential ramifications of this event. However, the non-psionic government will doubtlessly pursue further investigations.”

  Janusian stared directly into the camera. Despite his age, the man radiated strength.

  “Our community survives only through the admirable discretion of its members,” the Arch Mage said. “I call upon each of you this day to rededicate yourself to that discretion. An historic moment is upon us, a moment that could pass silently into the past or mark our violent end. With the FPI operating under a heightened state of awareness and aggression, it is critical that we in the psionic community do all that we can to avoid bringing attention to ourselves, our families, or our community.”

  Janusian leaned forward, staring intensely into the camera. “Now, I must address recent rumors concerning the emergence of a new power mage. To this point, the Order has neither confirmed nor denied these rumors. We were reluctant to make an official statement until we were satisfied by its veracity. We can now say with absolute certainty that the unthinkable has, indeed, occurred. Earlier this week in Key West, Florida, an unknown individual opened his or her second strand, becoming the first confirmed power mage in twenty-three years.

  “The event coincided with harrowing loss of life in both the psionic and non-psionic communities. The power mage fled north, leaving a path of death and destruction in his or her wake. At this point in time, we are not prepared to officially attribute this morning’s horrifying events to the power mage, but he or she is unequivocally our prime suspect, and you can rest assured that the Order will do everything in our power to bring this individual to justice.”

  Janusian leaned back slightly and once more showed viewers his politician’s smile. “I understand that this news is profoundly unsettling, but we urge you, please, do not panic. Remain calm yet alert, and immediately report any suspicious activity or unusual persons to your local Order officials. We are offering two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to any individual who provides information leading to the capture of the power mage. Furthermore, we are offering a two-million-dollar bounty to anyone who brings us the power mage, dead or alive.”

  Two million dollars, dead or alive. Brawley let that sink in for a second. That was one hell of a bounty.

  Janusian paused again, staring into the camera.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let us remain composed, united, and vigilant. Together, we will overcome thes
e challenges. The psionic community will persevere. The Order will work around the clock until the fugitives are brought to justice. Thank you for your continued support. Goodnight.”

  The loop concluded, and the seven-pointed star returned. Frankie killed the TV and turned toward Brawley, her eyes glittering with fresh apprehension. “Did you kill all those people?”

  Brawley shrugged.

  The Gearhead pulled back like he was a rattler ready to strike.

  “I killed thirteen Carnals in that night club,” Brawley told her. “It was self-defense.”

  “The assholes tortured me,” Remi said. “I’d be dead if Brawley hadn’t saved me.” She took his hand in hers then reached out and took Frankie’s hand. “Sweetie, it was kill or be killed in there. We had nothing to do with what happened outside.”

  “They’re trying to hang the wrong horse thief,” Brawley said.

  “What happened?” Frankie asked. She was still frightened, but Brawley sensed that she did believe them. He also sensed that she was trustworthy and deeply valued her friendship with Remi. That was a relief. Otherwise, he would have to wipe her memory and ride off with a broken windshield. And that would be a shame. He was tired of driving with his head cockeyed and really wanted to get to know this girl better.

  Remi described the nightmare that unfolded after they left the nightclub, how Brawley had cloaked them, and how the albino tiger had slaughtered everyone.

  “Another power mage?” Frankie asked, obviously horrified. “Why would he do that?”

  “He was looking for me,” Brawley said.

  “You know him?”

  Brawley shook his head.

  “Who is he?”

  “No idea,” Brawley said. “But I know he killed my parents.”

  “I’m sorry,” Frankie said. Then she cast a glance toward the hangar doors.

  “Don’t worry, darlin,” Brawley said. “He’s not on our tail now. He was hunting me but didn’t track me to the nightclub. The big blow up between the Carnals and the FPI drew him.”

  “And you know this because you’re a Seeker?”

  Brawley nodded. “Among other things.”