The Late Great Wizard Read online

  Who knew? I swallowed. “I was. Ran home to tell Mom I couldn’t find the professor and came back. Did he get out?”

  Carter shook his head. “Not that we can tell.” He had a strong nose and jawline to add to everything else. Despite that, he wasn’t handsome as much as a commanding presence. Really. Mostly because he caught and held my attention closely. Very closely. He took up my hand and I couldn’t hide the wince. Turning it over, he traced the raw marks and splinters still in my fingertips. “You tried to get in the back? We thought he might have clawed his way out.”

  No hiding it. I shook my head. “I did it. I couldn’t get an answer. I think he was already gone by then. I tried . . . I just . . . I can’t . . . what a horrible way . . .” Smoke still scratched at my throat and I didn’t have to push much to have tears brimming in my eyes.

  He grabbed up my hands and searched them for injury, rubbing his fingertips gently over minor scratches before he let go. “You need to stay out of the way.” Carter folded my arm over his and walked me deep into the yard. I could feel attention burning into our backs. “That was a foolish thing, trying to get in. You leave a fire to the professionals.” He let me go as someone called him and, despite the fact I felt terribly alone suddenly, I awaited a chance to escape. As soon as Carter turned to walk away in answer to an inquiry from a fireman, and the night shadows were thick enough, I ducked away into the garden and through the hole into the arbor.

  Nature boy waited for me, squeezing as much of his body as he could into my hoodie-become-kilt. I threw him my bag and presented my back, listening to the sounds of him wiggling into the jeans and shoes. I turned around when I heard him zip up and considered him. This was so not good for my mother and me. First my father disappearing, and now Professor Brandard. We were connected. I was connected. I mean, I was fairly sure they weren’t going to find a body in the destruction inside the house. I knew my mythology. I knew what the hell a phoenix is, dying only to be reborn out of fire and ashes. So did Mr. Cockney. I also know a con when I hear one. Addict in the family, remember? Back to those lying liars. One couldn’t be true and the other wouldn’t be.

  I grabbed nature boy’s arm to steer him out of the arbor toward the corner before me. He gave me a puzzled look before letting me.

  “We’re going home,” I told him. “And then you’re going to tell me exactly what we’re going to do about the late, great wizard.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE DOOR TO MY HOUSE opened with a flood of golden light, motes spinning out like a flurry of yellow snowflakes. A cookbook fell off the kitchen shelf around the corner in greeting. Nature boy paused and I touched his elbow. “Go on,” I instructed.

  My mother loomed in front of us, her face creased with concern. “What is it? I heard you run out. It’s the middle of the night. What happened, and who is this?” She blinked, distracted, as she recognized the clothing he wore. “Please, come in.”

  “Fire,” I told her, as if she couldn’t smell it on the two of us and hadn’t heard all the trucks and emergency vehicles. “The professor’s.”

  “Oh, no. That’s where it was?” She stood aside, folding her robe across her and belting it into place.

  “This is my mom, Mary, and this is the, the professor’s nephew. Grandnephew. He got out, but the professor . . .” An unexpected choke stopped me. Smoke still in my throat or something. “He didn’t.”

  “Oh, Tessa. I’m sorry.”

  Nature boy ducked his head as he eased past her in the doorway.

  I shimmied past her, too, and headed toward the kitchen. I needed a tall, cold drink of water or, wow, iced tea. No need for sleep tonight, anyway.

  As nature boy took a seat on the tall stool by the counter, I asked quietly, “What do I call you?”

  He looked down at his shoes, my dad’s ratty old sneakers, in thought. He shrugged.

  “How about Brian? Keep it in the family.”

  He nodded.

  Naturally. What else would I call him? I peered into his eyes. In the kitchen light they were still neither blue nor green but a mix of both. A phoenix wizard. Give me a break. I didn’t see anything illuminating in there. I looked down at his shoes, too, complete with Barney-chewed air holes. The professor might have been harboring someone at his house, a grad student or someone. There were no such things as wizards. Maybe they meant a genius in his field, like a wizard of numbers, a savant. Right? Or maybe just an old con man. Of course, that didn’t explain how I could think he might have burned away into a brand-new version of himself, but I could chalk that up to something toxic in the fumes. Heaven knew what the professor had stored in all his various jars. Events might have Mr. Cockney freaked but not me. Not quite. I stored that aside for the moment.

  Brian kicked me in the side of my foot. My gaze bolted upward. Mom stood over me saying, “Tessa, honey, are you all right?” She put my tea in front of me.

  “Ever stop to think and couldn’t get started again?” I threw her a quick grin.

  She gave a slight laugh. “It’s been a tough night.”

  If she only knew. I wrapped my hands around the glass and found the soreness in them anew. I rubbed my hands up and down against the icy condensation to soothe my fingers.

  Brian gulped down the tea my mother had set in front of him, and she poured him a second. Her hand rested on his shoulder a minute. “It must be a great shock.”

  He nodded. His dimple deepened.

  “Were you here for the summer?”

  He tilted his head a bit, like he listened to something the rest of us couldn’t hear. He spoke very deliberately and slowly. “Something like that.” He paused. “Sorry. That sounded rude.”

  It also didn’t sound a bit like the professor, more like Brian was channeling . . . me. I quirked an eyebrow at him, out of my mom’s field of vision. He drank some more tea before adding, “I barely got out myself. An old house like that, filled with clutter, you know? It just went up. Tessa found me in the backyard, only place I could think of to go.” He spread his arms. “My things are trashed. She found me some clothes. How can I ever thank you?” He was channeling me. Or my thoughts, which was even scarier. I tried not to stare.

  “By staying here tonight, at least, and for the next couple of days. We’ll help however we can. Do you need to call anyone?”

  He beetled his eyebrows. “My parents aren’t available. There must be someone. I have to think.” He drained the glass again.

  “Let me go make up the spare room.” Color tinged my mother’s face. I knew that it was nothing special and cluttered with moving boxes we’d never quite emptied or stored away. There was, however, a twin bed under them, which had probably been there since the seventies. She disappeared up the back stairs, and I didn’t say anything until I heard footfalls on the floors above us. My cell phone buzzed impatiently in my pocket. I took it out and thumbed up the text message. Evelyn: Everyone says your mom black widow did the professor in.

  Gossip at the speed of sound. I narrowed my eyes and tapped back: Untrue and unkewl. Then I dropped my phone back in my pocket. Who needs enemies when you have frenemies?

  The doorbell rang. Police keeping tabs on us, especially since I’d ducked out on Detective OMG Carter? I yelled, “I’ll get it,” and motioned for Brian to stay where he was.

  Good thing because I opened the door a crack to find myself face-to-face with the bad guy of the week. He stank of smoke. If I hadn’t heard him earlier that night, I’d still have guessed English. He had an apple-cheeked complexion, dark eyes that fairly snapped at me, and needed a bowler hat to go with his dialect. He looked up expectantly as light from the house fell over him. Of course he had good reason to wonder what I’d been up to, all dressed and wearing eau de disaster, just like him.

  “Mmmm. Can I help you?”

  He smiled and tugged on the corner of his suit jacket. I swear a puff of smoke wafted
out. “Sorry for my intrusion on your late evening. You ’eard the sirens?” Accent there, but much more cultured.

  “Oh, we did. Fire around the corner, I understand.”

  He made a tsking sound. “Indeed. Bad business, that. I’m making inquiries around the neighborhood, going ’ouse to house. We think there might have been a survivor, disoriented and frightened. Seen anyone about?” The smile on his thin lips did not warm his flint dark eyes or deepen the blush of his ruddy cheeks.

  “I don’t think so. Did the professor make it out?”

  He shook his head and put a finger to the side of his nose. “We, and the authorities, are not quite sure. Too hot to go in yet. The victim possibly had a guest or visitor. Anyone you might have seen would be helpful.”

  Interesting. Male or female, young or old—he had no idea who he was actually looking for. That could give me an advantage down the line. “No one comes to mind, Mr. . . . ah . . .”

  “Steptoe. Simon Steptoe, at your service.” I think he clicked his heels. “Give me a shout if you spot anyone. Shock is a terrible thing. They could be wandering around without a coherent thought. I’m here to ’elp.”

  Sure he was. Off with his head! “I understand.” I started to close the door.

  His hard-shod foot stopped me. “It’s important that you let me, us, know. This survivor might need help or medical attention. They might even have an involvement,” he added conspiratorially. “Accidental or deliberate, there have been some terrible events this evening. There might be other inquiries. Don’t answer them. Avoid the man named Malender if you can.”

  You would know. “Noted.” I put the toe of my sneaker to his shoe to start to push it out of the way.

  He resisted, lips thinning in that almost smile. “It would be advantageous to let me know if you run across anyone. Just as it might be detrimental to forget to advise me.” His look dropped to my shoes and fastened there for a long moment. I didn’t think humility had anything to do with it.

  My shoes. Ash and water runoff from the fire. Shoe prints stomped in the bent and dewy grass. My shoes and Brian’s. Was he comparing evidence mentally?

  His gaze snapped back to mine. “It would be most helpful if you would remember me and what I’ve said.” He brought his hand up and a business card flicked into his fingers. I did not take it.

  “And you would be Miss . . .”

  I had no intention of filling in the blank. I pushed on my door and it gave way slowly, reluctantly, shutting on his last words, but I think he said, “Just call my name.”

  I was so not about to. I backed away from the door quietly, listening to see if he still stood there on the other side, listening as well. As if I might have turned around and shouted, “Hey, Brian, that guy is looking for you!” Finally I heard the clomp of hard-soled shoes on the steps, and he was gone.

  Mom’s voice floated down the stairs. “Who was at the door, hon?”

  “Nobody, really. Just making sure we knew about the fire and that everything’s under control.”

  “How nice of the fire department. Be ready in a bit up here.” Her footsteps dimmed and I heard a very faint sneeze. Dusty work, evidently.

  Brian had his head on the counter, dozing, when I returned. He rubbed the heel of his hand across his tired eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  “All right? Of course I am. Fit as ever.”

  I felt as if I had been slapped in the face by Professor Brandard. Déjà vu. I let it pass for the moment. It was more than a bit disconcerting to think that this handsome guy had a crusty old professor hiding out in him somewhere.

  “That was a Simon Steptoe,” I told him.

  “Ah. Simon.” Brian sighed. “I think I know of him.” Had they known each other then, once upon a time? What else did he know that he wasn’t saying? What sort of con game had he and the professor been playing at?

  Why not ask? Leaning forward on my elbows, I said, “What’s going on?”

  I thought I saw an echo of the old professorial gleam spark in Brian’s pretty eyes. “I’m not sure yet, myself. What do you think is happening? Besides a fire.”

  And there it was, that faint British accent of his own. If he meant to mimic the professor, he was spot on. And if he didn’t, if he actually was the professor, reincarnated, he was even creepier. Brandard and Steptoe. How well, if at all, had those two known each other? Were they mortal enemies or something? Beheading sounded like a serious rift between friends.

  How could what I was thinking even be true? I needed to examine the evidence or have my own head examined. But what evidence? I’d left the only real trace of the professor, his clothing in rags, in the backyard shrubs. The only thing I had now was nature boy—er, Brian—himself, and he certainly wasn’t volunteering much.

  I skewed my lips. His answering a question with a question of his own or an indefinite was not what I had in mind. I repeated, “What’s going on?” Before he answered (or, more correctly, evaded the answer again), I tacked on a third “What’s going on?” Third time’s the charm, right?

  He bit off a muttered curse. He tugged on a lock of red-gold hair. He folded a lip between his upper and lower teeth and chewed on it thoughtfully. “It seems I am compelled to answer, even though I have few facts. I am uncertain as to all the details. Steptoe showed up with his goons and wanted information I wouldn’t give him. There was only one way out when they were done with me, and I took it.”

  “You set yourself on fire?”

  “My recollections are spotty. I can’t tell you much more. The house went up in flames, assuredly.”

  This was the professor talking, all the way. I wondered if there really were two people in that body, or two very clever people behind it. “I heard him call you a phoenix wizard.”

  “If I am, I barely know anything. I need help. Lots of help.” He swirled the melting ice cubes around the bottom of his drink. “I don’t even know where to start, Tessa.”

  I scratched my chin. “There’s not much left of the house. If you had anything in there, it’s probably gone.”

  “Do you think a wizard leaves stuff lying around willy-nilly?” Brian stopped. “It’s habit to scatter the instruments of one’s power far and wide.” His eyes widened. “That much I know!” He shot to his feet. “All is not lost. Well, it’s lost but I should be able to retrieve it once the memory comes back.”

  “Do you have an app for that?”

  “A what? Oh. Not exactly.” He tapped his foot. “I think that I might have been depending upon my friends and so forth.”

  “To jog your memory?”

  He sighed.

  “I’ve gone along with this about as far as I think I can.”

  He shook his beautiful, handsome head. I watched carefully, determined not to fall for either Brian or the professor, and failing a little. Those eyes. “I was a recluse out of necessity. Now, I realize that might be what dooms me.”

  “Whatever.” I stood up and he sat down. “You need friends. I can solve that.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to, nor how I would explain it to my mother, but the footsteps overhead had slowed and she’d be returning any minute now, her chores done. I had an idea and decided to run with it. This would be about the third really colossally stupid thing I was going to do tonight and, after all, again, that magic thrice.

  I went to the front door. Brian trailed after me. I took a deep breath and without opening the door, I called, “Mortimer.”

  Silence.

  “Mortimer.”

  Still silent but now it had a kind of expectant quality. As though something unseen listened. “Mortimer!”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling for the only friend I know you’ve got besides me.” The house fire had been a big show. Surely Steptoe and I and a few curious neighbors hadn’t been the only ones watching it.


  A deep vibration. The house quivered. I thought of the tyrannosaurus rex approaching in Jurassic Park.

  Another thrum. Closer. The house shook. And again, seriously, this time echoed by the groan of the front porch stoop. Another shock as if a pile driver had hit the porch. The front door boomed.

  I opened it to find a short, maybe five-foot-tall man glaring at me. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, so it wasn’t likely anyone would look at him and think, oh, he could have been a jockey. Frankly, anything on four hooves would have taken a look at him, whinnied, and raced away in terror. He looked as if he’d been carved from granite, or maybe stepped down off Mt. Rushmore. He had a billy goat goatee of yellow-white hair that might have been blond hair going white or white hair stained yellow, hard to tell. He had silvery hair on his head and deep coffee-brown eyes. His nose arched from a brow that could have belonged to a big-horned sheep that was used to knocking heads against immovable objects, and his hands were like shovels. He wore a plaid suit, the pattern stretched wide.

  “Mortimer?”

  He frowned. “Aye.” His glance aimed behind me. “Professor?”

  “Dead,” said Brian.

  “I see.” Mortimer’s craggy face creased in thought. He didn’t seem surprised.

  Nature boy nudged me aside a little. “I might need your help as well as your friendship.”

  “So it’s come to that.”

  “It appears to have.”

  “You told me you’d retired. You’d broken things apart. That’s why you couldn’t aid me and my wife. You did try, but you weren’t successful.”

  “I can imagine. I couldn’t help that, but I need you now.”

  Mortimer shifted his weight uneasily to throw his java-colored glance at me, and the whole porch creaked. I remembered that heavy-duty, use-scarred patio chair in the professor’s arbor and realized that Mortimer must have indeed been the one who sat there.