Angela sat at a booth at the back of the restaurant, reading the menu. Phillip should have been here by now. But he was a stranger in town, and probably didn’t know his way.
A text message came in on her phone, and she tapped the screen to read it, hoping it was from Phillip. It wasn’t.
“Here she is. Can I help you read the menu?” the waiter asked, his English heavily accented.
She looked up to see a young man in dark glasses place a backpack on the seat and slide into the booth seating, “No, thank you.”
“Can I get a drink for you?”
“Tea, please.”
The waiter left, and Phillip extended a hand across the table, being careful not to knock anything over, “Angela? I hope?”
Angela shook his hand, “Yes, it’s me.” He had a firm handshake, and his hand was cool.
He collapsed his cane and tucked it into a pouch on the side of his backpack, “I’m sorry I’m late - the cab driver couldn’t find the address.”
“That’s all right - it’s good to meet you.”
“It’s good to meet you, too. Could you tell me - do they have lemon chicken on the menu, here?”
“They do. It’s good, too.”
“Wonderful - I’m looking forward to that.” He smiled broadly, “I’m so very pleased to meet you, Angela. How are you feeling?”
“Fine, just fine.”
“And your leg?”
“It’s healing. A little slower than I would like, but it’s healing.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Angela looked up to see the waiter coming toward the table.
“Tea is here,” he said. He quickly set down two cups and saucers, then poured tea into both cups, “Careful - very hot.”
After the waiter left, Phillip sipped his tea, “After I died, I was adopted. In the following years, I accumulated plenty of scrapes and scratches. But I was living in a new home, exploring a new world, and I had lost my vision.”
Neither Ray nor Phillip had thought to tell her this. Angela glanced between his dark glasses and the cane that protruded from his backpack. She remembered him saying that he’d been kicked in the head several times.
She brought her attention back to what he was saying, “I was always bumping into things, and I helped in the garden - I thought I was getting all these little injuries from pulling weeds, and trimming rosebushes. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“And then I woke up with a gash,” he pulled up his left sleeve, revealing a 3 inch white scar.
“How old were you? What did you do?”
“Almost 17.” He let his sleeve drop back into place, “My Dad - my new Dad - was already in my room - I’d been yelling in my sleep. It was apparent that I hadn’t done that to myself, so together we made up a story about my falling on the pruning shears in the garden shed, and went to the hospital. I missed school, I lied to my social worker, and I went home exhausted.”
She studied him, “Why did you have a social worker?”
He grinned, tracing with the side of his hand the scar across his right cheek that showed starkly, “After I was killed by my foster-father, and it was decided that I was the type of person who would put up with abuse. Which I had. Ironically, it was when I stopped putting up with being abused that things got really ugly.
“Anyway, I was assigned a social worker for more regular check-ups.”
Angela watched him intently, “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful for you.”
He shrugged, “It was a lifetime ago.” He chuckled, “Quite literally, in fact, a different lifetime. My new life is better. Except for the risk of dying in my sleep.”
“And that’s not a little problem.” She frowned. “You said it was about three years ago that you figured out what was going on. Is that when you sent Ray to watch the E.R.?”
“Exactly,” his fingers traced the outside rim of the teacup, “That’s also when we started researching violent deaths on the night of the new moon. It took a lot of effort, but we did locate a few cases that seemed similar. We think it was started again at least 20 years ago now, maybe earlier.”
“Tell me more about the Hunters.”
Phillip sighed, “The crux of the matter is the Hunters.”
He reached over to unzip his backpack, “Before I forget, I brought this for you.” He held out a well-read book titled SAS Survival Handbook, “I recommend you read this, and take a self-defense class. The knowledge we have in life, we carry with us into our dreams.”
She took the book, “Thank you.”
He produced a small book-shaped package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He handed it to her, “This is the original journal.”
Angela untied the package and set the paper wrapping on the bench-seat beside her. The book’s plain leather binding had started to rot, and she lifted the cover off. The pages inside were yellowed onionskin.
She turned to several pages randomly - the writing was the same as the photographed pages she’d seen. She glanced up at him, noting again the dark glasses. That’s why it’s been transcribed. You can’t read it for yourself otherwise.
“You’re welcome to read as much as you like. But there’s a slip of paper denoting the beginning of the relevant passages,” Phillip remarked.
Angela flipped forward and removed a neatly folded letter from between the pages, “Do you mind if I borrow this tonight, and bring it back tomorrow?”
“Keep it as long as you like. Give it back to Ray when you’re done - he’ll take good care of it until it can be returned to its library.”
“Thank you,” she carefully tucked the paper back into the journal, then re-wrapped it in its protective brown paper before tucking it into her purse.
“You said you were doubtful at first?”
“I didn’t want to believe. I mean, it’s not good news, right?”
She shook her head, “No, it’s not. But it’s better than not knowing.”
The waiter came to take their orders, and Phillip told him that a third person would be joining them, but he would be late, and they would not wait for him.
“How long have you known Ray?”
“After I was adopted, I went to a new school. He was on the welcoming committee, and we became friends pretty quick. What about you? You didn’t bring anyone with you to discuss this.”
“No. I didn’t. I don’t think anyone will believe me. My dad might have - I don’t know. It doesn’t matter - he had a fatal heart attack a few years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. I have people in my life, my mom and my friends, who helped me after the accident. But no one who can help me with this.”
“Well, then, Ray and I are here for you. And Ray is close enough to help out more than I can.”
“Thank you.” Angela paused uncertainly, “You said there are things you wanted to talk about in person.”
“In person,” he echoed. “I did say that, didn’t I? Some of those things, we ended up discussing on the phone. But not all of it. You remember Nathaniel mentioning Bogdanov’s Spell that Protects against Eavesdropping?"
She nodded, “He used it to protect the conversations he had with Paul.”
Phillip reached his hand across the table, holding it out expectantly, “Would you please?”
She looked at his hand for a moment, uncertain. But this was exactly why she’d wanted to meet in a public place - to be sure that if something went weird, she would be safe. “Are you telling me that you can do that, too?”
He gave a small nod.
She took his hand, and felt a thrill of energy flow through her. It took some effort not to pull away, but after a moment, the feeling subsided, leaving her feeling as though her body had become almost weightless.
“I’m trusting you, Angela, not to spread word of my practice. Like I said, we still have to worry about persecution.”
She watched his hand, then switched her focus to his face. He had to lean forward slightly to hold her hand, and the overhead light highlighted the stark scar that ran across his right cheek.
Before she could think of a response, he continued, “We have a lot of resources at our disposal. The man who adopted me is a wizard, and the man I call my uncle is a spell-writer. I, myself, am considered an novice wizard. But we have nothing to do yet. We need a way into the world that the Hunters have closed off to us. I’m hoping you and I can work together to find that.”
“You really are being Hunted, too?” Angela asked.
“I am. I am as motivated as you to put an end to it.”
“I’m frightened of what’s going to happen.”
“I am, too. But like I said, I’m here for you. And if anything happens to me, my father will continue to try to find answers for you.”
“Have you found anything?”
“I have a charm and a rune for you. The rune will help you remember who you are in your dreams. The charm is new - I just made my own last month. It helps you remember more of the dream when you wake up. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”
“What did it help you remember?”
“A small waterfall. It’s not much, but this is the first month. I’m hoping for more in the future.”
“More, like what?”
“If I could learn my Hunter’s identity, I think my uncle could rewrite Rose’s Spell for Entering Dreams with information we could obtain. You and I aren’t the only ones with this problem. People are being killed, and I have to put a stop to it.”
“Why you?”
“It doesn’t have to be me. But I’ve taken it on as my primary objective. And not just because I don’t want to be another victim of the Hunt. I have an obligation to help anyone I can - it’s part of being a wizard.”
“And your dad?”
“He holds the same obligation. But, well, this type of magic isn’t his specialty.”
“Explain, please.”
“Every wizard has a realm of influence, a type of power they can best channel. Mine is the earth - I’m good at things pertaining to plants and animals, and the ground itself. My dad, though - he’s an energy wizard. None of the realms are particularly inclined to help with dream magic, but my realm is much closer than anyone else’s.”
“What about your uncle?”
“Uncle Roger is a spell-writer. Spell-writers are such a rarity - they have absolutely no ability to channel magic.”
“How is that rare?”
Phillip shrugged, “At this point in my training, my ability to channel magic is roughly 83. An average person - you and Ray, both, will probably rate between 30 and 40.
“Uncle Roger’s ability is zero. Absolutely zero. That enables them to experiment safely with all the parts of magic-work, on a theoretical level. Spell-writers are really rare - you find one for every thousand wizards.”
“And you just happen to know one?”
“He’s my dad’s best friend - they trained together since they were in high school. It took months for me to realize Uncle Roger had his own home - that’s how often he was around.”
“We’re lucky to have a resource like that, then. And how many other wizards are willing to help us?”
“Our Guild. That’s,” he hesitated, “we lost about half of our numbers a few years back, right before I realized what was going on with the Hunters. All the Guilds east of the Mississippi did. Anyway, our Guild is eight strong, including myself and my dad. But if we asked, we could get a lot more help than that.”
Angela sighed, “But there’s no sense asking for help if you have nothing to do. That’s why you were looking for me.”
Phillip nodded, “Exactly.”
Angela noticed the waiter coming toward them with a tray, and released Phillip’s hand. A brief sense of disorientation passed over her, gone before the waiter set her plate in front of her.
After the waiter had gone, Phillip’s right hand found the chopsticks next to his plate, and he picked them up, “We’ll talk more later. For now, though, tell me about school. What are you studying?”
“Communications. I wanted to be a journalist, but now I’m leaning towards editor. You?”
“I wanna be a social worker. I want to help kids not be stuck, like I was, in a terrifying situation they feel they cannot escape from.”
“So what were you doing this last weekend, that you didn’t want to tell me about?”
“You know how I said Nathaniel kept a journal of who he helped, and how? I got to make an entry in my own journal this weekend,” Phillip was smiling.
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