Magical Influence Book One

  Chapter 5

  As I headed to work that morning, there was a distinctly unsettled feeling in my gut. It felt like a premonition, but not something concrete; there were no images in my mind, no sense of what would happen, just this scattered feeling of doom.

  Yes, doom. Exactly what I didn't need in my life right now. Trouble is one thing, but doom is its far more powerful cousin.

  Shaking my head as I tried to dislodge it, I quickly got about my morning chores, dressed, and got ready for work.

  Rather than disturbing my grandmother, I walked out the door without saying goodbye. The first thing that met me was a blistering, cold gust of wind.

  It roared up the garden path, scattered the branches in the oaks by the house, and blasted against my face.

  I blinked into it, bringing my arm around and protecting my face.

  If that wasn't a portent, I didn't know what was.

  Fixing my hair behind my ears, casting a wary glance up at the dark clouds chasing across the sky, I hesitantly walked down the path. As I did, I was acutely aware of everything I saw, heard, and felt. A single crow was sitting on the gate, preening itself, then every now and then straightening up, looking alarmed, and checking over its shoulders as if a predator were right behind it. The weeds on my lawn looked even more dead than usual, and as I walked past one shrub, it actually fell over. And to top it all off, there were scattered snail shells broken by the mailbox.

  Wow. Either the world was going to end, or just mine was. Everything around me had such an ominous, frightful edge to it, that I would be mad to ignore the warnings.

  Scratching at my arms uneasily, I walked out the gate, and headed to my car. As I did another blast of wind caught my skirt, blowing it against my legs. Thankfully it was tight enough that it didn’t flare up, Marilyn Munro style, but it suddenly made me acutely uneasy of my appearance.

  I wasn’t exactly a stylish woman, though I could look glamorous if I put some effort into it. I was mostly functional, and that worked for me. I was a very practical personality, so of course my choice in clothes matched this. But occasionally, just occasionally, I would look at somebody walking down the street in their fantastic high heels and their designer skirt with their face delicately made up, and I would feel a longing. Then I would look at myself, note the functional but slightly frumpy work pants and shirt, and I would feel a little ashamed.

  As a witch, I understood exactly what would occur in a moment like that. Doubt. Doubt about who you are and the choices you've made. Comparison is the first symptom, and a trusty warning sign. Suddenly find yourself comparing your life and finding it lacking in every single category, and an identity crisis is around the corner.

  But this wasn't an identity crisis, was it? I knew where I was in life, knew what I wanted, and was very confident I could get it.... Okay, so I spent most of my time complaining about my living situation, cleaning up after my grandmother, and attempting to have narcotics charges removed. Yet that aside, I knew who I was.

  Frowning, I ignored that sense of doubt, and made it to my car.

  The drive to work was an unpleasant one. For no particular reason. I didn't have a horrendous car crash, I didn't see anything nasty along the way, and the traffic wasn't that bad.

  It was just all the little things. Things I usually ignored. Someone cutting in front of me hurt more today than it usually would. Not managing to catch a yellow light made me far more frustrated than it should have.

  Even more portents that today would be a thoroughly tiresome one.

  By the time I made it to work, I had a thundering headache and wanted to do nothing more than head home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over my eyes, and forget about everything.

  I wouldn't have the opportunity.

  As soon as I sat down at my desk, my boss ordered me up and told me to go out to buy some milk and biscuits. They had a meeting that day, and they were fresh out of snacks.

  Usually this wasn't my job, but the receptionist was sick, so was the other secretary, and so was the boss’ PA. In fact, I was the only person there.

  It seemed everybody else at work had taken one look at the sky, read the signs, and had wisely chosen to stay at home.

  Grumbling to myself, I'd acquiesced, grabbing some cash and heading out the door.

  I should have stayed inside. I should have really stayed inside.

  There was a small grocery store two blocks away from where I worked, and usually the walk was a pleasant one; it was nice to get up from my desk, after all. Today it was one of the most nervous walks I’d ever had.

  Was it just me, or did everyone I pass seem... dangerous somehow? I don't mean they were wielding machetes and chasing after me, but the looks on their faces were unsettling. Everyone from businessmen, to cab drivers, to little old ladies.

  Scratching my arms again, I turned the corner and finally made it into the grocery store. As I plucked some biscuits up from the shelf, something happened.

  A wave of fear caught me as if I were nothing more than a light little shell on the beach, ready to be dragged under the ocean.

  “What was that?” I whispered to myself, hands shaking as I clutched at the packet before me.

  Something happened seconds later.

  A man walked into the store. Closed the door erratically behind him, and walked over to the cash register. It was when he was in front of it that he pulled out the gun.

  “Everybody get down, you, empty the register,” he brought up a simple white bag and shoved it at the alarmed sales assistant.

  I hadn't moved. I was still holding onto the biscuit packet, eyes now wide in shock, heart beating wildly in my chest, jaw shaking from the effort of it.

  “Nobody move, nobody move,” the guy said, twitching as he did.

  Suddenly there was a gust of wind outside on the street, a powerful one. It shook its way over the roofs and signs, like hands grating across a blackboard.

  It startled the guy. He jumped, turning to the side. That would be when the old man next to him decided to do something brave and entirely stupid.

  He lunged at the gunmen.

  You didn't need to be a genius to see it wouldn't work out. The guy holding the gun was a good six-foot-two, possibly in his late 30s, and had a reliable build. The old guy was probably 75, crouched over, and though he had a mean and determined look on his face, he had no brawn to match it up with.

  The gunman shoved him off, jumped back, and shot him.

  I screamed. I planted a hand over my mouth, whimpered into it, and finally dropped the packet of biscuits.

  Seconds later I realized the old man wasn’t dead; though he had been shot, it was a flesh wound to his arm. He was on the ground though, covered in blood, and breathing wildly as he clutched his wound.

  Everybody else was screaming, shouting, and a quick glance out the large windows to the street told me the people out there were doing the same.

  The gunman started to panic. He backed off, looked at the old guy by his feet, and then out at the mayhem through the windows.

  “You shouldn't have done that, you shouldn't have done that,” he said, voice pitching up and down as he held onto the gun fast, and with his other hand made a fist and rubbed it back and forth over his leg. “You shouldn't have done that.”

  I was still standing there. No longer holding the biscuits, but completely incapable of moving.

  I was a witch, for heaven’s sake, I dealt with things far scarier than a madman with a gun. Okay, I'd read about things far scarier than a madman with the gun. Though in those few months before I had moved in with my grandmother I had experienced my fair share of violence and threats, I’d never gone through anything like this. Letters, yes, and my apartment had been broken in to, I had also been followed, but somehow that had been different. That had been a world I understood. This... Christ, I just couldn't move.

  “I said everybody get down,” the gunmen stepped back again, flailing wildly with the gun, pointing it at everyone a
nd everything.

  One moment he was telling us not to move, the next he wanted us on the ground; I didn’t need too much more evidence to conclude this guy was unstable.

  “Get down,” somebody whispered in my ear, placing a hand gently on my shoulder.

  That did it. I followed them as they pressed slowly and lightly into my arm, guiding me down.

  As they did, my head darted out from sight and I was no longer able to see the gunmen, and thankfully, he was no longer able to see me either.

  As the fear caused a lump in my throat, I glanced up to see who was before me, the owner of the hand that was still gently pressed into my shoulder.

  I could have balked. Hell I could have thrown up. Let alone got to my feet and run out the freaking door.

  It was Agent Fairweather.

  He was in his suit, and as I saw his hand slowly reach to his side, I could bet he was armed too.

  He brought a finger up and pressed it against his lips.

  I got the picture, loud and clear.

  Stay down and let the Federal Agent deal with it. Well I had no problem with that.

  ....Or maybe I did. I may have been scared, but I was still a witch. And that magical part of me understood what was happening here. I understood the context.

  The wind, the storm, the day, it was chaotic. It was all summing together to produce a frightening mix, a powerful spell.

  A dangerous one too.

  With what was going on outside, it should have been no surprise to me that a man would run into a store and botch a robbery. It would also be no surprise to me if this little situation of ours got worse quickly, far, far worse.

  Even though I wasn't the world's best witch, I wasn't that bad, and I understood precognition when it visited me. In that moment, it practically slammed its fists into my face. If Agent Fairweather ducked out with his gun and tried to take the gunmen down, or at least attempted to negotiate with him, it would end one way. Fairweather would get shot. I was sure of it. The certainty shook right through me.

  I did the only thing I could think of. As he moved around me, obviously intending to duck out from the shelves, I brought a hand forward and latched it onto his sleeve, holding him in place.

  He looked down immediately, shaking his head. “I will be fine,” he mouthed.

  He most certainly would not be fine.

  I shook my head, hoping that he would understand. Of course he didn't. He just shrugged my hand off, and got ready.

  I had to do something.

  I was the only witch here, or so I thought.

  My grandmother had always taught me that in moments of stress, you don't just try to calm down, you try to make the situation calm down. In moments of chaos, you try to bring order. Alter your situation, and you inevitably alter how you feel about it. But what exactly could I do here? I wasn't a particularly strong woman, neither was I that athletic, and I certainly didn't have the kind of skills required to force a mad gunman to give up his weapon.

  I had to do something though. Short of offering him a packet of biscuits, a cup of tea, and a pleasant sit down, I wasn't going to make this situation any less stressful.

  Any good witch knew that if you wanted to reduce the chaos and uncertainty in a situation there were several things you could try. Minimize noise, make sure the room is not too cold or too hot, ensure everybody is comfortable, that the lighting is right, that everyone is well-fed, that there are plenty of cups of tea, and that everybody is smiling. Such steps will always reduce any level of discomfort, stress, and even terror, if practiced by a particularly mindful and competent group of influence witches, of course. I couldn't exactly offer the man a cup of tea, a sweater, and a comfortable place to sit down though. I could, however, do a little bit of magic of my own.

  I made my breathing as quiet as I could, my moves as slow and gentle and as deliberate as was possible. But I did a little bit more than just that. I pushed my concentration into it. All of my will, all of my desire, and yes, all of my magic. As I quietened down, I invited the situation to quiet down with me. If I had been a more powerful witch, it would have been less of an invite and more of a command, but I had to deal with what I had and what I currently was.

  It was one of the hardest things I had ever done, but I stopped the rising fear, digging my heels into it, dragging it down until I encased myself with a warm, calm sense that everything would be okay and despite the wind and the gunman and the chaos, there was order and love to be had.

  Despite my efforts, I couldn't stop Fairweather. In that moment, he darted out from my side of the shelf, no doubt revealing himself and his gun to the madman by the counter.

  I wished right now that I was one of the other kind of witches. Not an influence witch, but one of the immediately powerful kind, the ones with fireballs and brooms and cats that could talk.

  I wasn't.

  I stood up. On impulse, you might say, or maybe the growing calm in my mind and body had forced me to do so.

  I put my hands up in a classic sign of surrender.

  “Put your gun down,” Fairweather said in an even but dangerous voice.

  “What the hell is this, who the hell are you?” The gunman, now sounding frantic, backed up towards the counter, pointing his gun at Fairweather, his brow clearly wet with sweat.

  I tried to think of exceedingly un-stressful things, like calm walks along the beach, a cup of tea, or a snooze in the sun.

  It wasn't exactly working, but at least I wasn't a shaking puddle of fear on the ground either.

  I could still feel the chaos outside, the wind and the storm and the general ominous touch to the day, but I honestly tried to put them out of my mind, pushing them to the corners of reality, and trying to ignore them.

  “You do something brave, I'm going to kill somebody,” the gunman's hand shook, and all eyes were locked on the muzzle of his handgun.

  “Put it down,” Fairweather said, that distinctive baritone of his feeling as if it shook through the ground like an earthquake.

  Only two things could happen here. Either the gunman would get shot, or Fairweather would get shot. No, sorry I was forgetting a third; both of them would get shot.

  I didn't want anyone to die today. Especially considering, according to my grandmother at least, I was in part responsible for this. The tower card from the tarot pack suddenly flashed before my mind. All those months of negativity and whingeing were catching up with me, and in fantastic style too.

  “You have your money,” I said in the calmest voice I could manage, nodding towards the counter.

  It was true. Whist I had been clutching on hard to my packet of biscuits or holding onto Fairweather's sleeve, the cashier had done exactly what he had been told, and had filled the white bag with all the money from the register.

  It was just sitting there, invitingly.

  I nodded towards it. “Nobody has to get shot; you have what you came for.”

  I really tried to use my most gentle, subtle, motherly voice. It didn't quite work, but at least I wasn't screaming at him in the pitch of a punk rock singer.

  “Stay out of this,” Fairweather snapped.

  No chance. If I withdrew the calm magic I was bringing to this situation, it would collapse. With a bang. Or several.

  “You have your money, you have what you came for,” I said again, as gently as I could manage.

  I put my all into my voice, I really did. All those years of training, of being a witch, of dealing with magic.

  And maybe it worked.

  Was it just me, or did the slack, sallow look of almost sociopathic madness on the gunman's face waver? Did it soften slightly, the color returning to his cheeks?

  He turned around to look at the cash register, confirming with a glance that the bag was in fact full.

  And that would be when Fairweather shot him.

  I think I knew it would happen before it did. A rising, sudden feeling in my stomach, somewhat like a shot itself, warned me a nanosecond before it
occurred.

  When he squeezed the trigger, I screamed.

  The gunman jerked to the side, the bullet lodging in his firing shoulder, but as the bullet ripped into him, he stumbled back, squeezing off a shot of his own.

  It whizzed right past me and lodged, ironically, in my packet of biscuits. The same packet of biscuits that I had hoped would make this day calm again, suddenly exploded in a cloud of packaging and crumbs.

  He didn't, however, manage to get off another shot; Fairweather rammed into him, ploughing into his side, and pulling him to the ground.

  It all happened so fast, but in seconds the Agent had hold of the man's gun, and for all intents and purposes, the situation was over.

  Well, this incident was, the day, however was only just getting started in terms of the trouble it could produce.