Balance - Book one

CHAPTER 14

  As I headed back home reality sunk in.

  For some reason I had not considered death a possibility when one faced their demon. It had never really been openly stated at any point.

  Tomorrow? Every exam, every test, every work deadline and even my five failed learners license tests had not held such foreboding.

  And yes, I had indeed noticed that Selena had called me by my first name.

  Honoured? Honoured and more. I had the greatest presentiment that what she had showed me was akin to ripping one’s own heart out and handing it to another for inspection. Honoured and so much more. I dared say that what I felt was something close to the traditional meaning of the word “love”. But since “love” generally involved flowers, candle lit dinners, tender moments in the drizzling rain and much affectionate laughter, this could not possibly have been that.

  And now the guilt started. She had poured out her soul and I was knowingly deceiving her. Worse, she had gone as far as to give me a second chance. Why, oh why, had she done such a ridiculous thing?

  I was overwhelmed by an urge to slam on brakes, turn my car around and confess. Surely she would see the logic, the difficulty of the situation. Would she understand? Be sympathetic? Help? Betray the law a second time?

  Perhaps. But whether she would or would not, Brent’s life still hung in the balance, and this was not something upon which I dared take chances. I had, after all, agreed to be his partner.

  Twenty minutes later I arrived home, dismayed to find an intimidating black car parked in my space. At first annoyed, I then spotted the early forties, suited man gazing up at my DIY hole-in-the-wall. From his shining shoes, to the slick hairstyle and “trendy” gold rimmed spectacles, I knew who this man must be; an insurance inspector.

  Uh oh.

  I pulled my car onto the curb and approached him, wondering what I intended on saying.

  “…hole is roughly six foot in diameter, perhaps more. Edges of hole are ragged, suggesting a severe force from the interior of the house…”

  I at first thought he was muttering to himself, which would not have been a great indicator of mental stability, but upon drawing nearer noticed a small recording device in his hand.

  I hovered, waiting for him to acknowledge me.

  “…my guess would be either an uncontrolled release of raw Spirit, or perhaps a kind of destructive Reality Manipulation of the wall. Further investigation is obviously recommended.”

  He snapped off the recorder and turned to me, his lips parting to reveal teeth so artificially white they took on the appearance of porcelain.

  “Oh! Hello there. Name’s Nick, Nick Watson. A pleasure.”

  He stepped forward and shook my hand, applying the exact right amount of pressure as was suggested in the “Good Insurance Inspectors” handbook.

  “Hi, Jet Clarence.”

  “Oh no!” he declared loudly, “So you’re the young man everyone’s been talking about, huh?”

  “I would guess so.”

  “Well, well, well,” he shook his head, whistling and looking up at the damaged wall. “You sure did a number on that house, didn’t you, sailor?”

  Of course if I admitted to destroying the wall insurance was not obliged to pay for a thing. Illegal magic. He had indicated he already knew, but my sneaking suspicion was that he was really looking for a signed and sealed confession.

  In fact, I realised that everything on his part from the moment I had stepped out of the car had been an act. The words into the recorder making specific mention of raw Spirit, the greeting, the whistle; his own special little brand of magic.

  “Gas leak,” I muttered, verbalising the first thought that came to mind.

  “What?”

  “I think it was a gas explosion.”

  “Uh huh.” He squinted at me. “Tell me, Jet Clarence, how has your training been going?”

  “Training?”

  “You are Jet Clarence, are you not? Recently registered magic user?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I assume you are going for training?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, nothing to be ashamed of, Jet Clarence. Magical abilities can be difficult to come to terms with. Things happen, walls are damaged.”

  “Gas explosion.”

  He sighed. “Are you aware that I have been doing this job now for nine years?”

  “No.”

  “I have. And let me tell you something for nothing, I recognise raw Spirit damage when I see it.”

  “A useful skill.”

  “Are you also aware that not only does your house not have a gas line, but that not a single house in this neighbourhood does?”

  I shrugged. When it came down to it I was not a fantastic liar.

  “Right, well, thank you for your time Jet Clarence. I hope you will keep in mind that fraud is a fairly major offence.”

  With that he turned and strode off into the street where debris from the wall still lay in plain view.

  I sighed in defeat and headed for the house. I could have easily manipulated him and forced him to approve the claim, the idea was even appealing given his obnoxious attitude. But Linda’s face was still fresh in my mind. Never again.

  Immediately upon entering inside the warning buzz sounded in my head, more intense than it had ever been before. As I focused and tuned into it, the sensation became so potent as to feel like having an electrical current pass through my head.

  My first thought was that my demon had remained, possibly hiding in a closet or under the bed.

  “Jet? Is that you?” My mother’s voice from the kitchen, “Someone’s here to see you.”

  I hesitated, having a good idea of who that someone might be, then headed for the kitchen.

  Sure enough, seated at the kitchen table across from my mother was my grandmother, Fran. It had been perhaps a decade since I had visited with her on any real level, and she seemed not to have aged a single year. That’s not to say she looked young. On the contrary, the woman was now in her eighties and looked every year of it, despite the insistence on colouring her wispy hair coal black.

  “Hello, Jet,” she said, smiling.

  As could be expected, she was the centre of the detected presence, and now that I looked directly at her it felt as if an enormous, buzzing insect was sitting in the space between my ears.

  “Hello, gran,” I responded, not sure if I should be running from the house in terror.

  The old woman rose to her feet and shuffled towards me. The Enforcer uniform, probably custom made to fit such a tiny frame, looked utterly absurd on her fragile body. However, as with Sebastian, Selena’s past tense trainer, my dear grandmother’s bespectacled eyes virtually glowed with magical potential.

  We embraced delicately and she smiled again.

  “Such a big boy now,” she crooned, reaching up to pat my cheek, “And so handsome!”

  “Thank you, gran.”

  “Your mother told me you needed a little talk. Come sit with us and have some tea.”

  I watched her shuffle back to her chair and sit, then looked across at my mother who was beaming at me with the brightest smile I had seen on her face.

  For the briefest moment I was taken by a most peculiar sensation; vertigo without the threat of height. I paused, knowing that this was significant, that my Spirit was trying to communicate something up and above the buzzing, but before I had time to register another coherent thought…

  Gran is here! Gran is here!

  I was a child again, rejoicing in the knowledge that gran was here and that meant good food, good times, and lying under the table as the big people played dominoes.

  It was my place of calm times a hundred. It was a feeling of euphoria so deep that a hundred painkillers could not come close.

  I realised I was smiling; a broad, uncompromised smile that had probably not been on my face since I was pre-teenager.

  Without giving the commands to my body, I floated over to the table
and sat.

  Gran smiled and poured a cup of tea, the pot’s lid rattling as her liver spotted hands shook.

  “Sugar? Milk?”

  I nodded.

  Slowly, deliberately, she added the milk and sugar, a process that seemed to take an age. The room was silent but for her sharply audible breathing.

  Finally I took a sip of tea and my euphoria escalated. The mere taste of the liquid seemed to solidify my memories; triggering nostalgia so deep it occupied every corner of my consciousness.

  “Your mum says you’ve finally come of age,” said gran, sitting back and crossing her hands on her lap.

  “Yes,” I said eagerly.

  “That’s lovely. We have so waited. A bit of a late bloomer, but late is better than never. Isn’t that right, Liza?”

  “Oh absolutely,” my mother added cheerfully.

  “And you’re going for training, is that right?” Gran continued.

  “That’s right,” I said, desperate for more approval, “I’m learning so much.”

  “How wonderful. Are you being a good boy? Being polite to your teacher?”

  “Yes, gran.”

  “Good boy.”

  I sipped my tea again.

  Suddenly, like the bursting of a small firework, my mind flashed. A thought was begging for my attention. Fluttering just beyond conscious thought, but pleading with me to recognise it…

  I flinched. A gesture that gran noticed and watched with interest. “Are you feeling alright, Jet?”

  “Yes gran,” I said, not wanting to ruin the family moment with my silly behaviour.

  There was a second flash, louder and brighter, so fierce that my body jerked and tea sloshed from my cup.

  I felt my brow furrow.

  There was a nagging buzzing in my head. This meant something, but I could not recall what.

  Something is wrong here.

  The fluttering thought was urging me insistently, demanding attention. I attempted to push it away, but it resisted.

  A third flash jolted my body as if I had stuck my finger in a plug socket. The tea cup flew from my grasp and smashed on the floor. Both hands went to my head and held tight.

  Something is very wrong here!

  “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Jet? You seem a bit off.”

  But the words were a million miles away.

  The spell broke. Euphoria melted.

  I sank in my chair and a shuddering breath escaped me.

  “Excellent,” said gran, “Very good indeed. You are truly the son of my daughter, Jet. I have rarely seen better.”

  “I told you so,” my mother said, “I told you so.”

  “That flash you felt,” gran continued, “Was the result of your Spirit attempting to jolt you from a powerful spell, one from which you may not otherwise have been able to escape. Much like a paramedic uses a defibrillator on a heart. A desperation move, you might call it. If those fail you may well be lost forever.”

  “Why did you do that?” I muttered wearily, my head still spinning.

  “I do apologise, Jet. It was a necessary precaution.”

  “Precaution?”

  “What I’m about to tell you is very sensitive information. It would never do to have the wrong person hearing it.”

  My mind settled and I propped myself back up in the chair, feeling more than a little indignant at the unprovoked attack. “What information?”

  The old woman paused, looked at my mother and nodded. In response my mother stood, smiled nervously, and exited without another word.

  My grandmother stared, studying me with eyes so intense I could barely stand to meet them.

  “You’re a Clarence,” she began, settling into the chair, “And as a Clarence you are born with great benefits. Do you recall handing over your application for training? Back at the Whisperer?”

  My mind went back to the event. I recalled the mountain of paperwork that had taken hours to fill out, and Claudia presenting an acceptance letter later that same day. It would have taken longer just too efficiently process the forms and ensure they were correctly completed.

  “You had it pushed through.”

  She nodded, a half-smile curling up the corners of her age-lined mouth. “Yes. And do you know why I pushed it through, Jet? Because we’re family, and that’s what family does for one another.”

  She let the words sink in.

  “How do you possibly have that kind of power?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “I don’t,” she responded, adopting the manner of an innocent accused of guilt, “But people I know do.”

  “People you know?”

  “The Clarence family is big. Not everyone in it need have the surname Clarence. Though, it does hold its privileges.” She paused to look at me meaningfully; an expression that gave her the appearance of a harmless old woman with nothing but best intentions. The effect may have been convincing were it for the persistent buzzing.

  We were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

  “Liza Clarence?”

  It was the insurance inspector.

  “In here,” gran called.

  Footsteps approached, a head poked into the room. “I was looking for Liza Clarence,” he said, forcing a cheerful tone.

  “You can speak to me.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  With a few hesitant steps he approached and placed a sheet of paper on the table. “I’m afraid insurance will not cover the damages. My inspection has revealed irregularities with the claim.”

  “Irregularities,” gran responded, regarding him evenly, “What irregularities might these be?”

  “I’m afraid there is no question that the damage is the result of illegal magic.” His eyes darted in my direction. “We don’t cover damage of this nature.”

  “Oh I see,” she muttered, “That is unfortunate. What if I asked you to reconsider?”

  “Reconsider?” He frowned, unsure of how to respond. When he spoke again the words were slower and firmly pronounced; something a person does when addressing the semi-senile elderly. “No, I’m afraid you don’t understand. It says very clearly on the contract that we do not cover damage via illegal magical activity. In fact,” he paused and cleared his throat, “I will have to report this to the Department of Magic.”

  “Yes of course you will.” Gran shifted her gaze and gave me a mischievous grin. Then, focusing her attention on the insurance inspector, her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, sir, when did you first start believing yourself to be a chicken?”

  His first response was to chuckle in confusion. But a second later his grin gave way to dumbfounded disbelief.

  “Are you going to answer a kind old lady,” she pressed, “or just stand there clucking like an idiot?”

  Before my eyes, defying everything I imagined possible, the insurance inspector crouched, cocked out his knees, and proceeded with the most committed chicken impression I had ever seen. Going as far as to bob his head and make absolutely believable clucking noises, he began to strut around the room like a man possessed by the chicken spirits.

  I gaped. The situation was so absolutely ridiculous that my mind almost denied accepting it as reality. My gran’s intention had been to make me laugh. But understanding the mechanics of what I knew must be happening, the moment was not so much funny as utterly world shattering. The implications were mind blowing.

  “There’s a good chicken,” gran sang, watching with the fondness of a person seeing a dog do something terribly smart. “Can you crow for me?” The man threw back his head and let out a champion “cock-a-doodle-doo”. “Good boy. Look for worms, find yourself some lunch.” He scratched at the ground with one foot, his head twitching this way and that as if searching for a meal.

  The longer the scene unfolded the more horrified I became. It was not just the blatant disregard for the poor man’s dignity, but the fact that my dear sweet grandmother clearly had not even the faintest hint of conscience.

  “That’s
enough,” I said firmly.

  She gave me a sideways look, frowning in annoyance that I was not enjoying the display, then returned her focus to the insurance inspector.

  “Stop,” she muttered. He obeyed. “You will complete the claim. There is nothing out of the ordinary here. Understand?” He nodded. “Good. Get out. Take your papers.” An expression of tortured confusion on his face, the man did as he was told. His footsteps receded, the front door closed behind him.

  She looked at me, waiting for a reaction.

  “Was that necessary?” I asked.

  “Necessary? No. But the smug little shit deserved it.”

  “He’s just doing his job.”

  “Doing his job?” Her voice raised a notch. “I’ve never seen anyone that deserved a little slap in the face more in my life.”

  “He was just doing what he’s paid to do. You had no right.”

  At this her eyes widened. “Tell me, Jet, were you going to pay for the holes you shot in the house with your non-existent job?”

  My eyes diverted and cheeks flushed. “No.”

  “Then I just did you a favour. What are you complaining about? And, I might add, the reasons for your dismissal from The Whisperer raise serious questions about your own use of magic.”

  I had no response.

  “Exactly,” she declared, a note of finality in her voice, “And I would have expected you to do the same if you had any sense. That insurance company would have found any reason to not pay. They’re vultures and I feel no sympathy. Isn’t that right?”

  I hesitated. “Sure.”

  “Good.” She leaned forward and spoke with deliberation. “Now let me get to the point, Jet. There is a place for you in the family, there always has been. It’s time now for you to step up and claim that place. Make no mistake; there are people who would kill for the opportunity I am offering. We’re changing the world, Jet, doing amazing things. And we want you here with us, helping guide the wave of the future.”

  Grand words indeed. And there was no denying it, words that intrigued me.

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking me to do,” I responded carefully, “What exactly are we talking about here?”

  “I’m talking about power, the power to make things happen. We’re everywhere, Jet; the people who the government have tried to shackle and keep in check; the people who have been ordered to not live to their full potential because that upsets some ridiculous notion of balance. It’s very simple; we’ve decided to say; “no, we will not be forced into submission. We will use what we have been given and make the best of it.” And let me tell you something, young man, when you have a network of the most powerful people on Earth at your back, very little can stand in your way.”

  The room fell into silence as I let the thoughts roll around in my head. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity and I knew it.

  “So what I’m asking you to do,” she continued, “is to start refusing to live like you’re average and just step up. Live to your full potential. You are better than the rest. Embrace it.” Her voice had lowered to a whisper, eyes locked on my face. “Come with me now. We’ll walk out of here together and I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Kiss your dull, pathetic life goodbye and be who you were meant to be. Come now, Jet, we can change the world together. How does that sound?”

  Embrace it. It made perfect sense. Say goodbye to a life of scraping through with the bare minimum and enter into a world of power and significance. Be special. Be something more. Who could possibly say no?

  There was a loud bang from the kitchen door and I jumped in fright. I looked up to find Clinton standing in the doorway, swaying unsteadily, face glistening with sweat.

  “If you don’t mind, we’re having a conversation,” gran snapped at him.

  He was either ignoring her, or by the looks of him, he simply didn’t register the words. I assumed that my previous assistance was wearing off and he was doing his best to maintain mental awareness. It was a losing battle.

  One foot shifted in front of the other and he took a stumbling step forwards.

  “I said; we’re busy,” gran barked.

  “Jet,” the sound escaped him in a hiss, more a plea than a word. “Don’t let her in. That’s how it starts. Don’t let her in… it’s a trick…”

  The second step buckled and he went flopping to the ground, his head bouncing sharply off the tiles. I jumped up and moved to assist.

  “Liza,” gran called out in annoyance, “Will you get down here?! You’re letting this one slip, for goodness sake! Leave it, Jet, your mother will take care of it.”

  I ignored her and crouched, rolling Clinton onto his back. A gash had opened above one eye.

  “He might need a doctor,” I muttered, “This looks bad.”

  Footsteps descended the stairs as my mother approached.

  “Clinton?” I shook him gently. “Clinton, are you okay?”

  His eyes fluttered, then opened groggily and fixed on the roof above my head.

  “Are you okay?” I repeated.

  He turned his head a fraction and let his eyes drift to my face. “Kill me.” The words were completely level. I suspected the knock on the skull had given him a temporary window of clarity. “Kill me, Jet. Please. Just kill me. I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

  I stared, watching him form the words. A sensation began to take hold…

  Déjà vu.

  Something about this seemed very familiar…

  “Liza! Will you get in here…?”

  I had been here before, in a situation very similar to this. A person had been on the floor, the same as Clinton; arms sprawled and head turned to the side. Only, the floor had not been tiles, it had been a carpet.

  A memory began to return, emerging through a thick, poisonous fog. It had a feeling of nostalgia and familiarity, like recognising an old friend’s face through a crowd. Only, this memory was not an old friend. It was something I had forgotten on purpose. Or had been made to forget…

  My mother had been screaming. I could see her now, as if it had been just yesterday, younger and glowing with beauty. She was screaming… about something. What was it? What had made her so upset that she would be screaming in such a horrific, primal way, face contorted in anguish? Wait. Was it anguish? Because it seemed as though it might have been anger…

  “Don’t make a fuss. It’s his fault drinking like that in the middle of the day,” Mother’s voice. I was aware she was hovering at my left shoulder.

  “Well get him off the floor, Liza, for goodness sake!”

  …and gran had been there…

  I looked over my shoulder and there was gran; scowling with cold eyes…

  …scowling with cold eyes… why isn’t gran doing anything to help…? Why is she just looking…? He needs help… he needs help…dad needs help…

  “Jet…” the words came from Clinton’s mouth, but the voice was that of my father. “Jet… kill me. Please…”

  The memory consumed me. I was eight, looking down as my father lay dying on the floor.

  “…didn’t have to do that, mother! Now look at him!”

  “If you kept him under control this would not be a problem.”

  “You have no right to touch him!”

  And gran was looking on with cold eyes as mother screamed.

  “No right to touch him!”

  There was a loud snap and my body jolted. Gran was standing over me, an index finger extended.

  “I’m sorry Jet, but you were drifting,” she said.

  I was mute, trying to register what had been witnessed in my own apparently fracturing mind.

  The images, things I had always been in possession of and only now making themselves clearer, had been of a different nature than I recalled.

  “Step aside, please,” gran was saying, “Clinton needs assistance.”

  I did so, thoughts still swirling uneasily in my head. The puzzle pieces had not yet fallen completely into place.
br />   My mother stepped in and crouched beside Clinton, his eyes still locked on me with pleading.

  “Jet!” It was the last word he managed, then his gaze glassed over and body went limp.

  “He’ll be okay now,” my mother said, “I’d better get this cut seen to.”

  “You’re letting it slip again,” gran snorted, “Get your business in order, Liza.”

  “My personal business is not your concern, Fran,” my mother spat back, “I can handle my own affairs.”

  The words were vague; my mind was still grappling furiously with the memory. It seemed that somehow, no matter how hard I tried, the reality of the situation eluded me, as if…

  …I had been put under a spell…

  I had been put under a spell. And now, as I realised it, the spell shattered, having been in place for over a decade.

  The scene was clear to me. Part of it.

  “Why didn’t you help him?” The words escaped me in a whisper.

  The room fell into silence. The two women turned to look at me, sensing the change in my mental posture.

  “What, Jet? Speak up,” gran rumbled.

  “Why didn’t you help him?” I repeated. Rage was igniting in my stomach.

  There was a subtle exchanged glance, one I guessed to be shared confirmation I was free from the spell.

  “Now, Jet,” gran began quickly, “Do not make hasty assumptions on things you do not understand.”

  “Don’t understand? What don’t I understand?!” I was suddenly screaming the words. “You’ve had me under a spell for half my life!”

  “And for your own good,” my mother said, “We’ve been protecting you!”

  “Protecting me?” Energy was popping and shimmer into life around my body. My eyes turned to my grandmother. “Why didn’t you help him?! You just sat there and let him die!”

  “You don’t understand the situation,” gran responded dryly. “Calm down!

  “Make me understand!”

  She hesitated.

  The intensity of energy continued to grow around my body. The two women tensed in anticipation.

  “Now look here,” said gran, words spoken to a growling dog. “Don’t do anything silly, young man. It is not wise to underestimate an old woman. It is unfortunate what happened to you father, but you are not seeing the whole picture.” She turned to my mother. “Isn’t that right, Liza?”

  “Yes,” my mother agreed uneasily, “Very unfortunate.”

  “Shouldn’t Jet see the whole picture before he gets upset?”

  “Of course.”

  Gran turned back to me. “There you have it.”

  “Then show me the whole picture,” I said.

  “The memories are locked away inside your own head, Jet. It would take time to unlock them.”

  “There are more spells?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Why did you tamper with my mind?”

  “You were young, we both thought it for your best interest. There are some things a child should not have to deal with until later. The spells would have been removed when we believed you ready.” Again she prompted my mother for agreement with a glance.

  “Yes, we thought it in your best interest,” mother agreed obediently.

  “Then remove the spells.”

  “I told you, it will take time.”

  I paused, considering the situation. It was not clear what had been done to me, or the extent of it, but only one thing was certain; I did not trust my grandmother any more than I trusted my mother. I wanted to be away from both of them. For my own safety.

  “I’m leaving,” I declared, stepping towards the door.

  “Just a moment,” said gran quickly. I halted. “I can help with your little loan shark problem.”

  My head snapped around. “How did you know about that?”

  “An old woman has her ways.” The half-smile had returned to her age-lined mouth. “Those men are not to be toyed with. I recommend you see to the problem ASAP. Of course, should you have trouble locating the funds, you need only ask. You are family, after all.”

  I considered it, but only for a second. It was good to know of a backup plan, but accepting money from the crone seemed about as unwise a decision as could be conceived.

  I turned, gave poor unconscious Clinton one more glance, then left the house, vowing to never again return as a resident.