The last magician, p.1
The Last Magician, page 1
THE LAST MAGICIAN
Jack Hunt
Direct Response Publishing
Copyright © 2019 by Jack Hunt
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
THE LAST MAGICIAN is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For my Family
Also by Jack Hunt
Click here to receive special offers, bonus content, and news about new Jack Hunt’s books. Sign up for the newsletter.
The Agora Virus series
Phobia
Anxiety
Strain
The War Buds series
War Buds 1
War Buds 2
War Buds 3
Camp Zero series
State of Panic
State of Shock
State of Decay
Renegades series
The Renegades
The Renegades Book 2: Aftermath
The Renegades Book 3: Fortress
The Renegades Book 4: Colony
The Renegades Book 5: United
The Wild Ones Duology
The Wild Ones Book 1
The Wild Ones Book 2
The EMP Survival series
Days of Panic
Days of Chaos
Days of Danger
Days of Terror
The Against All Odds Duology
As We Fall
As We Break
The Amygdala Syndrome series
Unstable
Unhinged
Survival Rules series
Rules of Survival
Rules of Conflict
Rules of Darkness
Rules of Engagement
Mavericks series
Mavericks: Hunters Moon
Time Agents series
Killing Time
Single Novels
Blackout
Defiant
Darkest Hour
Final Impact
The Year Without Summer
The Last Storm
The Last Magician
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
A Plea
Readers Team
About the Author
Prologue
In the beginning was magic. Its source unknown. Its power limitless. Those who believed, discovered it. Those who practiced, learned its secrets and could perform the impossible. Throughout time many sought this ancient knowledge; to wield and master it. The few who did were called magicians. From parent to child its secrets were passed down, and for a while, peace and goodness permeated all acts of magic, creating a world of unimaginable possibilities. In time, as jealousy, discord and betrayal took hold, acts of evil were committed. Thereon, it was agreed by the great council that anyone who practiced dark magic would be hunted. A war raged as one by one those who opposed the ruling were captured and exiled. Eventually the few remaining magicians retreated into the shadows, awaiting a time when the balance would be restored. As the memory of those who performed the impossible faded, so did the Artifice; the source of unknown power. With magic outlawed and forbidden, the years passed until a new form of magician appeared — the illusionist. Such was the mystery surrounding their modern-day feats that the line between what was real and just an illusion blurred causing untold chaos. Eventually fate would have it, that one would rise to restore the balance and peace that once guided their actions.
He would be known as the last magician.
1
It was the same each time. I awoke screaming, drenched in a cold sweat and shivering. Curled into a ball, gripping my sheets in fear, Sebastian burst into the room as if this would be the night they would take me. Most parents or guardians would immediately soothe a child, hold them and chase away the darkness with reassuring words — not my uncle.
A compact, barrel-chested man, with precise features, wavy dark hair and a few silver flecks; he wasn’t given to showing much emotion. No, he would check the window locks and glance nervously outside before returning to hear what I had to say. He wasn’t interested in settling me, only the details of the nightmare — always the details, but that was the problem, I couldn’t remember. It was like attempting to reassemble pieces of shattered stained glass. The fragments never made any sense. The dream would play on repeat, always the same: between slats, a woman’s face, music playing softly, feet shuffling, a struggle, the crash of furniture, a harrowing scream and then silence. That’s when the fear would take hold. Finally, a dark shadow would approach and overtake me and then I’d awake.
“Go back to sleep,” Sebastian would say. The same words every night, before leaving me to towel dry the sweat from my small body. I was caught in a vicious cycle of fear that I couldn’t escape.
My uncle never hurt me, and I never went without, but affection wasn’t his strong point. Looking back now I can’t say I ever understood him at all, but then again there was only so much I could grasp when I was four years old.
That was the age I arrived at my uncle’s in Maine. I don’t recall how I got there or much of anything before. Just that it was all I’d ever known.
Stonecreek Harbor was one of five towns on Mount Desert Island, just off the coast of Maine. He ran an old magic shop on Main Street. It was a relic, and in a fishing town with a population of just over five thousand, business wasn’t exactly booming. Still, we survived, and the town was a beautiful place to grow up. The constant smell of saltwater hung in the air. Boats filled the dock each day as fishermen brought in their catch of fish and lobster, and restaurants served it as part of the town’s staple diet.
As for my parents, well… they were nothing more than a vague memory, a series of fleeting images, and a story told to me by my uncle. For the first few years, he must have thought it was better to withhold the truth, as he said that my time with him was temporary, and that one day my mother would return once she’d got better. He never told me what illness she had. Later, once he figured I was old enough to know, he said in no uncertain words that she was murdered. He didn’t cherry coat it. Afterward, there was no hug, consoling pat on the shoulder or even an excuse given for why he lied. It was a passing word exchanged over supper between a spoonful of beans.
A spoonful of beans! Harsh, right?
Though now I know it was nothing more than a way to put an end to all the questions. As for my father, well my uncle said he traveled a lot, though I figured he must have visited the same place often as his postcards were always marked — Rikers Island Correctional Facility. One day the postcards just stopped coming. My uncle said it was probably for the best because he didn’t care for anyone but himself. How was I to know any different? Some nights I wondered if he ever existed at all, and if he did what he was doing? Did he think of me? Honestly, I heard many stories about what my father did, some plausible, others outlandish. There was an air of mystery shrouding him. Though with no clear memories, or recollection of his face, he soon became just a myth. And like any kid on an isolated island, I soon succumbed to the mundane.
Okay, so I wasn’t living a life behind bars but I might as well have been, as every day on that island felt like a prison sentence. But it wasn’t the location, more like the people. Not even my uncle could protect me from the taunting. But I don’t want you thinking my life was painful, it wasn’t all bad, there was some good to be found, and find it I did… in a girl.
But not any girl — Chloe Summers.
Long dark hair, green eyes and perfect alabaster skin. Even back then at the young age of eight, she was mesmerizing. Yeah, you could say she was my first crush. A smart but reserved girl. Pretty but flawed. She was one of those kids who put up their hand in class first but never joined any of the clubs in school. Some said her parents were strict, controlling even, though I knew that wasn’t the case as her mother and father were active in nearly all Stonecreek Harbor events. No, maybe she did it to spite them, I’m still not sure. At least our lack of community involvement was one thing we had in common. That and we lived on the same street. Her two-story red brick home with the immaculately landscaped front yard faced my uncle’s, and her bedroom window, directly across from mine. Yeah, you could say we were like two peas in a pod, joined together by our natural disdain for island living. As for conversation, well… yeah, it could be said we hit it off — if mumbling hello in the hallway on the way to class, or seeing her every day on the school bus for three years was considered hitting it off.
By the way, you should know that was exactly how long I lasted in the school system — three years — before my uncle yanked me out. Three years also marks the very first time it happened. I mean, the first time I realized I wasn’t like the others.
I remember that day as if it were yesterday.
Clear skies, warm sunshine and a room full of chatter.
Sitting near the back of the class I’d often steal a glance when Chloe looked over her shoulder. I’d like to say it was me she was enthralled by, but that wouldn’t exactly be telling the truth. No, unfortunately she eyes firmly set on the class clown who sat behind me. The same one who for years blew spitballs at my head every chance he got.
Kyle Lowry.
Now there was a douche bag.
I just couldn’t wrap my head around what girls saw in him. All right, he was everything I wasn’t — outgoing, sporty and if I’m being honest, humorous — but c’mon… the guy was a first-class jerk.
No, that day had started like any other, except I felt different in my body — more alive, I guess you could say. All the other kids were working away, Kyle, well… he was being Kyle. Most days I just pretended he didn’t exist and kept my nose down. But something was different. I’m not sure how I knew, except I remember feeling an impulse to look up from my work. And it was in that exact moment I saw her.
Standing beyond the door was the woman I’d seen in my dreams. Roughly thirty years of age, she was dressed in white, and gesturing for me to follow her. For a moment I blinked — convinced I was imagining it. But after opening my eyes, she was still there. She looked as real as anyone. I looked around wondering if others could see her. Everyone had their nose in their textbooks, even Kyle was distracted. My eyes locked on Ms. Barnett who was busy marking papers. Without hesitation I pushed my chair back and considered walking towards the door.
The sound of my screeching chair caught the attention of the teacher. Barnett peered over her glasses but for whatever reason didn’t home in on me. Why didn’t she say anything? I was looking right at her. Her eyes looked down, returning to her work. If that wasn’t strange enough, it was what happened next that made jaws drop.
“Ethan?”
I’d heard the teacher but without acknowledging her I kept walking. As I did, each desk before me slid to the left and right like the Red Sea being parted. Gasps filled the room. Students fished for their cell phones. Before my teacher could reach me, the door automatically opened, I exited and it slammed shut as if controlled by some invisible force. It was as if I was in a white tunnel, locked into some kind of dream state, and all I could see was the woman at the far end, beyond the door, drawing me on.
Behind me I heard Ms. Barnett struggling to get the door open but I never looked back. I was locked into the trance state.
The strange but beautiful woman beckoned me forward until I was halfway down the corridor. It was only then she spoke. “Ethan, you’re in danger.”
Her words came out almost as a whisper.
What? How? Unfortunately before I had a chance to reply, I felt a hand grip my arm tightly. Twisted around, I snapped out of the trance, confused as to where I was. “Ethan. Are you okay?” Ms. Barnett said, bending at the waist to look me in the eye.
I blinked. As I looked around her to the class beyond, the reality of what had happened hit me. I stood speechless. Barnett followed my gaze to the class where the desks and students had been divided to either side of the room.
“Ethan, how did—?” She knelt down to my level.
“The woman,” I mumbled, turning my head.
“What woman?” she said, looking past me with a concerned expression.
She was gone. Had I imagined it?
Inside the classroom, some kids snickered, most looked shocked. Kyle was framing the letter L on his forehead. I could hear others calling me a freak.
“Okay, okay, keep it down,” Barnett said over her shoulder before getting up and closing the door behind her. I felt an overwhelming wave of emotion take hold. My body began shaking. Tears trickled down my cheeks at the realization. Without being told who she was, instinctively I already knew.
She was my mother.
“Come, I’ll call your uncle,” Ms. Barnett said holding out her hand.
I took it and we walked down to the school office.
2
Twenty minutes later, I sat on a bench waiting for my uncle to arrive. A door swung open and Sebastian cut me a disapproving glance but said nothing as Ms. Barnett led him into the principal’s office. What followed over the next ten minutes was a muffled but heated conversation. I caught snippets, mostly about the unexplained incident the class had witnessed. My uncle didn’t seem impressed by their accusations and soon tired of their questions. The door swung wide, and I figured they were done but the conversation hadn’t ended. My teacher implored my uncle to reconsider. Reconsider what? His cheeks were flushed, his hands balled. I’d never seen him that angry.
“Let’s go,” he bellowed as he passed me, expecting me to fall in step.
Without taking my hand, he stormed out. I could hear him muttering to himself the same words over and over. What a mistake. As I followed, I cast back a glance at Ms. Barnett. She genuinely looked concerned but summoned a strained smile — one final attempt at reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t. Not then. Not later. Not ever again.
And just like that, I never returned.
That was the first time something unusual happened.
Strangely, no one in town questioned the incident that occurred that day. Looking back now, I believe it was because my uncle owned a magic store. I assumed the students and teacher must have notched it up to a clever trick, a young boy’s attempt at gaining attention. To the teacher, it was just a disruption; a peculiar disruption but a disruption none the less. And like anything it was soon forgotten.
If I had known the truth, would I have said something?
If that wasn’t strange enough, my uncle’s response when I told him about the woman in white was equally bizarre. He never questioned or even doubted the experience as Ms. Barnett had. He simply nodded and looked into the distance with a pained expression. Then when I mentioned the desks, his demeanor changed. In fact I swear I caught his lip curl. For weeks after I pondered the way the furniture had automatically parted before me. Was I responsible? And if so, how? I asked Sebastian but he would just huff. Such questions only annoyed him, so in time I just stopped thinking about it and it became nothing more than a distant memory. After that incident my uncle kept a short leash on my whereabouts. He homeschooled me, or… I should say, I homeschooled myself.
Two years passed without trouble.
Then, at the age of ten my life got really weird.
I recall the day vividly, as it was one week after my birthday. My sixth since arriving at my uncle’s, and like those before, it was as uneventful as the previous five. No gifts were given, no parties thrown, and neither was I allowed to invite anyone over. Some would have said that it sucked, but I didn’t know any different, and I didn’t dare question my uncle.
Life with him was predictable. The daily routine was the same; we left at the break of day for his store and would return by suppertime. His magic store, The Talisman, was sandwiched between rows of run-down Victorian style buildings at the farthest region of the west end of town. A weathered, wooden business sign, with gold engraved letters bearing the store’s name, swayed gently in the wind. A realtor’s was to the left, and an insurance company to the right. Neither one got much foot traffic. Displayed beyond the store’s two arched windows were all kinds of colorful vintage magic posters from the Houdini era, inexpensive magic tricks, and stuck to the window, a worn-out, faded red sticker announcing a going out of business, everything must go sale. It didn’t work. Locals were smarter than that and tourists more interested in browsing than making a purchase.
