Tom's Analysis

Kara's sufferer paid no scrutiny to me as two other cups, the rice cracker pitcher, and all the napkins started rising off the table.

I had thought that her boyfriend was telekinetic, and he had a tough time preventing it when he got disruption. Incredible.

I double-checked that the tavern was still Warren-free. It was.

"Tell him that I did not go in with you! Tell him!" Kara spoke in a furious, high-pitched voice as the blue layers surging on his neck started spreading up into his face.

Enough. I clenched my caduceus and smashed the ground in front of the booth, right on the triangle juncture that was decorated on the hardwood.

It was a mandatory triangle. There was one under every table in the tavern. Danger surveillance.

Eyes shut, I smeared into electrical energy from the tavern, twirling it into me with supervision and exactness. Linda earlier inquired of me how magic like this operated.

Different spells called for various types of magic, but the stamina I desired to power an imperative like this had to be heightened, or "kindled."

The simplest way to think of supernatural energy—Heka —was to sketch it as a plank log in a fireplace. Just as plank simmers when you put a match to it, Heka modifies into more fierce energy when it is been ignited by an outside citation; electricity was just one of the various ways to do that.

As I grabbed, the tawdry tropical-themed flickers inside the tavern lingered and dimmed. I muttered a brief binding spell and, in one enormous push, discharged the ignited Heka through the caduceus, into the mandatory triangle.

My stomach wobbled like I was driving a roller coaster. Being sure of the spell, the simultaneous revulsion could last for a couple of minutes, or it could compel me so sick and dehydrated that I would have difficulty standing.

Fortunately, this time, it was not horrible.

When I reopened my eyes, a low groan rose from the crew behind me. They were astonished, as usual, but I was not; the binding triangle gleamed with ignited Heka, but it was not luminous like it should be—it was pale and detonated with stagnant.

It must have been because of my personality. Whatever. It was helping, and that was what counted. The items slammed back down on the table, rice crackers dispersing everywhere, as the three intoxicated demons in the booth eventually glanced up.

"Shit."

Kara discharged the man across the table and plopped her fading blue hands to her side. He fell back into his chair and wheezed, reaching for his bruised neck.

"Incredibly, Kara, this is the second time this month. I told you last time that if it transpired again, I would restrict you from the tavern."

A latch of dyed orange hair fell across her cheek.

"I did not mean to get so out of restraint. Grant me another opportunity. I promise—"

"Please loosen us," her boyfriend begged.

"It increases my blood pressure and I don't feel so nice right now."

Linda nudged her way through the populace.

"Wait! They launched a statement. They owe us, hold on."

She poked around in her pocket and then flipped through various chunks of wrinkled paper until she discovered the good one.

"Sixty-three dollars and forty cents. Oh, and Kara did not tip me the previous week when she arrived." She connected her tongue to Kara and blinked.

"Don't think I did not notice."

"There is also the shattered barware," I remarked.

"Here!" Kara's boyfriend took out a hundred-dollar bill.

"Please, loosen us now."

As Linda snatched up the cash, her foot struck the triangle and inadvertently shattered the binding spell. Kara's boyfriend collapsed to the table, heaving, as the other two coughed in relief.

"Oops, sorry, Dotty." Linda cringed at the deceased triangle as she swiped the money.

A table busser emerged with a broom. I surveyed the crew for one of our patrons and quickly sighted him. Bob was a small Earth-bound in his thirties with dusk, slicked-back hair and a vague eye.

He was adorned in his normal apparel, a Hawaiian printed shirt with reiterating hula girls. Unlike half the folk in the tavern, Bob's devilish proficiency was helpful.

He was a healer. Not a remarkable one, but nice in a touch. He also had a thing for me and would possibly set himself on fire if asked.

"Hey Bob," I blurted.

"Will you take a look at that guy's neck? Make sure he is okay."

"No qualms." Bob trotted off behind the injured man, who was carving a beeline toward the entrance along with Kara's boyfriend.

"Am I restricted?" Kara inquired as she scampered out of the booth.

"You are prohibited on Thursday dusks for the following month. No Paranormal Patrol."

Her face fell, but she shook in acknowledgement and made an intoxicated venture at a short curtsy as she left, her blue hands now fully regressed to their natural colour.

Low murmurs roared around the bar as the crowd scattered and people returned to their stools. Someone inquired if I could rewind Patrol; we had missed various minutes during the commotion.

After I made my way back behind the tavern, I picked up the remote and began to hit rewind when I saw what was on the screen and froze.

A particular news report had suspended the program. I took it off mute and dismissed the murmured objections about another pause in the evening's festivities.

A small Latina reporter spoke into a microphone beneath a ruddy umbrella.

"I repeat, local councils here in Dallas are trying to ascertain whether the couple in the parking lot are indeed the renowned serial assassins, Helene and Fredrick Duval, who made global headlines when they were reprimanded with the demises of three rival occultists seven years ago, known altogether as the Black Lodge slayings. The footage we are about to display to you was just broadcasted to us, brought this morning from a gas station close to the airport."

A clip from the management video is displayed. Bright as day, there were my guardians getting into an SUV. What the hell were they feeling?

They were not allowed to be in the States; they had not been here in years.

Right after we falsified our demises and went into obscuring, I saw them every periodic month. Then a few months rolled into a year and a year into three.

I did not worry about them much unless I believed their names spoken of in some true-crime-exposé rerun on essential cable.

The reporter proceeded. "The truth that the murderers are still alive and in Iowa after all these years is astounding. There is a presumption that their daughter, also a partner of their abandoned occult order, could still be alive too. Now, back to the studio for Tom's analysis. Tom?"

I stood still as a soldier and gazed at the screen. I was dimly conscious that my hands were shivering. My conception burrowed, and then everything went blank.