{"id":140178,"date":"2024-03-25T21:21:12","date_gmt":"2024-03-25T21:21:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/?p=140178"},"modified":"2024-06-06T21:30:36","modified_gmt":"2024-06-06T21:30:36","slug":"risky-magic","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/?p=140178","title":{"rendered":"Risky Magic"},"content":{"rendered":"

Part One: The Accident<\/strong><\/p>\n

It smelled of cinnamon and smoke. The cinnamon came from the scented candles. The smoke from everything else.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the fireball came through that window over there?\u201d<\/p>\n

A. Haverford Gibbons, sinewy dark hair thinning by the minute, gestured at a gash in the side of the brick-and-mortar walls of the candle factory wide enough to wrangle cattle through. The minefield of twisted glass knots below suggested that there used to be a window there.<\/p>\n

\u201cYessah. The first fireball, anyway. A couple others came through the roof.\u201d The gruff, overalled factory owner waggled a fat finger at the gaping skylight above, through which a roasting summer sun poured down. \u201cAnd then the one with the moustache, the Count, he raised Rog, my foreman, from the dead and Rog started disassembling some of the machinery into a weapon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd did Rog do any damage?\u201d Hav asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really. He was very polite about it, like he felt all guilty about being a zombie, y\u2019know. Even swept up the spare parts into a trashcan, which was a little hard, cause the fireball had taken his arm, ya see,\u201d the owner pantomimed sweeping with one arm, and then shuffling a dustpan, and then sweeping again. \u201cBut then he got hit by a second fireball.\u201d<\/p>\n

Haverford\u2014Hav for short\u2014sighed, readjusting the thin, wire-rimmed glasses that hooked his ears. He took precise, clean notes in his pressed black notebook. Precision was important in this job. It was the details that ensured solvency.<\/p>\n

He counted the figures internally. This would be expensive. The machinery could be replaced easily enough. But the structural integrity of the building seemed jeopardized. A probing finger tested one of the support beams, which wobbled like gelatin. Both he and the factory owner shared an eyebrows-at-the-roof-of-their-foreheads stare as they waited to see if the wobble would collapse the entire frame.<\/p>\n

Death by rubble would at least have been a relief from his financial troubles. They would have to raze the building from the ground and begin anew. And then there was the liability for the zombie. The lucky cremation would cut down on funeral costs, but he had a widow. The whole ordeal would easily burst through the policy ceiling.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you like some coffee?\u201d The owner asked.<\/p>\n

Hav nodded. \u201cWith a pinch of sugar and a dash of whiskey if you have it.\u201d<\/p>\n

The man laughed. \u201cJust the sugar, I think.\u201d He stepped carefully over with a tin cup, brimming with rich brown, smelling faintly of burning. Or maybe that was just the innards of the building, deformed and cooked. Hav hated that smell, couldn\u2019t separate it from the memories that it carried. Why did it always have to be fire?<\/p>\n

Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic had only moved to Huddleton six months ago but the damage toll he had racked up had been substantial. Sure, it was nice that the necromancers and warlocks and blood demons that used to occasionally pop up and possess or sacrifice or torture their poor denizens were being rounded up and set ablaze. But did the Archwizard need to level a city block to do it? Was it worth trading the occasional ghoul attack for this constant rain of fire?<\/p>\n

And why did they keep having to be his buildings. Why couldn\u2019t the good Archwizard explode a factory insured by the white-heeled toffs over at Zane, Zephyr, and Zotts? Even their slogan was aggravating\u2014We Don\u2019t Sleep at Night, So You Can. But no, it seemed every crime the damned wizard managed to foil happened to be inside of, or adjacent to, or within the vicinity of a property covered by his policies. And Frizzell Fantastic had to set them alight to stop it.<\/p>\n

Hav closed his little, black book of figures and sipped the coffee again. It tasted strong and sour, just like he enjoyed it, just like Margery used to make it.
\n
\nPart Two: The Numbers<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cInsurance isn\u2019t very sexy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Those were the first words his wife had ever spoken to him. They met at one of those rapid dating events where fifteen men and fifteen women rotated table-to-table, like the oily gears of a watch. He had been clutching, as a life preserver, a highball glass slushed with ice and clear liquid, scared to drink it too quickly for fear someone might take it away once he emptied it. She had been his third rotation, easy with green eyes and sipping a cold beer straight from the bottle.<\/p>\n

She had been right of course. She had always been right.<\/p>\n

Insurance isn\u2019t sexy. But attendees at early middle age singles mixers are not looking for sexy. They\u2019ve either already had their fill or have given up on trying to find it, probably for the better. Instead, they\u2019re searching for security. For somebody to make small talk with about their jobs and wisecrack about the local theatre troupes and try restaurants with those spicy dishes she liked that always gave him indigestion, and to be there, when something gave, in the organs or the bones or the blood, so that he wouldn\u2019t die alone on his kitchen floor and not be found for days, until his neighbor picked up the stench. That had been the plan, at least.<\/p>\n

Insurance is security.<\/p>\n

\u201cA total burnout over at the candlemaker\u2019s place, huh?\u201d Sue said.<\/p>\n

Sue was his receptionist. Not his wife. She was a round woman, with fluffy brown hair, of indeterminate age, somewhere past motherhood but not quite at grandmotherhood. Of course, not all women had children. But all women like Sue did. Hav did not know\u2014and much preferred it that way\u2014exactly what Sue thought was sexy. If he had to guess it would have been cats or crocheting. He would\u2019ve been wrong, though. Hav was never much for reading women. The answer was Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic. Whether it was spells or unfair fortune, he was dreamy.<\/p>\n

Sue scratched her way through a crossword at her desk and barely looked up when he entered. Along the wall near her head a shingle read, \u201cGibbons & Gibbons, Risk Management.\u201d There wasn\u2019t a second Gibbons, his father had been lout and a gambler, not an insurance man, those binges being one of the nudging reasons he\u2019d gone into a profession built on managing risk. But two names sounded better than one. It signaled longevity, permanence even.<\/p>\n

Their offices were shelved up a twisty set of warped stairs, in the drafty attic over one of those small, atrociously named pubs that six days a week served as desperately barren repositories of human shame but that on the seventh acted, like an earthly temple, as a gathering beacon for the brief, crushing optimism that preceded a sporting match. The space was both cramped and airy, with narrow walls but high ceilings trellised with support beams.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlace looked like a warzone,\u201d Hav said.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut that Count Malaveaux sure got what was comin\u2019 to him,\u201d Sue said.<\/p>\n

Sue believed firmly in a logic to the world that dictated that people always, eventually, got what was comin\u2019 to them. The Count got what was comin\u2019 to him when the Archwizard set him on fire and the foreign devils got what was comin\u2019 to them when they were invaded and her neighbor Maude got what was comin\u2019 to her when her petunias died in the late frost. Hav had suspected that, with regard to that last act of karmic justice, Sue had been her own agent of change. Justice often selects the crudest of instruments.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he though? The Count was seventy-four. Hadn\u2019t done a virgin sacrifice in two decades. I heard he mostly played chess in the park nowadays.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStill, a man can\u2019t outrun his destiny,\u201d Sue said, resolutely.<\/p>\n

\u201cYea, but that was the arthritis, I think,\u201d Hav said. He fell into the back of his desk chair, hidden behind a fortified wall of policy binders and correspondence.<\/p>\n

Sue ignored the jibe. \u201cShame it was our building again, though. Care for some pie? It\u2019s blueberry season.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook his head at his receptionist and slipped a ledger from underneath his tilting tower of receipts, careful not to disturb its precise balance. He had already done the math in his head\u2014he was an insurer after all\u2014but vain optimism (it must have filtered up through the floorboards) made him want to check the numbers against the books. They only confirmed what he already knew. Forecasting out current trends\u2014and Hav was nothing if not meticulous about forecasting\u2014he would be out of business by the holidays.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow\u2019s it lookin?\u201d Sue brought a piece of unasked for pie over and set it down with cool, whipped cream spooned on the crust.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot good,\u201d Hav said. He rubbed his temples and forked a bite of the pie into his mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe need help. Or we\u2019re both going to need to start looking for other jobs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFrom who, the wizard? He does seem awfully nice. He\u2019s a real hero\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo! Not that damned wizard. The police constable! The law! Somebody! This is destruction of property.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d Sue said. \u201cIf you think that\u2019s best. I bet everyone always gets what they\u2019re looking for from the police.\u201d<\/p>\n

Part 3: Trial & Error<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cI want you to arrest Archwizard Fantastic.\u201d<\/p>\n

The stout police constable with a hairbrush mustache stared at him, one eye half-cocked, over a piece of Sue\u2019s blueberry pie. He was heavyset with the neatly shorn head of a man devoted to authority.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe sleep with your wife too?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? No.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh. We\u2019ve just gotten a lot of those complaints recently. What\u2019d he do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s blowing up buildings! The candle factory! The department store on 5th. The curry joint on Riverton.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat curry place always gave me indigestion.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes! But that doesn\u2019t mean he gets to destroy it!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t say it did. Didn\u2019t say it did,\u201d the constable stroked his chin and leaned back into the rivets of his chair. He tapped his thumbs on his chest, deep in thought. \u201cAll the same, maybe we should consider all the circumstances before arresting folks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav became exasperated. \u201cHe killed the foreman!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, but I heard he was a zombie at the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo they not have rights?\u201d<\/p>\n

The constable looked worried. \u201cI don\u2019t know, do they?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sweat started to form under Hav\u2019s collar. He\u2019d done everything he was supposed to do. He\u2019d saved his money. He\u2019d built up his business. Against all odds, he\u2019d even married well. It wasn\u2019t supposed to all fall apart, not like this, not to conscientious folks like him.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s criminal!\u201d Hav said, finally, as if that should have settled the issue.<\/p>\n

The constable\u2019s too-small eyes rolled together into focus, setting pointedly over his too-small nose under his too-small forehead. \u201cIs it? Feels a bit like of justice to me. He\u2019s wrangling up all sorts of vile folk. Even if there is a bit o\u2019 collateral damage.\u201d<\/p>\n

The color slipped from Hav\u2019s face, slowly and then all-at-once, like water circling down a recently unclogged drain. He stepped up and stormed out of the station. He\u2019d have to find another means of stopping the damn wizard.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks for the pie though!\u201d The constable called after him.<\/p>\n

\n

There was no name on the Necromancer\u2019s Den. It did not need one. Those who chose to frequent the tavern already knew where it was and those who didn\u2019t\u2014well they weren\u2019t coming back for a second round. Maybe because they\u2019d been turned into ghouls or maybe because they\u2019d been charged a hefty price for a lukewarm pint that tasted like eye of newt.<\/p>\n

Hav entered with the certainty of a toddler attempting to walk, which is to say full of fear and ready to give up at any second because really, crawling isn\u2019t so bad and people will pick you up and carry you if they think you can\u2019t move in a bipedal fashion. A few heads turned although he could not make out their faces. The only light in the entire place seemed to be a couple of sconces on the far wall.<\/p>\n

Hav rapped on the scraped, black lacquered wood of the bar. A bartender turned at the sound, a slender figure in tight black jeans with a white shirt cut-off at her midriff, bright and inviting as a fresh coat of snow in winter. Hav was so taken with her that he almost didn\u2019t notice the hole in her left cheek that offered a window into her jaw or that her skin shone an unnatural, decaying grey. Almost. She raised a single eyebrow, as if to say, what do you want?<\/p>\n

\u201cHoly shit,\u201d Hav said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re the third guy to look at me like that and say that this week. They had more blood on them, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you\u2014are you a zombie?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should be careful asking questions like that in a place like this,\u201d she said, batting her wild green eyes. And in a manner that Hav probably should have read as threatening but didn\u2019t, added \u201cSomeone might mistake you for a snack.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav thought about poor Rog the foreman. \u201cHow do you like being a\u2014well, you know, a zombie?\u201d<\/p>\n

She shrugged her pair of beautiful shoulders. \u201cFor me, it was a fresh start. Others sometimes don\u2019t have the appetite for it. What\u2019ll you be having?\u201d<\/p>\n

A fresh start. That\u2019s what he needed. \u201cDo you have beer?\u201d She shrugged but didn\u2019t say no. \u201cAnd\u2014\u201d Hav leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a whisper. She reciprocated, either because everyone likes secrets or because she wanted to smell his skin. \u201cI\u2019d like to hire a warlock for a\u2014sensitive assignment.\u201d<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t blink. Maybe because she didn\u2019t have eyelids. Instead, she poured a brown soupy liquid into a mug that smelled as if it had last been used to preserve organs and pointed to the darkest and most shrouded spot in the Den, its fifth corner, which of course shouldn\u2019t have been possible, because from all outward evidence the bar appeared rather rectangular.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe take payment in coin or flesh,\u201d she said, licking her cold blue lips, and briefly Hav considered his options before reminding himself of his purpose. He emptied his wallet out onto the counter and hurried over to the gestured table, before he might change his mind, where two men, hooded in black, sat comfortably, nursing green drinks that gurgled when touched. A single, stumpy candle struggled mightily next to them.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, you\u2019re lookin\u2019 for some dark magic?\u201d the shorter one spoke.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes\u2014err\u2014well I suppose so,\u201d Hav said, taking an uneasy seat.<\/p>\n

\u201cWant to kill your wife, is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo of course not\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet her to nag you less?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Hav repeated, firmer this time. \u201cI want to hire you to kill the Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic.\u201d<\/p>\n

The men considered this. \u201cDid he sleep with your wife, then?\u201d The taller one said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do people keep asking that? No, I just want him gone.\u201d The two men leaned forward into the light of the candle, their faces pale as a winter moon. The taller of the two had a hooked nose and eyes that bore a pitiless black. The shorter one had a surprisingly genial face, like a balding librarian.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe thing about magic, \u2018son, is that it\u2019s expensive to use,\u201d the shorter one spoke, finally. His voice was salted with hunger, or at least intrigue. \u201c\u2019Especially that kind o\u2019magic.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s even costlier to clean up,\u201d Hav said, \u201cTrust me. I\u2019ll pay. Even if it\u2019s my last nickel.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s his arm, then?\u201d A thin, blackened bone jutted out from the twisted rubble of what used to be Housers, a quaint little tavern plopped on the edge of the river and haunted exclusively by luckless drunks.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe think so, hard to tell with the scorch marks,\u201d the round-faced constable grunted through his mustache. \u201c\u2019An\u2019 the fact that it\u2019s not, y\u2019know, attached.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd they were warlocks, you say?\u201d Hav gulped, the tension hopefully not evident in the sweating creases of his forehead. Behind them, the bursting, orange-yellow sun was setting, and the crowds had started to clear. It was just the constable and him now, and of course, the newspaper interview of the arsonist-wizard being conducted behind them.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, there were two of them. The other we think is that sooty outline, over there,\u201d Hav rearranged his glasses to follow the constable\u2019s outstretched arm toward a point in the distance where a blackened mark that vaguely resembled a human form had been burned. \u201cThey just attacked the Archwizard as he was signing autographs in the back.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav sighed and made a few more marks on the crispy parchment of his pressed black notebook. The idiots not only failed, but they had to have picked the fight in another one of his insureds\u2019 buildings.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the wizard?\u2019 He bit off the word in his mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cApparently the two men just jumped him. A strange decision, I\u2019d say. But I guess he\u2019s really eating into their business, y\u2019know. And Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic, he put on a real show this time. Bolted up through the roof to avoid the ambush, and then hurtled back down from the clouds, tumbling like a giant\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cFireball?\u201d Hav said, dryly.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was going to say meteor. But fireball works. Took out half the building right just with his re-entrance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the other half?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell he\u2019s a firethrower, ain\u2019t he? Not the most precise form of magic. I suppose he tried his best to hit the perpetrators, but y\u2019know, sometimes it takes more than one shot.\u201d<\/p>\n

Looking around, it had taken much more than one shot.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut once he had cleared out the walls and most of the roof, the warlocks were there for the \u2018picken,\u201d the constable added cheerfully.<\/p>\n

Hav\u2019s eyes darted back over the grimy outline of warlock number two. He guessed it was the shorter, genial looking one. That one had the look of someone who wouldn\u2019t be quick enough to dodge a fireball.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd do we know their identities? Or their motive?\u201d Hav ventured, still on edge.<\/p>\n

The constable shook his head. \u201cNo, don\u2019t think we\u2019ll be finding their identifications, neither.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav sighed in relief and tucked his pencil back into his pocket, behind his stringy dark hair. Not that it was much relief. Another rebuild. Not to mention the liability claims.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks for your help. I think I have enough,\u201d Hav said. The truth was that even if he didn\u2019t, he could not handle standing here much longer\u2014not surrounded by charred bodies, not inhaling that stench of ash and smoke that seemed to follow him everywhere, from his buildings to his nightmares.<\/p>\n

They shook hands and Hav picked his way out of the wreckage. A few steps away his foot caught on a stray piece of what might have once been a stool, or part of the wall maybe, or a table, or gods forbid, the tall warlock\u2019s leg, sending him to his knees.<\/p>\n

\u201cDamnit.\u201d As he dusted off his pants, a sparkle caught his eye. It was a small, glass globe that, as he blew off the ash that coated it, glowed an ethereal, mesmerizing green. Not only that, but it had a heft to it. Despite being little larger than a marble, it weighed like a stone. He moved to put it back and then\u2014at the last moment\u2014decided against it. There could be an insurance claim about this globe, and if so, he\u2019d want to preserve it.<\/p>\n

As he pocketed it, he heard the interview conclude behind him. Archwizard Fantastic, his golden locks flowing over a resplendent, purple cloak sewn with streaming stars, was patting the slim newspaper man on the back. Hav had to admit the man was committed to the part. Could he not be troubled to wear a pair of pants, at least?<\/p>\n

\u201cThe only tragedy here is that I couldn\u2019t do more to save the criminals\u2019 lives, too. But when you live by the fire\u2014\u201d the Archwizard said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou die by the fire,\u201d the newspaper man finished chummily.<\/p>\n

Frizzell\u2019s lively blue eyes winked with delight and his teeth flashed a dazzling white smile. Hav shook his head and pushed on. The warlock\u2019s deaths had been the one small mercy. They couldn\u2019t rat him out. And the dead don\u2019t have medical bills that need to be paid.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cSo, can we sue him?\u201d Hav said.<\/p>\n

A slender man with a mane of luxurious silver-grey hair paced behind a lake of a desk in a three-pieced, slick brown suit at the offices of Fickler & Urk. The office sparkled with rich wood and smelled distinctly of shoe polish. The man, Francis Fickler, paused to consider the question, the well-worn leather of his face pursing just slightly, as if there had even been the possibility of more than one answer. They said he was the best. Hav wasn\u2019t sure, but he was at least expensive. The offices were in one of those proper neighborhoods where all the shops had four walls and roofs and even hand-painted signs.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic?\u201d Francis Fickler said, the deep, somber tones of his voice just washing over the room with intoxicating certainty.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Hav said. He\u2019d gone to the warlocks first because it had seemed so much more civilized than litigation. Warlocks just killed you. And they might even bring you back. Lawyers, on the other hand, ruined lives, and they did so in painstakingly slow fashion. But now he had little choice. \u201cHe\u2019s burned down four different buildings I insure. Surely, I can recover some costs from him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s quite popular, you know,\u201d Mr. Fickler continued. \u201cA jury might have trouble holding him responsible.\u201d His eyes appraised the rows of embossed, leather books that climbed behind the desk. They looked so unused, or at least, so evenly ordered, that Hav would have wagered that at least half of them were painted carboard.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut surely the townspeople are getting tired of rebuilding a city block every month.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fickler circled his storming, grey eyes back toward Hav. \u201cNo, I doubt that. You see, the townspeople all have insurance.\u201d His tanned skin broke into a wide, plastic smile, the type of smile he\u2019d probably given a thousand times in business conferences and to opposing counsel, and of course to his wife. It was a practiced smile and it said, you seem nice, but I truly have better things to do than continue this meeting. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you just write an exclusion into the policy, for wizard crimes?\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav frowned. Like he hadn\u2019t thought of that. Instinctively, he squeezed the green orb that was still in his pocket. It seemed to calm him, to touch it, to feel its coolness. \u201cI have. Going forward, for new clients. But what about all my old clients on old policies? We never used to have a wizard problem in this town. We had very little magic at all. And then we started getting the occasional necromancer, which was fine, they don\u2019t do explosions, but now we have a goddamn fire wizard.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, yes. Times are changing. And we must change with them. Now if he kills a bystander, my colleague Mr. Urk may be able to help.\u201d His partner, the troll, Mr. Urk, handled mostly criminal matters. Mr. Fickler had explained that it was a more rough-and-tumble world, criminal law, one attuned to Mr. Urk\u2019s more direct methodology.<\/p>\n

Mr. Fickler ushered Hav towards the door with a wave. \u201cThank you for coming in to see me though, and good luck, Mr. Givens.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGibbons,\u201d Hav whispered, standing up, his feet sinking into plush carpeting that deep enough to cover whatever bodies had been buried in the floorboards. \u2018So, you\u2019re not going to take the case?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe last lawyer who sued a wizard was turned into a pig,\u201d Mr. Fickler said, dryly. \u201cNo. That was a joke. Get it, because lawyers are pigs? But really his house was burned down and he was run out of town.\u201d<\/p>\n

Part 4: Bargaining<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hav labored up the reedy stairs to the offices of Gibbons & Gibbons, his shoulders slouched, his shirt wrinkled with wear and sweat, and his eyes sinking lower and lower into the folds of his cheeks. It wasn\u2019t a Saturday, so the building wasn\u2019t shaking, at least.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi Sue,\u201d he said, voice failing as he forced the door open.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe wouldn\u2019t take the case, huh?\u201d she said. The only parts of her that looked up from her newspaper were her thick brown eyebrows, which did a small, emotional dance that seemed to evoke pity. \u201cThere\u2019s a fresh pot of coffee on.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d Hav poured himself a mug before collapsing into the nearest desk chair with the whomp of a lead brick launched off of a rooftop. \u201cI don\u2019t know what to do, Sue. The constable won\u2019t arrest him. The lawyers won\u2019t sue him. And the warlocks couldn\u2019t kill him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWarlocks?\u201d Sue said, interested. The term warlocks got actual eye contact. The thing about Sue was\u2014well, maybe it was the thing about everyone, come to think of it. Damned magic got their curiosity up. They liked to gossip about it in that tittering fashion. To romance about it without considering all the niceties, like how it had blown up a few city blocks in the last few months and caused horrific injuries. Magic sounds exciting until you remember poor Rog, from the candle factory, who was incinerated, turned into a zombie, and incinerated again.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah\u2014apparently,\u201d he added, probably a little too thickly. \u201cA couple of them attacked the Archwizard at Housers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I read about that in the evening edition,\u201d Sue held up her half-finished crossword. \u201cIt didn\u2019t mention they were warlocks. How exciting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah well,\u201d Hav ran his hand through his hair. \u201cThey aren\u2019t anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav pulled up his general ledger and started to add up the most recent figures, accounting for the estimates to repair Housers to his growing stack of payables.<\/p>\n

It was truly over. He\u2019d file for bankruptcy in the morning. Francis Fickler had been more than willing to handle that matter. They\u2019d strip down his office for parts. Every last thing he had would be sold to cover his losses, or Fickler\u2019s fees\u2014all physical evidence he had left of Margery. From the coffee pot she had gifted him on their first anniversary, to the blue, receptionist chair that squeaked whenever she had stood up to welcome new clients.<\/p>\n

She\u2019d never come to believe that insurance was sexy, but she\u2019d always found him sexy enough, and had come to accept insurance as part of the package deal. And, in the end, she had at least appreciated what Hav had always seen in it: insurance was helping people.<\/p>\n

She had died three years ago. He\u2019d come home to find her in their burned-out house, a twisting ruin of smoke and ash, her body only recognizable by location. It had to be fire. That smell, of char, of crisped ends, was one he\u2019d never been able to escape since. She\u2019d been sleeping, an afternoon nap, in the bed. She\u2019d left the wood burning under the oven, making his favorite, a Hunter\u2019s Stew, and dozed off for a little too long. Everything had started to fall apart then\u2014the appearance of Archwizard Fantastic, two and a half years later, only sealed an already foretold deal.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think this is the end,\u201d he said, finally. \u201cI hope you have some money saved up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sue stood up, folded her paper into her armpit, walked over and hugged him. It was a gentle hug, more of a squeeze really, the type given to reassure children who\u2019ve had a fright, but it helped all the same.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d hired Sue shortly after his wife died. He\u2019d needed someone to help with the paperwork. Margery had taken care of that for so many years he\u2019d nearly forgotten how. But especially in those first few months, he\u2019d also needed someone to stave off the loneliness. Presence is under appreciated until one lives absence.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe you should go talk to him\u2014to Frizzell the Fantastic,\u201d she said, a little too dreamily for Hav\u2019s tastes. \u201cWhen my Aunt Belinda tried to disinvite me from the family Solstice party, well, I just marched right over there while she was gardening one day, my heels sinkin\u2019 into her marigolds, and told her how I felt to her face.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd did it work?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot exactly,\u201d Sue said. \u201cBut Belinda fell down the stairs a few weeks later so it all worked itself out anyway. Like I say, they always get what\u2019s coming to them.\u201d<\/p>\n

You might question Sue\u2019s methods, but you had to respect her results. Hav glanced up at her and noticed, for the first time, a brief announcement in the Huddleton Times that was folded in her arms. It said \u201cREWARD: Orb of the Undead. A small green marble. Lost near Housers. Return to Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic. DO NOT EAT. CURSED. WILL TURN YOU UNDEAD.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav\u2019s hand reached, instinctively, for the green orb in his pocket. As it always did, it felt weirdly cool to the touch, and a tad too heavy for its bulk. It reminded him of the glowing jade eyes of the bartender from the Necromancer\u2019s Den. He couldn\u2019t stop thinking about her frigid blue lips and how he wanted to taste them.<\/p>\n

\u201cSue, I have an idea.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAn idea?\u201d she said, looking up. \u201cIs it a good idea or is it a stupid idea?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to go talk to the Archwizard.\u201d<\/p>\n

She harumphed. \u201cThat was my idea, Hav.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you\u2019re going to go to Zane, Zephyr & Zotts today, and take out the largest life insurance policy they will sell you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOn who?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOn me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sue blinked a couple of times. \u201cAh. So it\u2019s one good idea and one stupid idea.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

He walked through pelting, shrapnel rain to the address listed in the newspaper, a small cottage squatting on a hill near the River District. He knocked twice on a solid, wood door, which echoed, and then opened of its own accord a few moments later.<\/p>\n

The humble exterior of the cottage concealed a vast, elaborate interior. The threshold led into a stretching ballroom bathed in airy blue and green light that poured down from a constellation of orbiting chandeliers above. A knot of staircases ascended from the atrium at jaunty angles, in four or five different directions. They appeared to be both of haphazard construction and free-standing so that they could only be held up by, what Hav assumed, was magic. The Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic descended from one of those staircases in a flowing, purple cloak.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you come about the orb?\u201d Archwizard Fantastic said. His voice boomed like a whale probing the vast distances of the sea.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, sir\u2014I am A. Haverford Gibbons. I\u2019m an insurance agent.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav considered this. \u201cYes, pretty sure. That\u2019s my name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo\u2014Are you sure that you haven\u2019t come about the orb? I had a premonition that I would soon be getting a visitor who knew the orb\u2019s location.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav resisted the urge to finger the small marble in his pocket. \u201cAnd what orb is that?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Orb of the Undead, of course. One of the warlocks was carrying it,\u201d he said. His blue eyes appraised Hav up and down, as if searching him for secrets. \u201cIt was in the paper.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does it do?\u201d Hav asked, as innocently as he could.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf eaten, it gives the consumer the terrible powers of a dark wizard,\u201d the Archwizard said. \u201cBut at a terrible price, of course. You become cursed to turn into a zombie, for eternity, they say.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh,\u201d Hav said. \u201cWell, I\u2019m here on another matter. You see, I am the insurer for a number of the buildings that you have\u2014err\u2014recently razed. Housers, for one. And the candle shop. And of course, the department store. And the curry joint.\u201d<\/p>\n

Archwizard Frizzell the Fantastic ran a hand through his locks of golden hair. \u201cYes, I do believe I saved lives at each of those places. I apologize if a few beams or windows got dented in the process.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav wiped a film of sweat off his brow. \u201cWell, they were a little more than dented\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA small price to pay for human life, no?\u201d Frizzell Fantastic said. He waved his hand at the far wall, where a wash of certificates and awards and banners appeared\u2014a letter from the mayor naming a Frizzell the Fantastic day, the key to the city, and row and row of glowing headlines in the Huddleton Times. \u201cThe rest of the city seems to see it that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s because they haven\u2019t had to pay for it yet,\u201d Hav said. \u201cListen, I\u2019m not saying stop saving people. I\u2019m just saying, maybe we could cut a deal?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA deal?\u201d Archwizard Fantastic tapped his nose with intrigue.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I could find your green orb for you, would you agree not to you know\u2014blow up any more of the buildings I insure? I can give you a map of places to stay away from.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, Mr. Gibbons, I wish I could strike that deal,\u201d he said. \u201cBut unfortunately, the gentlemen from Zane, Zephyr, and Zotts were here a couple of months ago, and offered me quite a large sum of money for a similar deal, and I needed capital, you see\u2014it\u2019s not cheap being a wizard, especially if you\u2019re going to do it in style.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Archwizard was on the payroll of his competitors? Hav turned red at the thought. \u201cWhat sort of deal?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, for a monthly fee, I agree to, you know, avoid certain places in town.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav\u2019s jaw clenched. \u201cWell, I can pay, too. Can\u2019t we make the same deal?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Archwizard shook his head. \u201cI wish we could. Truly, I wish we could. But at that point, too much of the city would be off limits. Who would I be able to help? You can\u2019t be a hero, Mr. Gibbons, if you don\u2019t have people to save.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav\u2019s shoulders fell. He stared at his feet for a moment. Another idea suggested itself. \u201cWhat if, instead, you could just magic the buildings you destroyed back the way they were? Fix them?\u201d He asked quietly. \u201cThat would be a huge help alone\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

The Archwizard folded his eyebrows in disappointment. \u201cIt always ends the in the same place, doesn\u2019t it? You cannot do it yourself and so you want it for free. Well magic isn\u2019t free, Mr. Gibbons. There are not handouts. There are not entitlements. You have to make your own way in this world.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI just want you to put things back together\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s how it starts, yes. But then folks become dependent. They want their food summoned and their healthcare spelled for them. It\u2019s no good I tell you,\u201d the Archwizard tut-tutted Hav toward the door. \u201cBut if you do see that green orb, please send it my way. It would be rather terribly dangerous if a devious sort of person found it first.\u201d<\/p>\n

Part 5: Acceptance<\/strong><\/p>\n

Everybody is broken. Some people just haven\u2019t been pressed hard enough for their fissures to show. Hav sat back in his darkened office, fingering the mysterious green orb, rolling it along the top of his desk, flicking it into various stacks of paper aimlessly, for the better part of an hour. Eventually, after his back started to swell from bending over to pick it from the floor one too many times, he said, screw it, and popped it in his mouth. What did he have to lose, he had thought, to which the answer is always something.<\/p>\n

It tasted metallic and gushy and just a bit like the underside of a shoe that had spent the night tap dancing on a sticky barroom floor. But the taste was the least of his concerns. A bright green flash exploded upon swallowing, from everywhere and nowhere at once, followed by a deafening sound of the building imploding in on itself, and after that, the distinct sensation of falling. The last thought Hav managed before he was knocked entirely unconscious by his forehead connecting with the tile floors of the bar below was\u2014oh great, another policy claim.<\/p>\n

He awoke hours later in bleary confusion. At first, he thought he was dead. But then he saw Sue. Surely, she wasn\u2019t dead. And if she were, they probably wouldn\u2019t have ended up in the same afterlife. Finally, he saw Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re alive!\u201d Sue exclaimed. Her wavy brown hair bounced with delight. They had stretchered his body away from the pile of rubble whose twisted signage advertised that it used to house the offices of Gibbons & Gibbons.<\/p>\n

Hav rubbed his neck. \u201cWhat is he doing here?\u201d He pointed his finger furiously toward the Archwizard.<\/p>\n

Sue blushed. \u201cWell\u2014I found the building like this\u2014so I sent a pigeon to the Archwizard. I figured he could help. And he fished you out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re most welcome, Mr. Gibbons.\u201d The Archwizard bowed low, so his golden hair drooped over his face. \u201cIt is a great pleasure to be able to serve the citizens of Huddleton in such\u2014”<\/p>\n

Hav still glared at Sue. He thought he should be more hurt\u2014or at least sore\u2014but he felt strong, invigorated, and, most surprisingly, entirely in one piece without so much as a broken bone. \u201cNot him. Anyone but him. He\u2019s ruined me, don\u2019t you see? He\u2019s evil.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe save you, Hav, out of the collapsed building,\u201d Sue assured him. She reached to pat him on the back but Hav recoiled. \u201cHe\u2019s just trying to help.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. What he does is not helping. What we do is helping, Sue. We make families whole. That is our job. The world has broken them in some way\u2014taken something from them, be it their possessions, or their health, or their homes\u2014and we put it back together as best we can. That is what insurance is.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hav\u2019s voice rose in his throat, his fists shook with rage. He thought of his wife, burned up in the oven fire, unsaved. He thought of Rog, the foreman who died as a zombie. He thought of soot outline after soot outline of petty thieves left by the Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic.<\/p>\n

\u201cSettle down, Hav,\u201d Sue said. She backed away from him. \u201cYou\u2019ve been through a lot tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

But Hav did not settle down. He could feel it flow through him. Power or agency or just anger. His vision flashed in vibrant green and electric sparks of neon shot from his hands. \u201cHim\u2014Them. The wizards and the warlocks, the whole lot of magic, they just destroy. That\u2019s all they are. All we want to do is fix things, and all they want to do is break them.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Archwizard\u2019s normally pristine face frowned at this. \u201cMr. Gibbons, you found the Orb, didn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re goddamn right I did,\u201d Hav shouted, intense energy seeping through his pores, filtering through his skin. His entire body started to glow in the same wispy green light as the orb.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should not have eaten it,\u201d the Archwizard said, folding his hands together and snapping his knuckles.<\/p>\n

\n

A knock rang on the door and Sue waved the visitor into her small cottage outside of town. He was a thin man with fraying hair in a pair of rectangle glasses. He wore plaid suspenders and carried a portfolio of papers underneath his left arm.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you Ms. Susan Britton?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am Howard Zotts from Zane, Zephyr, and Zotts. You took out a rather large life insurance policy on Mr. A Haverford Gibbons last week?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have just lovely petunias, if I do so say myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sue brimmed at the comment and ushered the gentleman inside. It had not been a long battle. Or even much of a battle, at all. It turned out that it took a bit of learning to get the hang of magic, and the Archwizard Frizzell Fantastic had not given Hav the time. Like a blind man given the gift of sight and then entered in a reading competition.<\/p>\n

Never had a chance, really.<\/p>\n

But shockingly, Hav hadn\u2019t seemed the least disappointed in his fate. Not the first time he had died (by impaling) or the subsequent three times (by fire, by drowning, and by being flung off a cliff). Each instance he had bounced back\u2014the Orb was indeed cursed\u2014slightly more undead than before, maybe missing an appendage, but just chipper (a term Sue and never used to describe Hav before), and smiling, even after he lost a few of his teeth. Eventually, that resiliency had worn on the Archwizard, who, after the better part of the day, had shrugged his shoulders and disappeared into the sky, muttering something about being good enough for government work.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcellent. If you\u2019ll just sign a few of these papers here, we can cut you the check this afternoon,\u201d Mr. Zotts said. He handed her a small stack of parchment. \u201cI apologize that it took a few days. There was some dispute over whether becoming undead qualified under the policy\u2019s terms. But your lawyer\u2014Mr. Urk was it? He proved\u2014well, quite persuasive.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Zotts rubbed his shoulders as he spoke.<\/p>\n

\u201cReal long arm of the law, that one,\u201d Sue said admiringly. Mr. Urk, it turned out, shared similar views to Sue about individuals and getting what was comin\u2019 to them.<\/p>\n

\u201cReal shame about Hav, though,\u201d Mr. Zotts said, and, raising one eyebrow curiously, added: \u201cAny idea how he\u2019s coping? Is he going to re-start Gibbons & Gibbons, now that, you know, he\u2019s a zombie.\u201d<\/p>\n

But Sue shook her head. \u201cHe seems okay. He\u2019s a little sore about only having one ear but he got a job sweeping the floors at the Necromancer\u2019s Den. I think a fresh start will be good for him. Said he even has a date next weekend. Another zombie, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Zotts took back his sheaf of papers from her and tucked them into his portfolio. \u201cNecromancer\u2019s Den,\u201d he said dismissively. \u201cKids these days, they think magic can fix everything. It\u2019s irresponsible. It\u2019s fantasy. Poor Hav. But for those of us who live in the real world, though, our only recourse is to prepare for life\u2019s troubles, not run away from them. And like you did, to buy insurance.\u201d <\/p>\n

Ross MacDonald is a practicing attorney (we all make regrettable life choices) who won awards for short fiction in college and has had his non-fiction legal writing published in the Texas Law Review. He lives in Houston with his wife and dog Riley, who is a very good boy.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Part One: The Accident It smelled of cinnamon and smoke. The cinnamon came from the scented candles. The smoke from everything else. \u201cAnd the fireball came through that window over there?\u201d A. Haverford Gibbons, sinewy dark hair thinning by the minute, gestured at a gash in the side of the brick-and-mortar walls of the candle …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107906,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,14,20109],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-140178","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-publications","category-tcl-46-winter-2023","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140178","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107906"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140178"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140178\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140179,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140178\/revisions\/140179"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140178"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140178"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140178"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}