In Memoriam

“Ding!”

The desk clerk gave me a bewildered stare.

“Did you just say... ‘ding’?” he asked.

I nodded. “I was disappointed to see you don’t have one of those little hotel-counter bells. Every proper reception desk needs a bell, I’d say.”

The clerk frowned.

“Can I help you,” he said flatly. There was no question in his voice – just a firm hope that I’d wandered in by accident, and was then likely to wander out with no undue disturbance.

“Very possibly, yes. My name is Michael Alastair Reeve, and I’m a professional wizard. Is the medical examiner in?”

“... you’re a what?”

“A wizard,” I said, thumbing through a pamphlet on organ donation. “In fact, I’m basically the official wizard for this region. And I’m pretty good, too! You wouldn’t believe the kinds of fancy mystical mumbo-jumbo I know. Which is why, incidentally, you won’t remember me saying I was a wizard, but instead some kind of electrician. Is the medical examiner in?”

The clerk’s brow furrowed, as if he was trying to remember something very important.

“What’s wrong with the routers...?” he said hesitantly.

“Because,” I continued, “if the medical examiner is not in, I’m going to wander on back to the morgue and poke around for a while. Sound good?”

“... but now you mention it, the wi-fi is slow sometimes.”

“Also, I think your fern probably has mites,” I said, pointing at a cabinet behind him.

The clerk nodded uncertainly. “Well, Dr. Vanth is gone right now, so the modem in her office should be okay. Go on in.”

“Thanks. I’m a wizard.”

“I know, totally.”

I offered a final cheery smile before retrieving my satchel and heading down the corridor. The poor befuddled desk clerk shook his head and returned to his spreadsheet.

It was still early morning, so the scrubbed beige hallway echoed with a single set of footsteps. The pale fluorescent lights buzzed lazily, shedding layers of sterile white light that glistened over the vinyl floor. A stale chemical odor hovered in the air – not quite bad enough to make your eyes water, but sufficient to snowball over time into a noticeable headache.

Overall, everything was still and white and... well, clean.

I ducked through a promising double-door, and was greeted by what I can only describe as gleam. Gleaming steel sinks, sterilized gleaming surgeon’s tools, a polished gleaming table, gleaming lamps, and a whole wall of gleaming metal doors.

As I stood before this extremely specific storage space, a fragile plink! emerged from my satchel.

“Alright! Now we’re talking!”

I dove into my bag and retrieved a fist-sized spherical ceramic jar. It was an unfathomable blue and etched with delicate silver waves.

“Looks like we’re getting close,” I said.

The jar plink!ed again in reply.

“Well said.”

I turned back to the cooler doors, which were quite helpfully featureless and unlabeled. It looks like I’ll have to do this the hard way.

“Okay, here we go. Empty... no one home... nada... don’t mind me, sir... oops! Uh, pardon you sir... Eureka!”

A gentle tug eased the very last drawer into the open. A rather no-nonsense tag declared the drawer’s occupant as female, white, five-eight-ish, and very likely deceased from unknown causes.

I retrieved the little blue jar and held it over the outstretched drawer.

“Don’t mind me, Miss Doe – or may I call you Jane? This’ll only take a moment....”

Slowly, patiently, I guided the jar through the air, taking care not to touch the plain white sheet.

It has to be here, I insisted. She’s the one, I’m sure of–

Plink!

It was with no small amount of relief that I set the jar down and pulled aside a corner of sheet. The revealed section of leg was cold and pale and stiff to the touch.

“With your permission, miss.” There were no blemishes that I could see – the ashen skin seemed perfectly whole and untarnished. The leg resisted as I carefully turned it inwards...

... and there it was. On the outer edge of the calf, an inch or two below the knee, was a small red mark, not unlike a bee sting. There was no swelling, no scabbing – nothing especially noteworthy about it. Any physician would discount it as nothing more than an insect bite.

But then, would any physician have a wizard’s knowledge or experience? Or a genuine Manandán jar?

I don’t think so.

“Alright, little fella. Do your stuff.”

I uncapped the blue jar with a clink and pressed it to the wound. Instantly, the ceramic seemed to grow colder in my grip. There was a hiss, like ocean spray falling on a rocky shore, and then the scraping of something small and sharp scrabbling against stone. When the commotion finally subsided, I pulled the jar away. A thin trail of mist remained, along with a faint scent of tidewater.

The blue ceramic jar was then lidded and safely stowed back in my satchel. I emptied the rest of the satchel’s contents and turned back to the cooler drawer.

A drawer on which the previously-deceased Jane Doe was now sitting.

She looked at me, then at the wall of doors behind her, then at me again. Her mouth opened wide–

“Nope! Hang on!” I held a finger to her lips, which automatically clamped shut. “Sorry, but we don’t need to wake anyone else today.”

The barely-stymied scream instead escaped through her eyes. Her white-knuckle grip on the metal drawer would surely leave dents.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “It’ll be okay. You’re safe now.”

Slowly, I retreated from my shushing. The woman remained frozen with her jaws sealed together. Her eyes were less wild, but she still shook like an unwell Chihuaha.

“My name is Michael,” I offered. “Michael Alastair Reeve. I’m here to help. Can you tell me your name?”

The woman stared silently.

“No? That’s okay. How do you feel? You must be cold.”

The woman glanced down, then clutched the sheet closer around her. She nodded weakly.

“I thought so. I, uh, brought these for you.” I held up my satchel’s former contents – a baggy sweatshirt, a plain T-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a pair of flip-flops. “Not very stylish, I’m afraid. And I’m sure I overestimated the size. They should wear better than a sheet, at least. In the meantime, I’ll be reading this very informative chart over here. Uh, with great interest.”

I turned to peruse a placard on hand-washing. A dull read, to say the least, but never let it be said that Michael Reeve isn’t a gentleman.

At first there was silence, broken only by the faintest humming of the refrigerator.

Use soap and running water.

Finally, there was the sleek sound of crisp linen, followed by a muffled shuffling of thicker cotton.

Rub your hands and arms vigorously for 20 seconds. Wash all surfaces, including–

“T-thank you,” a voice said, followed by the thin clop of sandals on the floor.

“No problem. How are you feeling?”

“Okay. I think. I mean... w-where am I?”

“Truthfully? The city morgue.”

If there had been any color left in those cheeks, it would have evaporated in a heartbeat. When the woman spoke again, it was with the ghost of a sob. “Am... am I...?”

“Oh, no! No no no... As of now, you’re as alive and healthy as humanly possible.”

“Then why am I...?”

“Well, the short answer is there was an accident a few days ago, and you were declared dead at the scene.”

“Oh God...” She held a hand to her mouth, ready to stifle another sob. “What’s the... what’s the long answer?”

I shrugged. “Basically, an amateur alchemist was trying to build himself an evil eye, which I don’t need to tell you are inherently unstable even if you do know what you’re doing. The thing is, he was using Slocum stone instead of proper opal – can you believe that? Surprise, surprise, the whole thing went critical. I got most of the pieces after the explosion, but I didn’t account for the one tiny shard flung out the window, or the random person jogging by at that exact moment, or the fact that EMTs are so darn efficient these days.

“But owing to my unparalleled skills as a wizard – I did say I’m a wizard, right? – I knew the most reliable way of tracking down and neutralizing the missing shard was via an artifact imbued with the power of the sea god Manandán – which it just so happens I have in my collection.

“And that – that’s the long answer.”

Once again, the morgue was deathly silent. The woman’s face was no longer a study in horror and despair – rather, she had the panicky look of someone trapped in an elevator with a crazy person. But since she had awoken in a coroner’s refrigerator instead of an elevator, there was also a trace of maybe in those eyes.

Suddenly, I was aware of another set of eyes. Eyes filled with What the hell?

“What the hell?” the desk clerk demanded.

“D’you mind?” I said. “I’m trying to have a conversation with Miss...”

I gestured pointedly to the recently-apparently-dead woman next to me.

“Oh!” she said, jerking upright. “Lucy. Um, Eklund.”

“As I say, this is a private meeting between me and Miss Eklund here. Mind your own beeswax.”

The clerk stared – I could almost hear the hamster wheel in his head squeaking along.

“... routers...” he mumbled finally as he slipped back out the door.

By now, Lucy was fighting to suppress an entirely different emotion.

“Uh, what just happened?” she said with a strangled snigger.

I marveled at the transformation in Lucy “Jane Doe” Eklund. The grayness of her skin had warmed to a healthy tan. Her movements were livelier. And her eyes – those big brown eyes that had recently been drowning with pain and fear – now glittered with that most elemental spark. Now that the sliver of concentrated evil had been removed, life was allowed to return.

“Oh don’t mind him,” I said. “He’s just in his own little world.”

Lucy smiled unsurely. “So... who are you? Really?”

“I already told you.”

She crossed her arms. “C’mon, do you really expect me to believe you’re a magician?”

“I think the word I used was ‘wizard’. ‘Magician’ implies I’ll start leaking rabbits.”

Lucy chortled. “Ah jeez! Well that image isn’t going anywhere!”

And there’s my laugh, I thought. That’ll do it.

“And speaking of going,” I said as I retrieved my satchel, “what do you say to a change of scenery?”

The mirth fell from Lucy’s face like a painting from a bent nail. She glanced once more at the cooler and shivered. “Oh God, yes, please – let’s get the hell out of here!”

And it was out from the room with the stainless-steel gleam, through the corridor that stung of bleach, into the waiting room currently playing the best of the 60s, and finally...

“Ding!”

The desk clerk surfaced from an open filing cabinet. “Did you just say ‘ding’?”

“Front desk, no bell, travesty, yadda-yadda,” I said. “Checkout please for Jane Doe number five-eight-two-nine.”

The clerk had the glazed eyes of someone trying to divide a very large number in his head.

“Of course. Just a sec.” He then ducked through a side door.

I leaned easily against the counter. “This should only take a– what’s with the look?”

Indeed, a ponderous shadow had crossed over her brow. I could almost hear her brain tiptoeing back down the hallway.

“Do you want to forget?”

She shuddered. “Sorry. Uh, what?”

“Do you want to forget?” I repeated. “Some experiences are not meant to be remembered – I imagine waking up dead is one of them.”

Lucy frowned. “I guess. I mean, it’s not something you can just get over.”

“True,” I shrugged. “Unless you happen to know a wizard.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “So, what, you’re going to erase my memory?”

“If you like. It doesn’t have to be that drastic, though. You know how when you go to the dentist for a procedure, and they’ll either knock you out completely – leaving a big empty hole in your day – or they’ll just numb you a bit. You can still remember most of it, but without the pain.”

“Well, I don’t know–”

“Sorry about the wait,” said the desk clerk, sliding a small plastic bin onto the countertop. “Our intern thinks he’s revolutionizing our filing system.”

“No problem at all,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful – I’m a wizard.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said the clerk sympathetically. Then he shook his head dazedly and retreated to his filing.

Lucy followed me, blinking, into the fresh morning sunlight.

“Alrighty! Let’s see what we have here!” I popped open the plastic bin and began passing the contents to Lucy. “One pair of teal-ish running shoes, one portable electronic music-player device with headphones, one key with elastic wristband, and hey! – one complimentary plastic storage bin. Sorry about the clothes. They don’t usually save those.”

For a long inscrutable moment, Lucy stared at her armful of possessions and said nothing. What I wouldn’t give sometimes to be a mind-reader....

“Miss Eklund?”

“Okay.”

I blinked. “Okay... what?”

Lucy shook her head. “Sorry. I mean, yes, I do want to forget.”

“Oh! Sure, we can do that.”

“But not all of it!” she said quickly. “I don’t want to know what happened or where I’ve been, but... well... can I just remember you?”

Uh-oh. “Remember me? Why’s that?”

“No! See, I... that is... I’m going to have a few days of blank space, right? I just think it’d be nice to know I wasn’t alone, that’s all.”

She seemed to realize just how much eye-contact she was making – suddenly the sidewalk was very interesting.

“If it helps,” I said, “the human mind is very flexible. You won’t even know there’s a gap, because your brain will fill in the blanks. You’d be amazed of how thoroughly you can convince yourself of something.”

“Well... fine, but still....”

It was almost heartbreaking to see how hard she was trying to avoid saying a very specific something.

“Okay, it’s a deal,” I said.

“Really? Cool, okay! So how does it work? Do I... I don’t know, get zapped or something?”

“It’s an easy process,” I said. “All it takes is three steps. Step one: close your eyes.”

Lucy hesitated, but complied.

“Step two: turn around three times.”

Again she obeyed, slowly, with a slight wobble.

“And step three...”

I held a thumb to her forehead.

... forget.

Lucy staggered, clutching her shoes tightly. I caught a flailing arm as she narrowly avoided a messy faceplant.

“Whoa there!” I said. “You okay, miss?”

“Ugh, yeah... thanks.” She frowned. “Sorry, I just got really dizzy for a sec.”

Her gaze met mine, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, have we... do I know you?”

I smiled. “Not that I know of. Will you be alright? D’you need a doctor? Or some water?”

She shook her head. “No... really, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Okay. Take care, now!”

Lucy Eklund passed me one more puzzled glance before hurrying off down the street. As I watched her disappear around a corner, I knew it was probably for the best. Knowledge of magic – and by extension, magic-users – is a risky thing. Knowledge begets curiosity begets investigation, and few things invite danger more than digging into magic with the wrong kind of shovel. For her own safety – and for a million other reasons – it was better for Lucy to forget.

Still, although she wouldn’t remember me, I knew I’d remember her.

I always remember them.

End


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For more Michael Reeve, see also:

FOLDER

Michael Reeve: The Lorelei Chronicles  (E) Meet Michael Reeve: professional wizard, wise detective, and eternal smart-aleck. #2024897 by BD Mitchell