Free Inherited Magic by Andrew Gordinier Page B

student. He wished he had been cold and heartless enough to let him wander off and get himself killed or sanctioned. Now, as his teacher, he was responsible for him, and in the long run, responsible for making sure this mess got cleaned up. It was going to attract attention and make trouble that Owen didn’t want or need. He calmed down and cleared his head by smoking a cigarette; there was no point in making the situation worse. They could deal with the fallout later, but right now they had to solve the problem before it got worse.
    He went down the back staircase to the basement of the building. It was his warehouse and held shelves full of items gained through the pawn shop. Some of them were useless, and of no value, others were rare and could fetch a hefty sum from the right buyer. Little of it really meant anything to Owen. He walked past it all, to a spot in the corner. Without a word or gesture, he traced a pattern in his mind and a section of the wall faded away, revealing a large safe door. He spun the combination lock a couple of times, and it opened with a satisfying click.
    The safe was about the size of a large refrigerator and was compartmentalized, so there were a variety of storage spaces within. There was a long tall section, out of which Owen pulled two shotguns. From a small drawer, he pulled out a pair of pistols. There were rings, books (some ancient some new), loose gems, and gold coins. The most valuable thing in the safe, though, was the gold tablet. It was thin, too light to be actual gold. There was writing on both sides, and along one edge it appeared to have been melted, as if removed from something—an idea that scared Owen because the tablet was impervious to any magic he knew and he prided himself on knowing a lot. Whoever had made it had done so using knowledge long lost and that meant it dated back to the so called “golden age.”
    Owen closed the safe and resealed the cement. He took the guns to his workbench and set about cleaning them. A line from Sun Tzu's ‘Art of War’ came back to him; “Weapons are tools of ill omen.” It echoed the truth in Owen’s own mind that nothing good came of weapons. He saw them as the refinement of man’s greed and stupidity and was angered that he now had to take them up, to right a wrong done by his student.
    “Owen?” John’s voice came in a muffled shout from the back room upstairs.
    “I'm in the basement.” Owen heard his father’s tone in his voice. That flat emotionless statement of fact that only hinted at anger with its sharp clipped edges. John knew things were serious, but as he approached Owen, smelled the gun oil, and saw the guns laid out, he tried to deny the facts.
    “Owen . . .”
    “Just what the hell were you thinking?”
    John just stood there, lost in his own shame and guilt.
    “Keeping something like an attempt at a spell book and leaving it lying around. Do you know how old I am, kid?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Damn older than you're ever likely to be. I got old by being careful and smart. So far, you've been neither. I took you on as a student because I felt bad for you. I didn't want you to get yourself killed or hurt someone else. Then guess fucking what? You pull this shit, and now we HAVE to kill someone.” Owen paused to calm down. “Have you ever forgotten a pattern?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Do ever have a hard time knowing which one does what?”
    “No, s—.”
    “Then why the hell did you pick up your crayons and make a spell book!?!?” Owen’s voice boomed through the building and John’s head.
    “It felt significant. I wanted to preserve it.” John felt tiny and weak, worse than when Barb had left him. “It's the first serious thing I've ever done with my life. I wanted to preserve it.”
    “Kid . . .” Owen wanted to soften. He understood: the world was big and cruel, and magic made you feel like the tables could be turned. He handed John a pistol.
    “We have to kill him?” John hefted the pistol