The Magus 'Valentine': A Narrative Fiction

Until the gun was empty and the Magus’s skull was a shattered, unrecognizable ruin scattered across the melting snow. His corpse slumped over on its side, and something black boiled out of it. Valentine stepped back, remembering Bradley’s warning about the Outsider lurking inside the Magus, the thing that Corby had christened the Butcher. But the djinn was ready for that as well. The sound of the Outsiders colliding was impossible loud, unbelievable savage. Valentine sat down hard, his hands clamped over his ears and blood running freely from his nose. They swirled together, light and darkness. Until there was nothing left but the fire. Valentine stood up hesitantly, watching the djinn warily. The flames spat and popped off what

If the Magus had summoned it, then by rights the minute he was destroyed the djinn should have been released back into… It snapped towards him like a viper. Valentine lurched backwards, landing on his back in the snow. The flames flowed up him in a rush of heat and smoke. Valentine threw his arms across his face. And it was gone. He lay there for a few seconds, until he was absolutely sure he wasn’t on fire or about to be ripped apart by something else. Then he remembered the detonators on the tower and stood up on shaky legs that might never be the same again. Above him, four bangs went off seconds apart as the charges took the top off the tower. The sound echoed down into the valley and was lost somewhere in the dark trees. Replaced by the sound of a helicopter descending out of the darkness. The side door slid back and Shelby and Hirsch peered down at him, the fat man’s wet mouth curved into a careful smile that made Valentine fell vaguely uneasy. He watched them descending to rescue him. The charm around his neck, previously a cold lump of ice, was burning like a hot coal. As warm and comforting as his hate.

- 64 -

RILEY opened his eyes, something he’d been certain he wasn’t going to be doing ever again, and took

Hirsch had been smiling slightly the whole way, and when he caught Valentine’s eye he’d grinned, mouth splitting open like the skin of a rotting fruit. At the port, more of Hirsch’s goons had been waiting to take their gear and spirit it away. After a scalding shower to wash away any trace of firearms residue, they’d given Valentine a new black suit and crisp white shirt, close enough to his size to almost not matter. He examined himself in the window’s reflection. The suit was very German, a little utilitarian for his tastes. His Spaniard in Jermyn Street wouldn’t like it at all. “A drink, Mr Valentine?” He turned to Hirsch, who was laying out three glasses on the bar, a bottle of schnapps clutched in one fat hand. Shelby, nursing a few fresh bruises and cuts from his run-in with Hülshoff, sat silently on a barstool. He was back in his usual, instantly forgettable outdoor gear. But still wearing his gloves, Valentine noted. “What are we drinking to?” he asked. Hirsch smiled, black eyes gleaming. “Success,” he said, splashing schnapps into the glasses. “And our future relationship.” He offered Valentine a glass, fat fingers leaving smudges on the