The Wizards of Central Park West_Ultimate Urban Fantasy Read online

  The Wizards of Central Park West

  Ultimate Urban Fantasy

  Arjay Lewis

  Copyright ©2018 Arjay Lewis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  For a free novella “Violated In The Mind” and to find out about upcoming releases, please visit www.arjaylewis.com

  Cover Design: Nowicki Productions: PremadeEbookCoverShop.com

  Editing: Brandi Salazar: brandisalazarediting.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1983636417

  ISBN-10: 198363641X

  Published by:

  Arjay Entertainment, Inc.

  474 South Main Street

  Phillipsburg NJ 08865

  Books by Arjay Lewis

  Paranormal Detective:

  (In The Mind Series)

  FIRE IN THE MIND

  SEDUCTION IN THE MIND

  VIOLATED IN THE MIND (Novella)

  REUNION IN THE MIND

  HAUNTED IN THE MIND (April 2018)

  Horror:

  THE MUSE

  Ultimate Urban Fantasy:

  THE WIZARDS OF CENTRAL PARK WEST

  Foreword

  This book is not entirely an original concept. In fact, the title was coined by a good friend, Louis Garcia Blake. Lou and I met in the 1970s when we were both young magicians. We were trying to write a musical together, but it never came to fruition.

  However, both Lou and I became writers. Lou had a natural talent and had several articles and stories printed in newspapers, as well as magazines. When I showed him some of my early scribblings, he had an uncanny knack for polishing my words until they gleamed.

  What Lou lacked was the ability to shut down his inner editor and just write. A novel is a marathon, and it is often difficult to reach the finish line. Many never even get out of the starting gate.

  However, he would talk about his stories to anyone who would listen. This is actually not a good idea for an author. My writing mentor Parke Godwin noted that you can talk a story out and end up not writing it at all. I have always felt this to be true and I am quite secretive about a book, until it is ready to be shown to my first reader. (Usually my wife.)

  Lou passed away suddenly more than a decade ago, suffering a massive heart attack, surprising all of us who knew him. When I helped clean up his computer for his bereaved mother, I located a few pages of attempts to write his book concept.

  In it, the lead character, Marlowe, was a cross between Buffy the vampire slayer and an all-powerful wizard. Lou had also listed the minor characters of a little ghost named Bob, and a vampire, Daniel Kraft.

  One day, walking through the woods near my apartment in Dover, New Jersey, I was unexpectedly inspired by the idea to write a novel about wizards and began to envision the tale I wanted to write. I decided to do this as a tribute to an old friend who enjoyed fantasy as much as I do and helped inspire my own writing in my early attempts.

  It is my wish that you enjoy the book, and I also hope that somewhere Lou is looking down and smiling.

  Arjay Lewis

  January 2018

  Dedication:

  To Louis Garcia Blake

  "For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

  The saddest are these:

  'It might have been!'"

  In a way, we are magicians. We are alchemists, sorcerers, and wizards. We are a very strange bunch. But there is great fun in being a wizard.

  —Billy Joel

  And the most unusual and surrealistic place

  in New York City is Central Park.

  —Christo

  Prologue

  The old man pushed his shopping cart over the cobblestone sidewalk, past the brightly lit facade of the Tavern on the Green. An immaculately dressed doorman wearing a long, gray frock coat and a top hat watched his progress with disdain.

  As the bearded man made his way toward the park, the doorman approached him, anger flashing in his eyes.

  “Take another route,” the doorman spat. “If I see you here again, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Yes, sir, yes, sir!” the old man replied, and quickened his pace.

  He was used to this reaction; it happened often. His bedraggled clothes, dirty face, and the smell that accompanied him evoked either anger or pity.

  Neither reaction bothered him.

  He reached the roadway and turned left, staying on the gravel bridle path. This took him away from the grounds of the Tavern, covered with glittering white Christmas lights even in June.

  He faded into the majesty of Central Park, as he followed the street lamps. Here in the dark-green of the park, the spaced wrought-iron lamps provided pools of illumination.

  He reached the huge bust of Giuseppe Mazzini, and there he stopped to observe the treetops. A small, cooing noise warbled from between his lips.

  There came a chittering reply from a nearby oak, and a small creature darted in and out of sight as it spiraled down to the ground.

  “Quiptail,” the old man said, his voice a husky whisper as he went down on one knee. “Hope I didn’t wake you!”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled bag of nuts.

  The squirrel boldly left the safety of the tree, moved to the man, and unabashedly reached into the bag, pulled out a peanut, shelled it with his clever paws, and popped the tasty treat into its mouth.

  “You can take the whole bag, Quiptail. No need to store it in your cheeks.” The old man smiled at the furry creature’s antics. “Anything to tell me this night?”

  The small creature turned his head left and right, as if to scan the darkness. Then it made another series of noises.

  “Really?” the old man said. “You’re right, my friend, the pigeons are truly acting inappropriately. But you know how they are.”

  The squirrel nodded his head in agreement then made more sounds. The old man’s face grew solemn as he lifted his head to peer into the darkness. “That is most interesting. A red snake, you say?”

  Again the small rodent nodded its tiny head in agreement.

  “I shall watch for it. Warn your friends. If they see it, they must not approach it.”

  The squirrel chittered.

  “Yes, the pigeons, too. All should beware,” the old man added. “Thank you for your help. You may take your prize.”

  The squirrel reached out and picked up the small paper bag, placed the top in his teeth, then with a blur of movement, it scaled the tree and disappeared from view.

  “So now it begins,” the old man murmured to himself.

  He rose and began to push his cart forward. It was filled with a collection of the useful: his cane and other paraphernalia. It also held the useless: old newspapers, bits of cloth, and aluminum cans. The trash was a necessary part of his disguise, as much as the rags he wore.

  He headed for the 72nd Street entrance for West Drive. Central Park was the first major city park built in America and was well planned. Four transversal roads cut through it every ten to twenty blocks, linking East Side to West. At the same time, a curved roadway wound its way circuitously the entire fifty-block length in one huge circle.

  He started downhill where there were few street lamps. Ahead of him, the entrance to Riftstone Arch gaped like an open maw. It was a stunning span, built of huge, carved stones, artfully arranged to hold up the twenty-foot tunnel without mortar. Though four lanes of vehicles passed over it every day, it took the weight without even a quiver
.

  It was a structure worthy to bear his name.

  He passed under the roadway and into the unlit tunnel, pushing the cart with his right hand as he felt along the stone wall with his left. All he needed to do was touch the correct spot and he would pass easily through the huge stones and into his hidden lair.

  He stopped suddenly.

  There was an odd noise that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  Something was wrong.

  He knew it wasn’t some mugger preying on the homeless. This foe was like himself.

  More than mere mortal.

  He turned suddenly, his eyes aglow with a bright red light, his hands up protectively as rosy illumination surrounded each of his outstretched palms.

  “Who dares confront Riftstone?” he demanded, his voice booming with an unnatural timbre as it echoed off the curved walls of the tunnel. “Show thyself!”

  A deep, foreboding chuckle was the only reply. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere.

  The bearded man blanched, his body seeming to shrink away from the noise. The fiery glow in his eyes faded, and his hands lost some of their brilliance.

  “By Zoroaster!” the man murmured like a prayer. “Abraxas?”

  He took a step backward, turned, and attempted to lunge for his cart.

  The metal-wired conveyance was pulled from his reach. The bearded man fell into a puddle and drenched himself.

  Another ghastly chuckle came forth around him, so loud the walls seemed to rumble with the reverberation.

  He rose up, wet and dripping. His safe haven had become a trap, one that he’d walked right into.

  His anger flared, and the scarlet glow blazed, not only around his hands but his entire body. He chanted in the ancient language, calling power to him.

  “Thou art an annoying little man,” the disembodied voice snarled, and the bearded man’s head fell back as his tongue was ripped—still quivering—from his mouth. It hovered in the air then was cast aside.

  The glow ceased as his concentration was broken. His hand went to his mouth, shock clouding his face.

  His only chance was his staff.

  He reached out his arm toward the cart at the far end of the tunnel. Energy flowed in waves as he willed his weapon to him.

  Something unseen grabbed his arm then pulled with inhuman force. There was a cracking noise, as the limb was torn from him. The pain was excruciating, but all the old man could do was make mangled grunts with his tongueless mouth.

  The arm hung suspended for a moment, and then sailed off, like a discarded part of a rag doll.

  The man looked at the remaining stub of bone protruding from his shoulder, watching his life’s blood gush out.

  He still had a chance, but he must act quickly.

  A foot landed in front of him, hoofed and scarlet red, the legs covered with curly fur. Riftstone stared up at the figure. The creature was finely muscled: red skin, bright as fire; its arms extending into powerful claws; the head embellished with huge horns that would be oversized on a large bull. The creature was stooped over to fit the twelve-foot-tall tunnel.

  “Remember me, old man?” the demon asked, the claw-like hand grabbing Riftstone’s throat. He lifted him close, hot breath against his bearded face. “I’m back, and I have an ally.”

  The demon turned and peered into the darkness at the other end of the tunnel. Someone moved out of the shadows, dressed in long, flowing robes covered with stars and moons and holding aloft a wooden pole. A pale gray light hovered over the hooded figure.

  Fighting not to swoon, Riftstone extended his remaining arm beseechingly.

  The figure stepped closer and held up the staff, the gray light glinting off the patterns on the robes and the stone walls. “It had to come to this, Riftstone. You should have listened.”

  The old man’s head fell forward, and his body hung limply as he lost consciousness.

  “Do with him as you will.” The cloaked figure stated with a dismissive wave and turned to walk away.

  “Oh, I shall.” The demon’s face broke into a huge grin.

  One

  Edward Berman pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his suit jacket and announced "HOME" to the small box.

  “You want coffee, Eddie?” Luis Vasquez asked as he aimed his thumb at the Starbucks on the corner of 86th Street and Columbus Avenue behind their parked vehicle. He wore a cheap suit with a tie that didn’t match it or anything, except perhaps industrial waste.

  “Sure,” Eddie pulled several bills from his pocket. “Pay for it this time.”

  Vasquez took the money and shrugged. “Can I help it if some well-meaning citizens want to treat two hardworking detectives to a free cup of coffee?”

  He flashed a grin, his teeth uneven, yet unnaturally white. It was a strong counterpoint to his coffee-with-cream colored skin and straight black hair. The sparse mustache over his lip never fully grew in, but his heavy-lidded bedroom eyes drove women wild—at least that was what Luis bragged. He was large and heavyset but not flabby. He was built like a fireplug carved from stone—solid.

  Eddie heard the phone pick up on the other end, turned his attention to the call, and leaned against the unmarked police car.

  “Hello?” came the throaty female voice.

  Eddie’s heart sped up. Fifteen years of marriage, and every time was like the first time.

  “It’s Eddie.”

  “Hello, sugar.” Her voice dripped of smokey cafés and whiskey as her slight accent teased his ear as if she nibbled it.

  Eddie focused on the business at hand. “I just wanted to check on Momma.”

  “Your momma is as well as can be expected,” Cerise said. “We’re going to the doctor in a half-hour.”

  “I want you to call me as soon as you know anything.”

  “I will, sugar.” Cerise lowered her voice to a murmur and went on. “Don’t get your hopes up. Doctor Ramsen said there might not be much that can be done.”

  Eddie felt a lump in his throat. He knew what the doctor said; he’d been there. The idea of his mother’s mortality was difficult for him to accept. “I just want to be kept informed, y’know.”

  “Edward,” Cerise chided, “expressions like ‘y’know’ are incorrect English, which sets a poor example for your sons.”

  “Did Momma just come into the room?” Eddie asked as he picked up on the tone under his wife’s lecture.

  “That’s right,” she said, too cheery.

  “Then sorry I didn’t get down wid dat,” he said to annoy her.

  “Don’t start. It’s bad enough the boys listen to that rap music.”

  “Hip-hop, honey. Our sons like hip-hop.”

  “It’s all the same to me.”

  Eddie grunted a reply. He never could understand why Cerise was so strict with their two sons. Her number-one concern was poor English. He remembered his own youth in the ‘90s, when he wore stupid clothes and spoke as if he came out of a jive sitcom. Kids went with fads, and Eddie felt his kids should have some latitude.

  But there was no point arguing on such a stressful day.

  “You’ll call me as soon as you know anything?” Eddie said.

  “Of course,” Cerise replied. “Be safe on those streets. I want you to take care of my big, black man.”

  This made Eddie smile. It was a pet name she’d used since the days they started dating. Eddie was so light-skinned he could almost pass for Caucasian. But his short, kinky hair, full lips, and African nose gave full credence to his ethnicity.

  Cerise was a different matter. The daughter of Africans who emigrated to the United States from Botswana when she was a child, she was so dark her skin was almost ebony. She was beautiful and possessed the exotic quality of the foreign-born. She also talked with a light accent from speaking Setswana growing up.

  For dark-as-night Cerise to call Eddie her “big, black man” when he was just six feet tall, slender, and so much lighter, made him laugh the first time she’d said it. Now
, it was one of those running jokes that married couples amused each other with while strangers looked on questioningly.

  Eddie told her, “You take care of Momma.”

  “Will you be home for dinner?”

  “Should be. Luis and I are spending the day catching up on paperwork. We needed to get out of the precinct for a break.”

  “I love you, Eddie.”

  “I love you too, baby.” Eddie shut down the phone. He raised his head to see Vasquez with two cups of coffee.

  Luis shook his head as he handed Eddie his coffee.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Eddie inquired.

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “What, the coffee?” Eddie took a sip. “Tastes fine to me.”

  “Not the coffee, you.” Vasquez leaned against the police car next to Eddie. The car shifted from the added weight. “You talk too nice to your wife. I never speak like that to Maria.”

  “According to you, you haven’t said two words to her in three years.”

  “Sure I have. We have an argument every Saturday night.”

  “Some people just go to the movies.”

  “It’s cheaper than HBO,” Luis shrugged as he imbibed his coffee.

  “If all you do is argue, how come you got six kids?”

  “We have to make up some time,” Luis smirked.

  “So, if you fight all the time, what’s the attraction?”

  “My wife cast a spell on me,” Luis suggested with lifted eyebrows.

  “Say what?” Eddie replied with an incredulous look.

  “She went to this place in the Village—Magickal Cherub—down on Eighth Street. She bought a kit and put a love spell on me.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “It worked. I ain’t ever gonna leave her.”

  “If only for the fact that the child support would wipe you out,” Eddie said as his cell phone made its unique musical ring.

  “Besides, I like your wife, and one of your kids is named after my wife.”