The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

How long before they dump that bag?” dad asked.

“It’s already been longer than I could tolerate,” I answered. “I’m glad we had to take two cars.”

We’d taken both cars because Merlin said if Mrs. Lin saw dad’s car parked in their lot every day, it might lead to questions in her mind that would slowly unravel the threads of the memory spell that he’d cast on her.

A house still had its bin out from trash night, and as we approached, Merlin’s break lights lit up and the car pulled over close enough that Jordan could toss the brown paper sac into the bin before quickly pulling away.

“Two miles,” dad said. “That’s pretty good willpower. Why would Betty think stinky tofu would make for good road food?”

Stinky tofu is an Asian delicacy. It’s a fermented soy product that smells uncannily similar to the gym locker room.

Do we actually owe ten-plus years of friendship to fermented soy on whole wheat? Can life really be that random?

“What are you smiling about Kenz?” dad asked.

“Stinky tofu and the vagaries of the universe,” I replied.

He blinked a few times and side-eyed me as he attempted and failed to process that info.

“Did I ever tell you that stinky tofu is the reason Jordan and I became friends in the first place?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “I think I would have remembered that story.”

“So,” I started, “Mrs. Lin sent Jordan to school with a skink sandwich on his first day of kindergarten.”

“I wonder what the Geneva convention would say about that?” dad said.

I sighed. “You know I don’t know what you’re talking about, right?”

“You’re a captive audience and I find my dad jokes entertaining,” he replied. “You want me to explain?”

“No,” I answered quickly. “So anyway, Jordan was immediately ostracized as the smelly kid with the weird food. He was sitting by himself crying in the lunchroom, and I sat next to him and offered to trade sandwiches with him.”

“That was sweet,” dad said. “Dumb,” he sighed, “so dumb. But sweet.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “When I took a bite of his sandwich, I gagged and started getting dry heaves. But we split my PB&J and bonded over the shared trauma of stinky tofu, and the rest is history.”

“All those years I thought you had a tapeworm or something, but I guess I was feeding Jordan too.”

I chuckled. “Like I could have eaten two sandwiches for lunch back in grade school,” I replied.

“Well, it was obviously a good investment,” he replied.

We took the 80 onramp towards San Francisco and Dad frowned as Merlin’s muscle car pulled well ahead of us. It was now half-past seven, and the rush hour traffic had long since dissipated, leaving Merlin with an open freeway to show off his gas-guzzler’s souped-up engine.

“Can’t keep up with the thousand-year-old man in the Model T?” I goaded.

“It’s a ’65 Mustang fastback,” Dad said, “but point taken.”

He pressed the Tesla’s petal down, and pink oleander blossoms in the center divider blurred by out Dad’s window as and we began to gain on the old hot rod.

After driving in silence for a few minutes, my small reserve of patience burned off like a lunch of Takis and a cold mochaccino, I gave up on waiting for Dad to get around to filling me in.

“I think this is the part where you tell me everything you know about ancient wizards and homicidal runway models,” I said.

“Huh?” he replied. “Oh, sorry honey.” He rubbed his face before adding, “It’s the strangest thing. I was thinking about your mother, and I realized that Merlin was there when I lost her. I think I’d forgotten that the old man even existed until today,” he shook his head and added, “which was probably his doing. When you mentioned his name on the phone today, a whole bunch of memories came rushing back all at once. For a moment there it was like I had never forgotten.”

He looked at his speedometer and shook his head. The posted speed limit was sixty-five, but Dad was pushing mid-eighties just to keep Merlin within visual range.

“Is this your first time speeding?” I asked. “How exciting for you!”

His eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath.

Just a little more…

“Usually, old ladies tailgate you and give you the finger until you slide back over into the slow lane.”

He smiled in spite of himself and chuckled.

“The old man drives like an idiot,” he replied before adding, “Siri, please play The Strokes playlist,” Dad said.

“The comfort music?” I asked, as waves of guitar noise bounced around the cabin.

“It’s been a day,” he replied.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “And just for informational purposes, you know you don’t have to say please with Siri, right?” I replied.

“I know, but it makes her feel appreciated,” dad replied.

He’s the master of strait-faced sarcasm but also hopelessly clueless, so it’s always hard to tell if he’s screwing with me or just a dork. He couldn’t see my eyes roll, but we both knew it happened.

Wait, why would Merlin have been there when mom died? Oh no...

“Did the witches kill Mom?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Dad winced, and his knuckles went white as he gripped the steering wheel hard with both hands. After a few moments, he let out a deep breath and said, “I haven’t thought about her death in a very long time.”

His voice cracked as he said, “I have vague memories of her losing too much blood during labor, even now,” he shook his head slowly, and tears began to stream down his cheeks, “but now that I think about it, I realize it didn’t happen that way.”

I cry. I yell. Dad doesn’t cry. Dad is the shoulder I cry on. What’s going on here?

I used my sleeve to wipe his face, as a knot formed in my own throat.

He continued, “There was blood, that much was true. But it was from a stab wound from some glowing knife, not from labor. She was attacked when we were out for dinner. I remember your mom and I sharing a look when the woman walked in the front door, like we both couldn’t believe someone that looked like her was in Pensacola, and not Miami or Hollywood for that matter.”

“Pensacola, Florida?” I asked. “Were you and mom on vacation or something?”

Dad didn’t answer, but his brow furrowed like he was confused about this part of the story too. He was a bit sniffly too, so I opened up the glove compartment looking for tissues. I found a single napkin with a fast-food logo. It was a bit crumpled but otherwise usable, so I handed it over to him. He mumbled thanks and blew his nose before continuing. When he tried to hand it back, I smiled a little. He threw it on the ground before continuing.

“I always thought I was from California,” he shook his head and sighed, “but apparently that isn’t the case either. And my parents… my sister…”

I didn’t really have any family to speak of other than Dad. He’d told me that both sets of grandparents had died of natural causes, and that my aunt had passed away years before I was born due to ovarian cancer.

“Maybe they’re all still alive after all.” He glanced over at me and said, “You know what’s weird?”

“This whole situation?” I answered honestly.

He grunted. “Ok, sure. You got me there. The newest weird thing is, I don’t think Flynn was originally our last name.” He started tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel – a habit of his I noticed him do when trying to remember something. “Nestor? Neil? No, that’s close though. O’Neil!” He nodded his head and added, “That sounds right. But how could I have forgotten my own name?”

“Merlin again,” I said. “So, what, we’re in some sort of mystical witness protection program?”

“Ha, maybe,” he replied. “I’ve always had the vague notion that you were in danger. That’s why I always had you in martial arts.

Maybe that’s even why I’ve always been such a helicopter dad.”

I did call him that once or twice, didn’t I?

I kissed him on the cheek. “I love you Daddy.”

“I love you too, sweet girl,” he replied.

Dad turned The Strokes back up and I tipped the seat back and closed my eyes.

So, I’m Mackenzie O’Neil and I’m from Florida. I’m also King Arthur reincarnated, Merlin the Magician drives an ancient sports car and witches killed my mom and are trying to kill me. Yeah, that about covers it.