Disclaimer: I own nothing of Psych and its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T+
Spoilers: Hard to say. Could be through entire series, but likely won't be many.
A/N: I'm having trouble. I'm typing the wrong letters (entirely the wrong letters, like even from the wrong row of the keyboard), typing words over again, leaving words out, scrambling letters up, and my eyes keep going out of focus. I'm really starting to worry. Last time I talked to the brain doc (earlier this week) he said my symptoms are more like epilepsy than he originally thought, but also that the "slowing of the brain" they found on my original EEG was possibly caused by a mini-stroke (but probably not, since the MRI probably would've shown evidence of that and didn't). I don't like probablies. I like certainties. Little as I want to suffer through it, I really want to get this week-long in-the-hospital long-term EEG underway RIGHT NOW, so I can finally find out (hopefully) WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME.
Chapter Four: Now the Real Training Begins
The merest eye blink, and Lassiter was no longer standing in his condo. He was instead standing in the snowy (snowy?) front yard of a grand Gothic mansion, painted a very dark gray color and undecorated for the holidays aside from a rather minimalist evergreen wreath on the red front door. Unbidden, words and music popped into Lassiter's head. I see a red door and I want to paint it black…
"Very droll," the man standing next to him said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Welcome to your new home."
"Where are we?" Lassiter said.
"The address is 177a Bleeker Street, Greenwich Village. It's good for you to get to know that, even though you won't be able to leave the premises any time soon. The house is my Sanctum Sanctorum."
"Greenwich - New York?" he said in disbelief. "We traveled all the way across the country in the blink of an eye?"
"Yes," the man said. "You'll be able to do it, too, sooner or later, if you're as good as I'm beginning to think you are."
"This is…translocation through…telekinesis, right? In other words, teleportation."
"Indeed."
"Yeah…I think I'll hold off on that. I don't want to leave parts of myself behind by accident."
"That only happens in the world of Harry Potter," the man said, archly. "Come, let's get inside where it's safest."
"Why didn't you pop us right inside?" Lassiter said.
"I wanted you to see the house. Inside and outside are two rather different things. You'll be impressed, I think. Did you ever watch Dr. Who? Remember the TARDIS?"
"Um…vaguely."
"This works to the same basic principle, if not exactly the same function. Come now, you'll see what I mean."
A bald-headed Asian man in a green silk Nehru jacket met them inside and bowed. "Welcome, Detective Lassiter," he said, in a clear, precise voice. "Pleased to meet you. I am Wong, once simply a student like yourself, now a master in my own right. Your rooms are ready, and all your possessions - and your dragon - have been situated. Your rooms consist of a sleeping quarters, a half-bath, a library, a study, a conservatory, and a laboratory. I will be in charge of most of your training from this point, particularly the physical aspect of that training."
"Physical training? What does a sorcerer need with physical training?" Lassiter asked.
Wong smiled thinly. "A sorcerer must be the pinnacle of both mind and body, for there are threats you will face that may require a physical response no matter how strong a magician you become. Aside from that, even should you become as powerful as our master, a disciplined body makes for a disciplined mind."
"Yeah…you know, the other guy said that all his former students either capped out or went rogue," Lassiter said, and Wong smiled that thin smile again.
"I am the single exception, at least thus far, but while I am now considered a master in my own right, I am still very much a student, which is why you will find me in a supplicatory position, something like a manservant, in fact. Students serve. It is a way of instilling that discipline, as aforementioned. Do well enough at your studies that you will have the time to devote to such service, and you will most likely take over many of my current duties."
"Awesome. Always wanted to be a 'manservant,' " he said, and looked around at the place he stood in for the first time, and for the first time he realized what the other man had meant when he said the house was something like Dr. Who's TARDIS. The grand entryway, as he couldn't help but think of it, was at least as big as he might have expected the entire house to be, judging from the outside alone, and from the outside the house was quite large indeed. The carpet beneath his feet was plushy soft and a deep red in color, and spread out towards the walls until it gave way on both sides to highly polished rich wood of mahogany or similar. The carpet extended up a grand curved staircase with mahogany steps and white risers with a thick mahogany banister. There were numerous doors set into the red papered and mahogany-molded walls both upstairs and down, leading to apparently dozens of rooms. The light fixtures were ornate chandeliers, Tiffany-style lamps (they were probably real Tiffany, by the look of this place), and on the walls, actual candlesticks, in elegant brackets of gold. Lassiter wasn't much of a judge of the value of furnishings, but the stuff in this room looked to be of high quality and exceedingly high expense.
"I'm sure you would like to look around, but the master will take you on the grand tour in the morning. For now you should rest. I will show you to your quarters," Wong said.
"Does he actually make you call him 'the master?' " Lassiter asked.
"Actually, those of us who live or work closely with him generally call him 'Doc,' " Wong said. "Though you will most likely come to that point by this time tomorrow, you do not yet know him that well. One point of caution: Don't call him 'Stevie.' He hates that."
"I'll keep that in mind. You know," he said as they started up the stairs, "something about this whole place
…and you in particular…seems kinda oddly…familiar to me. I would swear I know you from somewhere."
"That is possible," Wong said, with one of those spare smiles again. "Have you ever read the Marvel Reports?"
"The what?" Lassiter asked.
"The Marvel Reports. More properly known to Mundanes as the 'Marvel Comics.' "
Lassiter stopped short, stunned. "Marvel…Comics?" he repeated. "So then you are…and he is…no. No, no, no, no, no. Of all the crazy-ass shit I've seen and done lately, that I refuse to believe. No sir, no way."
"As you wish. The master will give you a proper introduction in the morning, and your desire to disbelieve will be severely tested, I fear, but as you wish. Your rooms are this way."
Wong led him down an extremely lengthy hallway, longer than many streets Lassiter had walked down in his time, and turned off at a suite of rooms near the end of it. "Here you are. Sleep well…or, as well as you can."
The room looked like a dungeon, minus the rusty iron shackles and the rack. There was certainly no bed, not even a straw pallet, which he thought was a comfort most medieval prisoners were afforded.
"Erm…I'm supposed to sleep here?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so," Wong said, and in truth he did sound sorry. "Comfort is a luxury, one that must be earned. Work hard, and you will work your way up from this. From what the master has already learned of you, you will earn your comforts quickly enough. He says you are quite determined, and that was when you thought of this discipline only as a hobby! Now it must become your life, and you must put every ounce of effort into it that you put into being a detective. If it helps you any, know that being a proper sorcerer is very like being a policeman: you are a dispenser of justice and a protector of civilians on an extremely high level."
"Okay…so if this 'master' of yours is like the ultimate cop, and he's been around for over seven centuries, why couldn't he stop 9/11, just for starters?"
Wong shook his head sadly. "That was a great tragedy, it is true, but it was a mortal tragedy. The master must let such things happen: it is a condition of his powers. Natural disasters, human-inflicted tragedies… he cannot interfere. There are other things that threaten this world, far greater than the Taliban or Osama bin Laden or any number of terrorists and jihadists or what have you. Those are what he protects us from. The things that have no business in this world. The true evils that mankind, for all it's so capable of being so very wicked, cannot even imagine. This is not to say that the master doesn't take any hand at all in mortal affairs; he merely cannot use his greater powers. To that end he has organized a team of meta-humans, known as the Defenders. They…do not work together particularly well. Personality clashes."
"But he can't protect O'Hara?" Lassiter demanded, his throat closing up. "If I have you right, what came after me tonight was one of those evils he can use his greater powers against. But I had to leave her for her protection."
"The master is protecting her," Wong said, "and he will continue to do so for as long as she remains a target. You will be in mortal peril until the day you achieve your mastery, if you ever do, and that means you must study vigorously and be thoroughly protected at all times. For Ms. O'Hara's sake, it is best you are not near her, for they will soon lose interest in her and her life will no longer be in danger. Now, go to sleep. The morning comes early in this place, and although the master reset time so that you have some time tonight to sleep, you won't get many hours in before the cock crows."
"Reset time?"
"Indeed. Well, with the time zone difference, it would've been late morning here already, and you had quite the day, so the master simply rewound the clock a bit."
Lassiter closed his eyes against the impossibility of it all. "I'd…better get to sleep, then."
"A fine idea. Good night." Wong bowed and turned to walk away.
Lassiter turned to enter his room, but stopped on the threshold as a thought occurred. "Wong?"
Wong half-turned. "Yes?"
"Can I just ask…how old are you?"
Wong smiled again - always that thin smile. "Quite young still, detective. Only two hundred and fifty-nine."
"Ah. And where are you from?"
"I was born in Burma. What is now known as Myanmar. I was, however, raised in Tibet. My father was the student of the master's master, a man known only as 'The Ancient One.' What his real name may have been, I do not think even he remembered by that time."
"How old was this 'Ancient One?' "
"I do not know. I don't believe anyone does. Suffice to say he was 'Ancient' when the master was young, and stories of him stretch back to near the beginnings of recorded human history. He may have even predated human existence on this earth - he may have been from some other planet or, more likely, dimension."
"Thanks. I was curious what I had to look forward to. So even, um… 'dilettante' sorcerers live damn near forever?"
Wong shook his head. "A mere dilettante would find his life extended only by a few hundred years. It is only a master whose lifespan is significantly extended. You are no longer a dilettante. Get used to the idea of living a long time, and start thinking about what other hobbies you might wish to pursue. Even with all the responsibilities sorcery entails, there is a lot of time to kill."
" 'Yippee kai yay, motherfucker,' " Lassiter said quietly, and entered the room and closed the door behind him.
He looked around at the bare stone prison cell that was his "bedroom." It was devoid of heating or decoration, and there was but one ordinary window set into the back wall. It looked like he could escape if he needed to. He might. It was so cold in here. Even fully dressed, with his coat on, he was chilled to the bone. Maybe it was because it was New York, and he just wasn't used to that kind of weather?
Pepper came flying out of somewhere, and landed on his shoulder. He reached up to absently scratch the dragonlet's head, and Pepper trilled appreciatively. Pepper was the only real source of heat in the room. With a sigh, Lassiter curled up to sleep on the floor, leaving his shoulder holster, as well as his coat, on. He thought he could easily use the coat as a pillow, but as cold as it was, he needed it more as a blanket. Pepper curled up to sleep on the side of his neck and was soon snoring softly.
Lassiter tried to sleep but oh God, it was so cold. And oh, how his back hurt. He could fairly feel the kink in his spine, and wasn't that something special? Yes, indeed. Thank Sweet Lady Justice for Pepper, the only warmth he was afforded. It was that more than his undeniable fatigue, most likely, that finally allowed him to slip into a thin and quite restless slumber at last.
Morning came all too early, as he'd been warned. He wakened by a knock on the door. Grumbling and bleary-eyed and so very, very stiff, he got up and answered it, only to discover no one there, and no particular evidence that anyone ever had been. The carpet was plush, and held footprints quite well.
Yawning hugely, Lassiter shrugged it off and turned back into his room. He looked around and was only slightly surprised to see two doors on the left and right-hand walls that he was sure hadn't been there previously. He opened the one to his right and discovered a tiny bathroom, featuring a lovely marble sink, a towel rack, and a high-rise toilet. Good. He needed that.
When he came out he felt somewhat refreshed, though a shower and a change of clothes was not just wanted but pretty much necessary. First, though, he tried the other door. It led to a large, richly decked out study, with a massive red oak desk on which sat Juliet's plaster dragon, under the tall reading lamp. He walked over to it and gently stroked the blue jewel on its forehead with one finger. He turned away before he could start crying. Crying was something Carlton Lassiter did not do. Keeping himself from tears had never been quite so much of a battle before.
Despite his depression, he looked around the room, taking in the tall shelves of books around the walls, and seeing with some great relief his gun vault tucked safely away in one corner. He opened it and discovered all his spares, including his hidden ones, neatly secured inside. Pepper was chasing the ball round and around inside the blue plastic thing Spencer had given him for Christmas on the floor nearby. He puzzled for a moment over the large dog bed in the other corner, next to the water dish and bowl of kibble. What the hell was that for?
He opened the next door, not particularly curious as to where it led but willing to find out anyway (there might be snacks in there), and was shocked when a German Shepherd popped up and put its paws on his chest and started barking most viciously at him. He stared, bemused, at the creature for a long moment, and then said, "Hi, Shannon." The dog immediately got down and went to his dog basket in the study.
What the hell is he doing here? Lassiter thought.
He heard that cultured voice again in his head - the "master's" voice. You paid far better attention to him than his actual owners, and he liked you better, it said. I thought he was better off with you. Though you will likely deny it vehemently, you have as much affinity for animals as you do for music. Speaking of music, there is a conservatory - of that kind - in the mansion. I debated giving you your own, but decided not to in the end solely because, at the moment, you are untrained on any musical instrument. Give a thought to it. One thing a sorcerer needs plenty of - far more than any police detective - are hobbies.
Feeling vaguely ashamed by that "likely deny it vehemently" line, Lassiter slunk into the room at last, which turned out to be the library. If the study was well-filled with books, this place was bursting with them. His personal private library, if that is what it was, was absolutely enormous; fully as big as a city block, and three stories tall, with a curving wrought iron staircase that circled up to a catwalk on all three stories. Clearly comfort was a luxury that only had to be earned in the bedroom, because fine armchairs and reading lamps and nice tables were positioned propitiously everywhere, so that one never had to travel far to find a nice place to take a load off and read. An enormous chandelier hung from the mostly glass ceiling.
"Jesus H. Christ and Sweet Lady Justice," he said under his breath, looking around. "Is it money or magic?"
A little of both.
He started, though he should've been used to these intrusions by now, and a little bit grumpy, headed for the door on the other side of the room. It led to a laboratory, set up for some serious experimentation, and the next door led to a conservatory - the greenhouse variety, filled to bursting with plants, most of which he could not identify. There was St. John's-wort, which made sense, and wolfsbane, and…rhubarb? What was that for? And…dear Lord…was that…cauliflower?
Rhubarb root has a medicinal purpose, and the poisonous leaves can be used in various potions, the voice said in his head. Cauliflower…as well as the cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbage, and other vegetables you'll find growing here…well, they have their uses in potion-making, but mostly they are here because your rations as a junior apprentice will be, I fear, quite short. When it gets to be too much, you will be allowed to supplement them with these. Try to eat them before it becomes too much to bear, however, and all you will find in your mouth when you bite is ash. Sorry. It is all part of instilling that all-important discipline.
Discipline? Pah. He could handle discipline, no matter how rigid. These people didn't know discipline until they'd seen Carlton Lassiter.
Actually, you have some difficulty with it, the voice said. You have a most unfortunate habit of allowing your temper to get the better of you. Otherwise your command of discipline is fairly impressive, but that is a control you desperately need to learn. I will teach you.
Now feeling more than vaguely ashamed, he slunk back through the rooms to his bedroom. Where do I go from here? he asked in his head.
Meet me in the foyer, the master said. I will take you on a proper tour of the rest of the house.
Um…that would be nice, but…I kinda need a shower and a change of clothes first…and some breakfast.
Bathing, I'm afraid, takes place here in the evening, before bed, so you will just have to wait for that. A change of clothing will be provided for you after the tour. As to breakfast…I know you are depressed, and I know you eat when you are depressed, but those shortened rations I told you about? Begin now. You will be fed at lunchtime.
Lassiter shrugged, as though he really didn't care, and indeed, he was in truth too depressed to care one way or another, despite the fact that he felt he could literally eat a horse. One hoof at a time. He headed out into the hallway, and had plenty of time as he walked down it for a song he didn't know to occur to him, and to sing it out loud to himself.
"Hell is only half full.
Room for you and me.
Lookin' for a new fool.
Who's it gonna be?
It's the dance of Shiva.
It's the debutant ball,
And everyone'll be there
Who's anyone at all.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Goin' to a party in the center of the earth.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Honey, don't you want to go?
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Goin' to a party in the center of the earth.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Honey, don't you want to go?
Left eye, right eye,
Take a look around.
Everybody's headin'
For a hole in the ground.
And it's the dance of Shiva,
It's the twilight of the gods.
Thunder and lightning
'Til the break of dawn.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Goin' to a party in the center of the earth.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Honey, don't you want to go?
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Goin' to a party in the center of the earth.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Honey, don't you want to go?
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Goin' to a party in the center of the earth.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Honey, don't you want to go?
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Goin' to a party in the center of the earth.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Honey, don't you want to go?
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Goin' to a party in the center of the earth.
Monkey wash, donkey rinse.
Honey, don't you want to go?"
Oh, you do like the depressing, don't you? Although I do admit, that song is remarkably cheerful given its subject matter. Perhaps, given your own feelings at this time, I could not have expected better.
He finally reached the upper level of the main entryway, where he saw the tall, elegant figure of the master step out of a room ahead of him, a pretty blonde-haired woman cuddled up to his side, wearing very little indeed. She giggled, they kissed, and then, with one last caress across his chest, the woman turned and bounced away down the hall. The master looked at Lassiter with a distinct twinkle in his eye and something like a smirk on his lips.
"Like I said, a sorcerer needs his hobbies," he said, and winked.
"Does that mean that was a hooker?" Lassiter asked, though not with much interest. Practically by habit.
"Oh no," the master said. "However, I would not be prepared to swear she is not a woman of uncertain virtue. Just not professionally so."
Lassiter shrugged, thoroughly uninterested already.
The master clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "First things first: you shouldn't have to suffer this way any longer. The way you've held out against the pain in your highly physical profession is admirable and gives me great hope for your training, but it will all be so much easier without having to deal with scoliosis."
"Hmm?" Lassiter said, bewildered, but he wasn't left to wonder long. The master held his hands out and a blue light, in a sort of glyph pattern, emanated from them, and Lassiter felt himself straightening up and standing somewhat taller than before. Now he looked the tall master dead in the eyes.
"Oh yes, I rather thought you'd be as tall as I - which means somewhere down the line you'll be far taller. Sorcerers grow to contain the magical energy surging through them. Originally I was about five foot five inches, so you see the growth is fairly significant."
"Wait a minute - you fixed my scoliosis?" Lassiter said. "How is that possible?"
There was that smirk again. "You should be close to understanding by now; very little is impossible with a strong grasp of magic. Absolutely nothing, for the truly powerful. My master could do, literally, anything. I'm not at his level yet, but I had progressed far enough that he felt confident that he could leave the dimension - and the training of future sorcerers - in my hands. He…retired, let us say."
"Wait - the other guy, Wong, said you could only use your powers to fix…how did he put it? You couldn't use your powers on 'mortal problems.' Doesn't scoliosis count as a mortal problem?"
"If you were a proper mortal, yes it would. You, however, are a sorcerer. A low-level one at present, surely, but on your way up. It won't be long at all before you have the power to fix such problems, and there is no rule at all against using your greater powers on yourself. I merely preempted the necessity."
"Well, I, uh…I appreciate it. Thanks," Lassiter said.
The master put a hand to his mouth and rubbed at his goatee. "You know what? I think…yes, I really do." He made a complicated gesture, and suddenly Lassiter's face began to itch a bit. He touched his own mouth and felt hair around it.
"You grew me a beard?" he said, not knowing whether he should be shocked or merely incensed.
"A goatee. Nicely trimmed, not at all Duck Dynasty. And I grew your hair out a bit - not all that much, just enough to show the natural wave and a bit of the curl. You look quite good this way, and I don't just say that because you now look strikingly like me." He moved his hand in a circle and a mirror appeared, floating in midair in front of Lassiter. "Take a look, see what you think. I have to say, I'm rather jealous. I had to do a lot of work on myself, magically, to look this good. Before I became a sorcerer I contracted smallpox, huge disfiguring warts, elephantiasis, and you don't want to know what else. I was also almost completely bald. The fact that you look this damn good naturally makes me want to turn you into a toad - but I shan't."
"I appreciate your forbearance," Lassiter said. He peered into the mirror. He was startled at what he saw. He always liked dressing up in fake moustaches and beards - the real thing looked immeasurably better. And while he was generally no fan of men's hair growing past the ears, he had to confess it looked pretty damn good on him. Just a hint of curl, a lot of wave, and drawing plenty of attention away from the jug handles. He did sort of look like the master this way - almost startlingly so; their hair and eyes were nearly the same color, and his nose was similarly shaped, except for its crookedness - but still he did manage to look distinct, which he probably wouldn't if he left his hair short like the master's.
"I, um…suppose I could try this look out for awhile," he said, trying to sound casual.
The master smiled. "Well, now it's time for a proper introduction. I, as I believe you have surmised, am Dr. Stephen Vincent Strange, though you seem disinclined to believe as much."
" 'Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange' is a Marvel Comic books character," Lassiter said, stubbornly. "A product of the imaginations of Stan Lee and Steve Ditko."
"Dr. Strange" nodded solemnly. "Indeed. The Dr. Strange of the Marvel Reports, particularly of recent years, as the publication has grown more and more sensationalized, is in truth a product of near-fiction. The original, as reported by Stan Lee, was far closer to the truth than the latest versions. They've even done a ludicrous 'alternate universe' wherein I have disappeared mysteriously and my 'son' must take over my position. I have no son. I have no children whatsoever. In another 'comic,' I appeared to the Richards' son as Glinda the Good Witch of The Wizard of Oz movie, complete with dress and long blonde wig."
"The Marvel Comics' Dr. Strange wasn't born in…12...er…"
"1287," Dr. Strange said helpfully. "You're right. He was born in 1930. Moreover, he was born in Pennsylvania, while his parents were on vacation, and was raised in Nebraska. All of which, of course, made my British speech patterns - which they insisted on using regardless - sound affected and utterly ridiculous. The Marvel Reports were only started last century, when meta-humans became fairly prevalent. I also only became Sorcerer Supreme in the mid-sixties of that century. Coming to the party that late, they decided not to tell the whole sordid tale of Dr. Strange, and made me contemporary. As truthful as they used to be, the Marvel Reports are and have always been yellow press. There's another 'alternate universe' they created wherein I go back almost to my proper time period - relatively speaking; they put me in the reign of Elizabeth I - where I get my head cut off, and spend the rest of the story with it in a bucket of wine, speaking prophecies whenever it's pulled out."
"And where were you really born?" Lassiter asked, still skeptical.
"Merry Olde England. Bath, to be more specific."
"And coming from Bath, England, sometime around about contemporary, if I'm not mistaken, of Geoffrey Chaucer, your name was always Stephen Vincent Strange?"
The doctor smiled. "Marvel likes its pseudonyms, particularly alliteration, and most particularly names that are somewhat appropriate. I am, as you can clearly see for yourself, quite a 'strange' person. My first name has always been Stephen. My surname…well, I haven't used it in so long that 'Strange' works just fine for me. It was, however, Chasteyn."
"I still don't believe you, Stephen Chasteyn."
The doctor chuckled softly and gestured to one of the many doors. "Shall we take the tour?" he said. "Your credibility might stretch a bit by the end."
The room he led Lassiter into was an office, dark and richly appointed. Two people, a man and a woman, sat in comfortable armchairs before the big desk in the room, and two children, a boy and a girl, played together on the floor between their parents.
"Ah, doctor, good to see you," the man said. He had brown hair, graying at the temples. He stood up, and offered his hand to the doctor to shake. He didn't step any closer, even though the room was quite large and he was at the other end of it - his arm stretched, until his hand was close enough for the doctor to shake. Lassiter stood, stunned.
"Mr. Fantastic," he said, in a very quiet voice. "Reed Richards."
"Mark Richards, actually," the man said, smiling. "Marvel does like its pseudonyms and especially its alliteration. This is my wife, Susan; they never gave her an alias, although they kinda did: her maiden name wasn't 'Storm.' And you are?"
Lassiter didn't say anything. He couldn't. Dr. Strange put an arm around his shoulders and made the introduction for him. "This is my new apprentice, Carlton Jebediah Lassiter. He's a little shy and this realm is all so very new to him. I hope you don't mind my bringing him along this morning: he's still rather uncertain as to what magic is capable of - what he will be capable of - and I would like to show him as much as I can. May he witness the examination?"
The Richards' looked at each other. "Oh, why, certainly. Of course," Susan said. "Um, just one question," Mark said. "Is that a gun I see bulging out his coat there?"
"Lassiter was a police detective in his previous life," the doctor explained. "He's not at all ready to let go of it, and the gun and the badge are rather like a security blanket to him right now. Don't worry, he's quite trustworthy, and I wouldn't let him draw even if he wished to."
"Well, that's good to know," Mark said. "I have to say, he looks like he could be your brother, Doc. Or maybe your son. Anyway, all right, examine away."
The doctor went behind his desk, made a gesture, and the little girl rose into the air, giggling, in a purple glyph of light. A blue light encompassed her, and then she was sat back down. "Absolutely tip-top," the doctor said. "No worries whatsoever. Now, young man," he said, and the same thing happened to the boy. "Oh, we're doing splendidly," the doctor said. "No trace remains of any previous concerns. Yes; we'll keep an eye on him, of course, but I think he'll be just fine now."
He came out from behind his desk, made a street magician's gesture with both hands, and drew lollipops out of somewhere, which he handed to both of the children. Then he tousled their hair and chivvied them back to their parents. "I don't think we have to see each other for awhile," he said to them. "Let's say we come back for a follow up examination in…six months, just to be on the safe side."
They both shook hands with the doctor (Mr. Richards from the proper distance this time) and left, with nods to Lassiter as they passed. Lassiter watched them go, and then said to the doctor, "You had them bring their children in for a medical examination on Christmas Day just to stretch my credulity?"
Dr. Strange shook his head. "Oh no. You see, it's not Christmas Day. I rewound time a bit. It is currently October 16 - 2015, in case you were worried. I brought you back here so you could meet the Richards family and see some of the things I do, and they will never be the wiser, for they will not remember now that they already lived through this day once, without you in it. I will now take you back forward in time to Christmas Day - it will be like we never left it, but to Richards' you will have been here once before, and we shall remember it as well. To the people you left behind in Santa Barbara, however, October the sixteenth passed as it actually passed. You were not absent."
Lassiter began to feel dizzy. He couldn't keep up with all this. The doctor put a steadying hand on his shoulder, although just an instant ago he was all the way across the room. "Calm down, now. That's right, deep breaths. Is this really so difficult to accept? You accepted your entry into the world of sorcery fairly easily, all things told. Is this so much different?"
"That's when I thought sorcery was a fairly sedate, limited discipline, and Superman didn't really exist," Lassiter said.
"Superman doesn't really exist," Dr. Strange said. "DC Comics, Dark Horse Comics, any other comics; they are just works of fiction."
"What about Harry Potter?"
Dr. Strange smiled. "A product of J.K. Rowling's quite impressive imagination, just as the works of Robin Hobb are fictional, Mercedes Lackey, JR Tolkien, and nearly all other authors of fantasy literature I could name. Oddly enough, Piers Anthony's Xanth novels are predicated on a germ of truth: Xanth exists, minus some of the more outré details, and minus the atrocious puns."
"Twilight?"
Dr. Strange grimaced. "Fictional. And rather poorly done, in my opinion at least. But then, I'm no fan of vampires, particularly ever since my brother was turned into one. And they don't sparkle. And no sane woman would ever want to have a relationship with one."
"Vampires are real, eh?"
"Oh yes. Werewolves, too. Most things mundanes consider 'mythical' are, in fact, real, but kept from mortal eyes by magic these days. Most of them come from other dimensions or, indeed, other planets, and so they rarely come into contact with humans anyway. Your little friend Pepper comes from the tenth dimension, a dimension populated almost solely by dragons - at least as its intelligent life."
"So Pepper is naturally smart? I wondered about that. Is Pepper my familiar, or is…he…just helping me out because he knows more than me?"
"Just so you know, I don't know for certain any more than you do whether Pepper is a he or a she, but judging from current body size and, let us just say it outright, attitude, I'm guessing you were correct in assuming that Pepper is a she. I could find out, with a little effort, but that kind of effort is hardly pleasant and I'd rather not, not when the answer will be forthcoming forthwith. To answer your question: Pepper does know a lot about magic just naturally: dragons of her species have a racial memory, passed down through the generations from parent to offspring, and her parents were well trained in the mystic arts, like many of her species. After all, it is difficult to be a six-inch dragon in a world of dragons. They must protect themselves in any way possible. Magic is a very good way to do so. That said, she may become your familiar in time. She does have a strong affinity for you, and an ability to read your mind and intentions that is quite familiar-like. But I rather think that's just her memory of her parents' magic; your familiar will come to you in time."
"Okay…if she's not my familiar…why then did you give me a dragon?"
"To start you on the path of getting in touch with yourself. Everyone has a spirit, and everyone's spirit is a little bit different."
"So I have the spirit of a tiny little dragon?"
Dr. Strange chuckled again. "Oh, no. Once you truly get in touch with yourself, I think you will find your spirit is not tiny at all. But it is draconic, most definitely. Learn to communicate with dragons with ease and you'll learn to communicate more clearly with your own inner self."
"What will my familiar be? A black cat?" Lassiter asked.
Strange shook his head. "No idea. I cannot see the future: that is one of the skills my master possesses that I've yet to learn. If I could, I would know without question or unpleasantness what gender Pepper truly is and indeed whether she is your familiar or not. Black cats are witches familiars only in legends, although it is a possibility: cats are as likely to be familiars as any other animal, more than some, and color makes no never mind. Your familiar may be ordinary or something you would consider mythical. It all depends on what takes that kind of shine to you. My master's familiar was a leopard. Maerlyn's familiar was an owl. My own familiar is a…a rabbit." He said this as though he were embarrassed.
Lassiter choked on his laughter.
"Pester is a perfectly good familiar," Strange said haughtily. "I could wish he were a little less adorable, but he can't help what he looks like. I could do something about it, but I shan't."
Lassiter suddenly remembered that "I'd like to turn you into a toad" thing and swallowed the laughter that still wanted to burst forth. He cleared his throat. "Are we…back on Christmas Day yet?" he asked, in a swift change of subject.
"Oh yes. We have been for quite some time. Shall we proceed with the tour?"
The doctor led him through the house to a massive gymnasium, where his physical training would take place ("and you may continue your tap dancing lessons, if you wish," the doctor said), and into the "main library," which made Lassiter's personal library look tiny by comparison. This one was the size of a city block also, but it was thirty stories tall, with books filling every level. "Any time you require study of something you can't find in your own library, you will find it here, and you are more than welcome to come here any time," the doctor said. "There are not just works of the arcane here: there is everything from ancient literature to contemporary fiction. Anything to keep boredom at bay."
There was a greenhouse out back the size of a mansion, and the lawn was a snowy labyrinth a man could get lost in for years. Some places he was cautioned not to go, some doors he was cautioned not to pass. "They lead to other dimensions, many of them quite dangerous, none of them for which you are currently prepared."
There was an observatory at the top of the house, with a telescope that had to be larger than the biggest telescopes currently in the world - maybe bigger even than the Hubble. There was an indoor pool, the size of a small, deep lake. There was a fucking carousel, made up of glowing lights and fantasy creatures, including dragons. "For the children of my friends," the doctor said simply. The house had everything. Every time Lassiter thought they had to be at the end of it, there couldn't be any more, the doctor would open another door and reveal another wonder.
"Ah, it's nearly luncheon, for which I suspect you must be grateful. Your change of clothing first, of course," the doctor said, and Lassiter took his first good look at what the doctor was wearing.
He'd paid attention previously, but now he absorbed. Dr. Strange wore black slacks, shiny black shoes, and a black Nehru jacket with a strange red design on the front that looked something like a fleur de lys or perhaps a slightly disfigured trident. "Um…I don't have to wear a Nehru jacket, do I?" he said. "Not that it doesn't look just fine on you and Wong, but…I don't think I'd be comfortable…"
The doctor smiled. "No, indeed. Each student wears what he or she is most comfortable wearing, although we do tend to 'dress up' here - not suits and ties, detective, but dressy-casual, let us say. Here - let me show you." He made a gesture, and suddenly Lassiter was standing in charcoal-colored slacks, a cerulean shirt, his badge at his belt and his gun tucked securely under his arm in his shoulder holster where it should be. It wasn't at all unlike what he was likely to wear on any given day.
"If you join us for the Christmas celebration this evening - which I would suggest you do, nervous though the guest list might make you, for it will be one of the very few times you are allowed to eat as much as you wish, another being New Year's Day, and such times will not roll around in force again until next holiday season - then you will be expected to dress up a bit more; a tie, perhaps. A suit jacket shouldn't be necessary. I'm certain that friend Logan won't be dressed as nice as that - can't get that man out of blue jeans and into something more classy."
Wong came to show him back to his rooms for lunch, which appeared before him there in the form of a small bowl of steamed rice and a pair of chopsticks.
"You know how to use those, right?" Wong asked.
"Yeah," Lassiter said, contemplating his meal. Oh well, food was food. He picked up the chopsticks.
A/N: Song in this chapter is "Monkey Wash Donkey Rinse" by Warren Zevon. No copyright infringement intended, no monetary gain received.
THE SOUL! THE KIA FREAKIN SOUL!