Levitator, p.1
Levitator, page 1
LEVITATOR
MERLIN SMITH CHRONICLES
BOOK 1
LEXEL J GREEN
Copyright © 2023 by Lexel J Green
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Sally.
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. A Dog On The Ceiling
2. Wizards? Are You Insane!?
3. A Demonic Figment
4. The Hound
5. A Terrible Plan
6. Like Superman
7. There Is More At Stake
8. Hello, Brooks Brothers
9. Ma’haganonoma
10. I Don’t Want Any Trouble
11. Tip Of The Screwdriver
12. The Four Challenges
13. The Fat Trumpeter
14. Beetle Vision
15. The Other Ashley
16. A Hint Of Viking
17. What Have You Done?
18. They Are Not Wishes
19. E’en The Wind Fled
20. Tell Me If I Blink
21. His Deathly Loop
22. A 71 Percent Chance
23. Lady Of The Lake
24. Out Of The Ordinary
25. Just A Puny Human
26. How Many Sugars?
27. It’s Complicated
28. Brain Freeze
29. Novelty Helium Balloon
30. Magus Congregatio
31. Nobody Memorises Spells
32. Fitzgerald’s Trajectile Deflector
33. Repetition Makes Perfect
34. The Transference Isn’t Complete
35. Talking To A Sword
36. Blast Them With It
37. That’s What Friends Do
38. The Price
39. The Beginnings Of A Plan
40. Not A Normal Human
41. O, For A Pair Of Goggles
42. Thermal Exhaust Port
43. Battle Lines Drawn
44. A Last Resort
45. Use The Human Girl
46. Last And Best Chance
47. A Dirt Burrito
48. Project Salamander
49. Five Minutes Of Possibilities
Thanks For Reading!
About the Author
Also by Lexel J Green
PROLOGUE
“So, how do these things usually start?”
“You sit down, just like we are now, and then you introduce yourself.”
“Okay. How about this... Hi there. No. Hi… Hey… Or, hello. I don’t know… Is ‘hello’ better? What do you think?”
“Either is fine. Doesn’t matter. You’re over analysing. Relax. Start again... But look at me when you talk, not down at the table. Make eye contact. That connection will be important. This is real life. It’s why you’re doing this.”
“Actually Jess, you’re making me do this.”
“It’s for your own good. I’m giving up my lunchtime to help you.”
“And hijacking mine.”
“Do you want to be alone forever?”
“...”
“Then let’s take it from the top.”
“Okay. Starting again… Keeping it simple. I sit down, I look at you, making eye contact, and then I say: Hi. My name is Nathaniel M. Smith and…”
“Stop.”
“What now?”
“Try to be more casual. We’re not prepping for a job interview. This is speed dating. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“Right. Yes. Casual... I can do casual. How about this? Heyyy... No. I mean… Hi. Yes, hi. Pleased to meet you. My name is Nate... I’m Nate.”
“Hmm. Better. A little clunky. But they might see your sweaty inability to talk to women as sweet. Some of your dates will be nervous too. One or two might have had a few drinks already. But if I’m your date, I’m already looking at you and thinking: ‘Yeah, but so what?’”
“Harsh.”
“Realistic. You’ll be one of a dozen or so guys at this thing, all of them looking to make a good first impression in three minutes. Granted, there will be some worse off than you. The hot-looking guys who turn out to be boring. I’ve met a few of those. Then there are the bald guys who can carry it off. The bald guys who can’t. The short guys. The too-tall guys. The creepy guys. The guys who still live with their mum.”
“I still live with my mum.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mention that. The thing is, there will be some guys there who are better looking than you, wear less black than you, and who can actually talk to a woman without getting their tongues in a twist. They will be your competition. So, how are you going to set yourself apart? What’s your hook?”
“I have my own YouTube channel, where I stream computer games—”
“No.”
“I have my own car.”
“You part-own it with your mum. That’s a ‘no’ too.”
“I like archery. Got my own bow. Maybe I could bring it along?”
“Definitely not. How about using your real name?”
“I don’t like my real name. That’s why I changed it.”
“But it’s so much more interesting. It makes you more interesting. Intriguing. Like there’s a story there, waiting to be told. There is a story, right? I bet there will be nobody else there called—”
“I said no… Look, we should get back to work. Mr Brooks will be wondering where we are.”
“But it’s—”
“Not my name. Not any more. You know why.”
1
A DOG ON THE CEILING
My name is Merlin Nathaniel Smith.
But just call me Nate.
Never, ever, call me Merlin.
Dear old dad was a magician and it was his wonderful idea to name me after history’s best-known wizard. Something to contrast with England’s most common surname, I suppose. Mum said I should think myself lucky that he didn’t opt for the full-blown name, Merlin Ambrosius. That would really have given the kids at school something to tease me about.
When you’re saddled with the name Merlin, you either rock it or you’re embarrassed by it. I fall into the latter category. I’m just not a Merlin. I don’t think it suits me. So, I go by Nate these days. It helps me to fit in; to be utterly and completely ordinary.
And for twenty-two years, I was pretty good at it.
If they ever make a movie of my life and show the precise moment that changed, it might start on a close-up of my left eye, blue light sparking across my iris. Then the view would pull out, slowly at first, revealing my face, my eyes wide, my mouth open in what I can only imagine was a terrified ‘yearrrghhhh’. Zooming out further, you’d see the cause of that scream — I’m riding a blue mountain bike and I’m hurtling over the river Avon in Bath, England, not going fast enough to make it to the other side. Oh, and my back wheel is on fire, spinning round like a Catherine Wheel, leaving a trail of sparks and smoke in my wake.
How did an average guy with a magical name get into such an Evel Knievel-style predicament? That’s a great question. At this point, my memory is a little hazy on the details. But if you rewind the view, you can see me hurtle backwards, back onto the towpath next to the river, pedalling furiously in reverse, back to the moment when a lightning bolt stabs down at me from a cloudless summer sky.
Yeah, completely cloudless.
It wasn’t even the weirdest part.
The bolt must have been a direct hit. I remember a blinding light and a thrumming surge of pain, as if every nerve in my body had been simultaneously twanged like a tuning fork. I subsequently lost control of my bike, careering off the towpath, whereupon I shot out over the river at speed. I don’t recall much after that. Fragments, mostly. A flash of sky. The cold embrace of the water. Glittering bubbles as I tried to scream. I recall lying on the cold ground, shivering and gulping in air. Seeing a throng of people I didn’t know looking down at me. Hearing the distant sound of sirens...
Nee-naw, nee-naw, nee-naww.
For a moment, I thought I might be dead.
Even that wasn’t the weirdest part.
All of which brings me to the here and now. To a hospital bed with tightly fitted sheets, harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, blue plastic curtains pulled round me. On my left, an empty blue plastic chair. On my right, a small wooden table with a disappointing bunch of flowers on it, the supermarket price tag still visible on the wrapping.
And there was a dog on the ceiling.
A pug dog. A small and stumpy thing, with what looked like leathery bat wings folded across its back. It watched me with wide yellow eyes, hanging upside down as if it was as light as a spider. I swear it smirked at me, icky black tongue slavering over curved fangs.
And no, that wasn’t the weirdest part either.
“Hel-aggghh!!” I screamed out, the word ‘help’ collapsing into a frightened yell. Then I shut my eyes and pulled the sheets up over my head. I expected to feel the gravity-defying dog demon land on the bed at any moment, teeth ripping at the thin shield of cotton. I almost didn’t register the squeak of footsteps and the swish of the plastic curtain as it whipped aside, sighing on its plastic runners.
“Mr Smith.” A woman’s voice, high-pitched, a slight lilt of Irish to it. “Calm yourself, now. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Ceiling,” I croaked, still cowering under the sheet. “There’s s-something on the ceiling.”
“There’s nothing on the ceiling, Mr Smith.” I flinched as someone (or something) touched my shoulder. “You’re just a little disorientated. Only to be expected after your accident.” The touch, somewhat light and definitely non-monstrous, became a gentle pat. “Come now. You’re in the hospital.”
Hospital. Yes. That made sense.
“You’re safe.”
Hardly. There’s a demon dog on the ceiling!
“And your mother is here.”
Of course she is...
“Please let go of the bed covers, Mr Smith…”
I don’t think so.
“Come on now…”
Slowly lowering the sheet revealed the freckled face of a nurse, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, her forced smile suggesting she was in no mood for any craziness. I looked up. There was indeed nothing on the ceiling that shouldn’t have been there, just as she’d promised. It was a fact that left me feeling foolish and somewhat confused. I felt like a little kid again, asking mum to check under the bed for monsters. There were no such things. At least not in the hellish canine sense.
“I’m here,” said my mother, grabbing my hand and squeezing it tight.
Had there been any monsters, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. My mother was a force of nature. Single parents need to be. She was in her late forties now, but didn’t look it. She was still slim, with high cheekbones and an enduring sense of style. Today, she wore a big purple coat and jeans, her wavy brown hair hidden under a grey felt hat. She looked at me, her head cocked slightly, concern in her hazel eyes.
“Thank the Lord, you’re awake,” she said, clasping her other hand around mine. “I was so worried. I prayed for you every day.”
“I’m fine, mum. I’m— Wait. What do you mean ‘every day’?” I glanced up at the blonde nurse. “How long have I been here?”
The nurse checked the medical notes at the foot of my bed. “You were brought in two days ago.”
“Two days? Two days!” I sat bolt upright. “Then I’m late for work. So late. Unforgivably late.” I looked around for my phone. “I need to call in. I need to tell Mr Brooks about what happened, else he’ll fire me for sure. Two days!?” I looked to mum and she nodded back. “No, no. That can’t be right.”
“You’ve been in a coma since the crash,” mum said.
“Unconscious,” the nurse corrected her.
“Where’s my phone?” I asked.
“You didn’t come in with your phone. Just your clothes.”
That meant my smartphone lay at the bottom of the River Avon, along with my bike. I slumped back into the pillow and let out a long, exasperated sigh. Of course, mum had a phone…
“Can I borrow your phone, mum?”
“No phone calls,” said the nurse. “Plenty of time for that later. “You said you saw something on the ceiling?” The nurse shone a light into my eyes, making me blink. “What did you see?”
“It looked like a dog.”
“Only trained service animals are permitted in the hospital, Mr Smith. I can assure you that there are no dogs here. Not in this room and especially not on the ceiling. You’ve been unconscious for a while. You’re probably a little groggy.” The nurse turned to leave. “Never had anyone in here who got struck by lightning. By all accounts, you’ve had a lucky escape. You weren’t even burned…”
“I wasn’t?” I hadn’t even thought to look. But my arms had no bandages on them, my chest seemed miraculously unmarked. I patted my head. And I still seemed to have all my hair. Thank goodness. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“Our Lord was looking after you. Don’t forget to thank him.”
“I’m not going to church, mum.” I wasn’t a fan. Much to my mother’s continual and vocal disappointment. To my mind, the only person looking after me, was me. There wasn’t some higher power shaping my destiny.
Mum waited until the nurse had left and then pulled the blue chair closer. She sat down. “How are you feeling?”
“A little woozy. A tad embarrassed. But I guess it could have been worse.” My mother had a pained expression. Frowning. “Mum, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.”
“It’s not that. It’s…”
“What is it? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But there’s something I need to tell you. There’s…” She glanced towards the door.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“There’s a man outside. He arrived yesterday. He says he’s from some magical society in London. He has news about your father…”
That was the weirdest part.
We hadn’t had any news about my father since he ran out on us over twenty years ago. I believe I mentioned that he was a magician. Don’t know much more than that. Mum never wants to talk about him and didn’t keep any photos. So, I’ve no idea what he looked like beyond her memory of him — a kind man, funny, confident, had a goatee beard she persuaded him to shave off. Maybe I look like him. Maybe I don’t. With little to go on, I’ve had to build up a picture of him in my mind.
That picture has changed over the years. When I was younger, he was a hero to me. Part illusionist, part secret agent, a caped crusader travelling the world fighting crime. For a time, when I needed a father the most, my runaway dad was a moustache-twirling villain from a black and white movie. In the end, I settled for something in-between. Not a successful stage magician, but a magical wannabe who worked the pub circuit doing close-up tricks for beer money. Never quite making it big. Always falling short. Just some guy. A loser.
As it turned out, I was spectacularly and utterly wrong.
2
WIZARDS? ARE YOU INSANE!?
The man from the magical society looked like a middle-aged funeral director, black hair glossy with gel and aggressively back-combed. He wore thick-framed black glasses on a bulbous nose, with a lampshade moustache underneath, a strip of hair neatly cropped to be the same length as his upper lip. He continued to rock the funeral director look with a black suit that seemed a little too big on him, a matching black tie and a white shirt. He clutched a briefcase to his chest and almost tripped over his own shiny black brogues on the way in.
“So you’re Merlin Smith?” he said, composing himself. He put the briefcase down and straightened his tie.
“It’s Nate,” I corrected him.
Never, ever call me Merlin.
The man seemed troubled by that. “But aren’t you…?”
“I said, it’s Nate.”
“Of course.” The man from the magical society nodded. He picked up the briefcase again and ventured closer, squinting at me as if looking for something. “Yes, I can see the resemblance. Definitely the right person. Good. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I frowned at him. “My loss?”
That stopped the man in his tracks. “Your mother didn’t tell you?” He looked to mum and raised his eyebrows. She shook her head. “Ah.” The man gazed down at his shiny shoes. “That is a little awkward. My apologies. Your loss... Yes. I’m…” He looked up at me again, fiddling with the knot in his tie. “It is my sad duty to inform you that your father, Robert Howard Strode, died suddenly a few short days ago. You are the sole heir to his estate.”
I believe I mentioned that I never knew my father. Mum raised me and my twin sister Alison on her own. Potential step-dads came and went, but they never lasted. She never remarried. Stopped dating altogether after a while. ‘Men are idiots’ she says on an all-too regular basis, and apparently nobody could live up to dear old dad. I always thought that he might turn up one day, that he might stand in our doorway and say he was sorry for leaving, that he might explain everything. But now, he never would. I’d never know him. Never know why he left. I wasn’t upset that my dad had died. But I was annoyed that the truth had died with him.
