Eric paid by narrowing his own possibilities. He had a whole life ahead of him, filled with choices, any one of which could generate a whole new universe at a quantum level. But every time he used his powers, he eliminated some of those alternate worlds, shutting down those possibilities permanently and irrevocably.

So if saving Middleton meant he gave up any chance of meeting his true love in college and that their beautiful little boy named Caleb with a sunny smile would never be born, well, that’s the cost Eric had to bear. He’d gamble his chances at happiness, at peace. That was fine, he’d gotten used to that. He’d lost chunks of his soul as he felt alternate versions of himself die, one by one, and he’d gotten used to that, too.

It didn’t matter. Merlin had already told him: he’d be dead before he saw eighteen. The final battle was coming, and he was not going to survive it.

The only things that bothered him any more were the other realities that occasionally intruded because of all his magical juggling. He’d seen passenger pigeons fly past under green skies. He’d glimpsed the glowing rubble of a post-nuclear Middleton. He’d heard strange languages spoken in the halls of his school and seen his classmates pledge allegiance to a flag with a swastika. Once he saw squid-faced aliens at the country club, playing golf. Fortunately, these soap-bubble worlds appeared and popped and vanished in a matter of seconds.

So Eric took a deep breath, and used a cheat code. He whispered, “Up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-start.” His Abracadabra, his Alakazam.

The easiest things to manipulate, oddly enough, were the fundamental forces. Energy was everywhere, ready to be tapped at a moment’s notice. He could bring pure, unfiltered sunlight from outside the atmosphere, or gravity from a distant black hole, or fire from inside the earth’s crust. The only trick was controlling all the power. It was like trying to direct a tidal wave through a garden hose. Nobody knew that the tornado that nearly hit the town in ’95 was entirely his fault.

But with a werewolf bearing down on him, Eric decided it was okay to risk a little damage.

He snapped his fingers. Lightning gathered in a ball above his hand, and he hurled that sucker as hard as he could.

The ball of lightning shot through the darkness. The beast ducked its head at the last moment, preternaturally fast, and the ball tore a chunk out of the hillside instead.

Eric didn’t panic. He gathered another ball of lightning and threw again. Missed again.

Now there were barely a dozen yards between him and the beast. He was out of tricks, out of time.

He started to panic a little.