Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

“Ever hear of the Thule Society in the 1920’s?” replied Simon. “They resurrected the dark Germanic God, Wotan. Then along came Hitler. And the Second World War. Talk about cause and effect, Jack. It took all the witches and warlocks in England working together to banish the Norse deity back to the outer darkness. We don’t have the manpower or the time to match that feat. Not if the forces of night are already on the move.”

“I’m still not clear…” began Jack when the lobby intercom buzzed.

“You expecting company?” asked Simon.

“Not really,” said Jack, glancing down at his watch. It was nearly midnight. By now, he had dismissed his fears about the campus police as groundless. But none of his friends ever visited this late.

The intercom buzzed again, loud and insistent. It kept on ringing.

Slightly nervous, Jack pressed the transmit button. “Who is it?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“Bernard Walsh, from the IRS, Mr. Collins. I’m investigating a series of suspicious withdrawals made today at several cash stations throughout the Loop. You seem to be involved with the transactions. Mind if we talk?”

All of the muscles in Jack’s arms and legs tied themselves into knots. “It’s awfully late, Mr. Walsh,” he managed to say after several false starts. “Couldn’t we discuss things in the morning?”

“Sorry, Collins, but it can’t wait till then. The IRS believes counterfeit credit cards are quite serious matters. If you prefer, I can return shortly with a search warrant.”

“Uh, no,” said Jack. “That won’t be necessary. You can come up.”

“Thanks,” said Walsh. “That’s all I needed for you to say.”

“Odd choice of words,” said Simon, as Jack sank down onto the sofa.

“I didn’t notice,” said Jack. “At least the money isn’t hidden here. That was a good idea, stashing it in your room.”

“Great,” agreed Simon sarcastically. “Brand me as your accessory. At least, you’ll have company in jail.”

A heavy fist pounded on the door to Jack’s apartment. Man and changeling looked at each other in astonishment.

“That was awfully quick,” said Simon, “considering that you’re on the fifth floor.”

“He must have caught the elevator the second I hung up,” said Jack, hurrying to the entrance. “Hopefully, I can talk my way out of this mess.”

“All he needed for you to say?” repeated Simon. “As if he wanted you to recite a certain formula. Oh, hell,” he gasped. “Jack, he tricked you. Walsh is a…”

The changeling’s warning came an instant too late. Jack pulled open the door to his apartment. Standing there, white-faced, red-eyed, stood a creature dressed entirely in black. Tall and stately, with a satanic smile and big, big teeth, Walsh was no IRS agent. But he was a bloodsucker all the same.

“…vampire,” concluded Simon, unnecessarily.

Jack scrambled back into the kitchenette. Walsh leisurely folded, slamming the door behind him.

“You can’t cross the threshold to my home unless invited,” declared Jack, his mind racing furiously. For the first time in his life, he regretted not reading Dracula. His knowledge of the undead was limited to their infrequent appearances in humorous fantasy novels, and several Christopher Lee film festivals he had attended as a teenager.

Jack had no doubt about Walsh’s identity, even without Simon’s warning. The bogus IRS agent’s lack of an aura branded him supernatural. His glowing eyes and inch-long fangs proclaimed his grisly heritage.

“A mere matter of semantics,” said Walsh. He spoke quite well, considering the size of his incisors. “This is the twentieth century, not the eighteenth. The entry hall to an apartment building serves as a common threshold for all the individual units. And you did invite me in.”

Straining, Jack shoved the kitchen table in the vampire’s path. With an amused shake of the head, the monster grasped the formica top with one hand and squeezed. The hardened plastic exploded into dust. Vampires, Jack remembered immediately, were much stronger than ordinary mortals.

“What do you want, Walsh?” Jack asked, retreating behind the kitchen chairs.

“Information,” replied the vampire. He appeared in no hurry to catch Jack. From time to time, his gaze flickered over to Simon, standing motionless by the sofa. He seemed puzzled by the changeling’s presence. “My master wants to know all about you, Mr. Collins. And how you came to possess the talisman you carry.”

“It was a gift,” said Jack, sliding around the last of the chairs and darting into the living room. Grasping at half-remembered solutions, he began reciting the only prayer he could remember.

“Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

“Please don’t strain your memory,” said Walsh cheerfully. “That superstition died out a long time ago. Ditto, the cross thing. I departed this world an agnostic. None of those religious remedies affects me in the slightest. Why not be a good boy and just answer my questions? After all, we already know all about Merlin and his daughter.”

“Oh yeah,” said Jack, pushing the sofa into the vampire’s path. Simon remained frozen in place. He had not said a word since Walsh had entered the apartment. “If you’re that well informed, what do you want from me?”

“Mine is not to reason why,” replied the vampire. Reaching down, he latched onto the sofa with both hands. Effortlessly, Walsh wrenched it out of Jack’s grasp. Chuckling, he tossed it against the living-room wall. The whole apartment shook when it hit the floor.

“Why did the old wizard give you the talisman?” Walsh demanded. “And what did he tell you about my master?”

“Your master?” said Jack, backing up to the windows. He was out of running space. “Since when do vampires work for the Old Ones?”

“A matter of professional courtesy,” answered Walsh. “Besides, doing a favor or two for a God never hurts. He promised me New York for finding you.”

The vampire smiled, making him look even more ghastly. “So, you do know about the Old Ones. How very interesting. Please tell more.”

He stepped closer, edging around a still motionless Simon. Walsh frowned, swirling his cape dramatically.

“Don’t interfere in matters that are none of your concern, faerie,” he ordered, glancing at the changeling. “This affair isn’t any of your business.”

“That’s your mistake,” said Simon unexpectedly and wrapped his arms around Walsh. Jerking his body around, he wrenched the vampire to the floor.

“Run, Jack!” he shouted. “I can’t hold him long.”

Caught by surprise, Jack froze. He wanted desperately to help Simon, but he had no idea how. Already, the vampire was pulling free from the changeling’s grip. He would be loose in seconds.

Crosses and prayers no longer worked, but there were other ways to hurt a vampire. Struck by inspiration, Jack darted past the struggling supernaturals into the kitchenette. Wildly, he pawed through the bottles on his spice rack.

Hissing like a locomotive, Walsh broke Simon’s hold and shoved the changeling hard into the far wall. The faerie collapsed to the floor in a daze.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he growled at the Brit. The vampire turned to Jack, his red eyes blazing. He snarled, showing his huge yellow fangs. “No more Mr. Nice Guy. Talk or suffer the consequences.”

“Take a bite of this,” yelled Jack and flung the contents of the spice bottle in Walsh’s face. A gritty powder caught the vampire across the cheeks.

The monster shrieked in agony. His skin sizzled like bacon on a griddle. A hundred black burns dotted his features. He staggered back, hands clawing at his eyes.