Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

“Time to leave,” said Jack, grabbing a groggy Simon by the arm. Behind them, Walsh howled like a wolf. “Definitely.”

Hastily, they scampered down the fire stairs. Jack had no idea how long Walsh would be out of action. Waiting for the building’s notoriously slow elevators was out of the question.

Huffing and puffing, he and Simon tumbled out the emergency exit located at the side of the complex.

“Where to?” asked the changeling. “He’ll be after us in a minute. And this time, he’s not going to be so polite.”

“The gym,” said Jack, pulling in one deep breath after another. “If we can make it there, I think we can arrange a surprise or two for Mr. Walsh.”

“Forward the Light Brigade,” declared Simon. “Etc., etc.”

Wearily, Jack set off towards the athletic center. Moving was an effort. It felt as if there were lead weights attached to his arms and legs. The day’s activities were wearing him down. He needed to rest. But first he had to deal with a vampire.

“Sorry for hesitating,” said Simon, as they ran. “Damned monster scared me witless. We faeries weren’t raised to be heroes. Vampires are out of our league.”

“No need to apologize,” wheezed Jack. “You acted when it mattered. That’s what counts.”

The changeling laughed. “Simon Goodfellow to the rescue. By the way, what was that stuff you threw at our toothy friend? I didn’t know they made anti-vampire powder.”

“Not exactly, but close enough,” answered Jack. “According to the legends, vampires can’t stand garlic. So I emptied a container of garlic salt on Walsh. It worked better than I expected.”

Simon whistled in admiration. “Pretty quick thinking. Maybe Merlin picked the right guy after all.”

“You better hope so,” said Jack as they ran up the steps to the athletic complex. “For both our sakes.”

It took Walsh twenty minutes to find them, which didn’t give Jack the time he needed to prepare his trap. He and Simon were still moving equipment when they heard the fire doors slam open upstairs.

“That sounds like a pretty pissed-off vampire,” said Simon. “Those doors are reinforced with steel. They weigh a ton.”

“Close enough,” agreed Jack, licking his lips apprehensively. “If I can stall Walsh for a few minutes, will you be able to finish setting things up? We won’t have a second chance.”

“No problem,” said Simon. “It’s a piece of cake. The big question is whether or not he’s actually vulnerable to your surprise.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Jack, pulling off his clothes. Naked, he slid into the pool of hot water at his feet. “We have to gamble I’m right. Unless you prefer trying to drive a stake through his heart?”

“Not tonight,” said Simon. “I was never very good at that sort of stuff. You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Jack. “Better turn on the jets. The switch is in the coach’s office.”

“Yeah, I know the spot. The staff worries that some enterprising students might otherwise use the equipment as a hot tub.” The changeling leered. “As if a lock or two could stop me.”

Another door slammed, this time on their floor.

“Hurry up,” said Jack. “If that water isn’t running by the time he arrives, I’m vampire chow.”

“I’m gone,” said Simon, and he was. Thirty seconds later, the whirlpool tub roared into life.

Sighing with relief, Jack immersed himself in the swirling water up to his neck. The massaging effects of the whirlpool worked wonders on his sore muscles. The humming of the motor soothed his jangled nerves. Closing his eyes for a second, Jack relaxed and let the tension drain out of his body. It felt terrific.

The door to the training room crashed open, destroying Jack’s moment of serenity. Walsh strode into the chamber, head held high, lips curled back in a snarl of rage.

“It’s the end of the line for you, Collins,” declared the vampire. Gnashing his teeth together, he approached the huge whirlpool tub. “You think taking a bath will protect you from me? I’m a vampire, fool, not a dust devil.”

Trying to stay calm, Jack watched the monster draw close. Walsh looked terrible. A hundred tiny puncture marks dotted his face and hands. It looked like he had been on the losing end of a fight with a sewing machine. The garlic salt had hurt the vampire, but not enough. The trick had merely enraged the monster. Walsh was hungry for blood—Jack’s blood.

Jack prayed that his memory of the legends concerning the undead was accurate. If not, he was in big trouble. And the world was doomed.

Mouth open to reveal his immense fangs, Walsh reached out with both hands to pull Jack out of the tub. Then stopped abruptly, as if encountering an invisible shield rising up from the bath.

“What the hell?” said Walsh angrily and tried furiously to push his hands forward. They didn’t budge. Snarling with rage, the vampire flung himself at the whirlpool. And bounced back as he smashed into the same transparent barrier.

“Running water,” said Jack, releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “Vampires can’t cross it. In the legends and folk tales it means streams and rivers and such. But, I guess the definition includes whirlpools as well. Even ones in a bath or pool.”

“Stupid trickery,” said Walsh angrily. As if testing the power of the spell, the vampire lunged savagely at Jack. With the same lack of success.

“Stalemate,” said Jack. A flicker of movement behind Walsh caught his attention for a second. Making not a sound, Simon was setting up a row of lights behind the vampire. “You can’t touch me, but I can’t leave the whirlpool. We’re deadlocked.”

“I’ll tear out one of these lockers and smash you flat,” declared Walsh. “Maybe it won’t be as much fun, but it’ll get the job done.”

Jack licked his lips. He hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sure your boss would be thrilled by the publicity,” said Jack. “Especially with the plans he has for those kidnapped women.”

The last remark was a stab in the dark, but it hit the target. “How do you know what’s planned?” asked Walsh suspiciously. “The ceremony won’t take place for nearly a week.”

“Two can keep a secret,” declared Jack solemnly, “if one is dead. There’s a lot more than two in your motley crew.”

The vampire grimaced, distorting his features into something barely human. “I warned von Bern that his inept band of half-wits would ruin everything. Idiots, all of them, in their fancy motorcycle jackets and studded boots. I should have been put in charge of the operation, not that dumb German. Only reason he got the job was his fancy sword and title.”

Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “I’m talking too much. Way too much. Not that it matters, ’cause you’ll never tell anyone.”

Behind the vampire, Simon raised a hand, signaling all was ready. Jack muttered a silent prayer to Bram Stoker. And to modern science.

“Ever go to a tanning salon, Walsh?” he asked casually.

“What?” snarled the vampire. “WHAT!”

“I didn’t think so,” said Jack, half-rising from the whirlpool. “Maybe since they use… sun lamps !”

Walsh whirled around, but it was too late. Simon flicked a switch and a half-dozen bright lights blazed. The vampire shrieked and raised his arms trying futilely to block the rays. But, there was no escape.

Simon had arranged the sun lamps in a semicircle, with Walsh at the center. The whirlpool blocked off his only avenue of retreat. With a cry of despair, the vampire sunk to his knees.

“I’m baking,” he screamed, “I’m baking.”

Jack gulped and fought to hold down his dinner. Walsh wasn’t lying. The vampire’s skin blackened and cracked like paper in a fire. And turned to ash. In seconds, the monster’s face and arms had disappeared into a cloud of soot. As if in slow motion, Walsh’s clothing collapsed in on itself, like a balloon suddenly deflating. All that remained was a small pile of fine, black powder.