Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

“A young punk and a big dog, right?” asked Jack, wanting to be sure there was no mistake. “They were lounging in the doorway of the deserted store down the block. Neither of them possesses an aura.”

Simon’s face was still green. There was no humor in his voice when he spoke. “And you thought a vampire was bad news. Walsh was a pushover compared to those two watching this place. We’re in real trouble now, Jack.”

“How cheering,” said Jack, noting that Simon included himself in the danger. At least there was no more waffling on the faerie’s part. “Care to tell me who that character really is, and why that dog gives me the shivers?”

Simon edged back to the window. He beckoned Jack to follow. “Notice anything unusual about him?” the changeling whispered, as if speaking aloud he might be heard by those below.

Jack stared intently at the young man across the street. Tall and lean, he was dressed in faded blue jeans and a black leather jacket. Arms folded on his chest, he appeared half-asleep. Skin the color of old leather, his mouth was a thin red gash curled in an unchanging sneer. On his head, he wore an old red baseball cap, turned back to front in the prevailing style. Except for the fact that he lacked an aura, he could have been exactly what he appeared—a shiftless thug with nothing to do.

“He looks like a typical gang member,” replied Jack softly. “Complete with his colors.”

“A red cap?” asked Simon.

“According to the lecture given by campus security to all staff members,” said Jack, “hat and scarf colors are the usual identification marks for street gangs. Though I don’t recall any mention of an organization sporting red caps.”

“He belongs to a different gang than most,” said Simon, his lips curling in a sneer of disgust.

“Originally, his kind lived in the British Isles. That’s where I met them first. Many of us living here now emigrated from there during the Great Wars. We were a gentle folk, and fled the violence engulfing our ancestral home. But not them. They came much later. Not until your cities started to decay, and death walked the streets. That’s the type of surroundings they desired. That’s when they arrived, like a blight descending on the land.”

“They’re faeries?” asked Jack.

“Of a sort,” said Simon. “Among us, his kind are called the Border Redcaps. They’re a mixed breed, part faerie, part troll, part ogre, part who-knows-what else. The only certainty is that they are absolutely evil.”

“Border Redcaps?” asked Jack. “I never heard of them.”

“Few have,” said Simon. “They are not the type of character that populates the novels you favor. There is none of the romantic antihero so popular among current writers. The darkness within them is not a seductive, tempting sort. They are not rebels but cold-blooded murderers. The Redcaps kill without emotion, because it is what they do best. They are butchers of men.

“Their red caps are dyed red from the blood of their victims. They live in high towers along the border between the haves and the have-nots and prey on both. In Chicago, they inhabit the deserted upper floors of the high-rise public housing tenements.

“The police treat them like any other gang, not realizing the true extent of their wickedness. Each year, hundreds upon hundreds of runaways and the homeless disappear without a trace. They vanish into the night, never to be seen again.”

“The Border Redcaps?” asked Jack, for a second time. “But why?”

“As I said, it is their nature to kill. And,” added Simon, “they need a steady supply of fresh blood to keep their caps red.”

“What about the dog with him?” asked Jack, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. A big, black Doberman, the hound waited patiently beside its companion. Looking at it gave Jack the chills. There was something terribly wrong with the beast, something unnatural.

Simon drew in a deep breath. He swallowed hard several times before answering.

“The Redcap worries me,” he said, “but he’s no great surprise. From the story you told me, I suspected that his sort were involved in the kidnappings. They serve as the devil’s footsoldiers. However, the fiends are mere rank-and-file troublemakers. Add them all together and they have the brains of a halfwit. The fools are incapable of anything more than casual brutality and skull smashing.”

“Which indicates someone else is directing their activities,” said Jack. “Who?”

“Their lord is chief among the followers of the dark in Chicago,” answered Simon. “A merciless coachman, he rides the night winds with a pack of jet-black dogs at his side.”

The changeling lowered his voice, as if afraid of being heard. “The howling of his terrible hounds paralyzes any beast that hears it with fright. A once mighty leader whose sins were so great that after his death he was reborn in legend as an Archfiend. In olden times, the beasts he commanded were called the Gabble Ratchets, the ‘Corpse Hounds.’ One such monster waits and watches below. It loyally obeys only one master—Dietrich von Bern, the Lord of the Wild Hunt.”

As if summoned by the mention of that name, a heavy fist pounded on the door of Jack’s apartment. Caught by surprise, and overwhelmed by Simon’s rhetoric, Jack went numb all over. Ghastly visions of a devilish huntsman and his baying hounds raced through his head. Again came the pounding, this time accompanied by a gruff, loud voice.

“Open up, Collins. We know you’re in there. It’s campus security. We want to have a talk with you. Right now!”

Jack peered through the peephole in the door before opening it. He had no desire to learn the hard way that the Border Redcaps were masters of mimicry. A feeling of relief washed over him as he recognized Benny Anderson, chief of the college police force. Bald except for a fringe of white hair, with flat ears, puffy red cheeks and diamond-hard blue eyes, Anderson resembled a kewpie doll on speed. Then, paranoia struck back as Jack remembered Simon’s amazing chameleonlike powers.

“You have any identification?” Jack called out nervously.

Turning a brilliant shade of crimson, Anderson hammered on the paneling. “Identification!” he roared. “You open this blasted son-of-a-bitch door in one second, Jack Collins, or I’ll smash it to splinters. And you—you two-bit butthead—with it! Enough of this bloody stalling.”

Nodding, Jack fumbled with the lock. It was definitely Anderson. An ex-marine drill sergeant, he possessed a style uniquely his own. And a vocabulary to match.

“Sorry, chief,” said Jack, stepping side to let the security chief enter. “Don’t blame me for being careful. I was mugged yesterday. I’ve been seeing shadows ever since.”

“Sure,” said Anderson, swaggering about the living room casually. His sharp eyes flickered back and forth, as if mentally photographing everything for later appraisal. His gaze rested for a second on the smashed formica of the dining-room table, but he said nothing. “I understand.”

He nodded to Simon. “Nice to see you, Fellows. You have business with the Professor?”

“Business?” replied Simon, shrugging unconcernedly. “You might say that. I’m enrolled in Professor Collins’s tutorial. I missed the last few classes. He was nice enough to let me stop by and find out what I missed.”

“Sure,” said Anderson again. He turned to Jack. “Naturally, I heard about the attack. Dr. Nelson submitted a report on it. Nasty business, getting booted in the head and all. No motive for the attack, according to your statement. You sticking to that story?”

“Yes,” said Jack, fearing the worst. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth.”