Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

Cassandra pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of a rear pocket. “Dietrich von Bern’s Border Redcaps started circulating these flyers throughout the supernatural community this morning. They’re printed in magic ink, of course, so humans can’t read them.”

“Jack’s equipped with rose-colored contact lenses,” said Simon, “given to him by Merlin the Magician.”

“Merlin?” said Cassandra. “That old goat is living in Chicago?”

“May I look at the paper, please?” asked Jack.

“Apologies,” said Cassandra. “Here.”

Jack winced as he studied the flyer. Beneath a large black-and-white photo of his face were the words, “Ten thousand in gold for the head of Jack Collins. No body necessary.” Under the headline was a paragraph in small print. Jack’s eyes widened in dismay as he silently read the information.

Clutching the paper tightly in one hand, he turned to Simon. “Listen to this,” he said softly. “ ‘Collins can be located and identified easily by the magical talisman known as the Universal Charge Card he carries with him at all times . ’ ” His voice rose with each word. “Didn’t you realize the bad guys traced us because of that stupid charge card?”

“Uh, sorry,” said Simon. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

“I should have realized it immediately,” said Jack, “the way we kept bumping into supernatural villains whenever we turned. Merlin never had a chance to warn me. This damned card acts as a beacon, drawing enemies to me like flies to honey.”

“Speaking of von Bern and his cronies,” said Cassandra, “we can’t stand around gabbing all night. The darker it gets, the stronger the German becomes. I’m willing to fight anybody, but I’m no match for the Wild Huntsman and the Gabble Ratchets.”

“You have a car?” asked Jack, mental wheels turning.

“An old wreck, but it serves,” answered Cassandra. “I parked it a block from here. Didn’t want to warn the trolls.”

Jack refused to ask why. He suspected she had worried the monsters would have fled without a struggle.

Cruising in Cassandra’s rusty old Chevy, they located five ATMs in the next hour. Jack withdrew two thousand dollars from each machine, building up his bankroll substantially. Finally satisfied, Jack had the Amazon find a 7-Eleven.

While Simon and Cassandra drank Slurpees and reminisced about old times, Jack bought a package of envelopes, a roll of Scotch tape, a pen, and some stamps. Slipping the Universal Charge Card into one envelope, he folded it over and placed it in a second. Securely taping it shut, he addressed the outer envelope carefully and applied the correct postage.

“There’s a window open at the main post office in the Loop,” he told his friends. “We’ll mail the letter there. I can’t take the chance of a mailbox. Von Bern’s men would zero in on it before the next pickup.”

The letter deposited, Jack breathed a sigh of relief. “I mailed it to myself at my parents’ home in New Jersey. When any letter for me arrives there, my mother scratches out her address and scribbles down my forwarding address at school. Judging on past performances, the entire trip will take a week or more. That should provide us with a little breathing time to save the world.”

“Saving the world?” said Cassandra eagerly. “You mind telling me what this disaster is all about? After rescuing you from those trolls, I feel I’m entitled.”

“No argument from me,” said Jack, choosing his words carefully. “I appreciate all you’ve done. But this task is extremely dangerous. I don’t want you to feel obligated to help in any way.”

“You let me worry about danger, Collins,” said Cassandra. “It’s a long ride to Simon’s cousins. We’ve got plenty of time. Tell me the whole story. From the beginning.”

“Well, doctor,” asked Roger, his voice quivering, “is it cancer? Tell me the truth.”

The physician shook his head. “As far as I can determine, Mr. Quinn, the marks on your elbow are a curious skin blemish and nothing more. I label them curious because of their uncanny resemblance to a man’s fingerprints. In all my years in medicine, I’ve never seen their like. If you’re truly concerned, we can run further tests. But, except for the discoloration, I can’t find a thing wrong.”

Roger stood up and put on his shirt. He shook his head. “That will be enough for the moment. Maybe I’ll return in a few days. My… uncle… is in town and requires constant attention. He dislikes my leaving him for any length of time. Fortunately, I needed to buy some sacrifices—I mean groceries—this afternoon, enabling me to escape for a few hours. If I don’t return soon, he’ll start to worry. And I definitely do not want him to grow disturbed.”

The doctor frowned. “Your uncle sounds like a tyrant. Why do you tolerate such behavior?”

“Relatives,” said Roger, suppressing a scream. “It’s an old story. Can’t live with them. Can’t live without them.”

“Oh,” said the physician. “I understand. Money problems? Well, if anything happens to those marks, give me a call. Otherwise, forget them. They’re harmless.”

Driving back to his mansion, Roger fought back tears of rage. He should have known better. Even modern medical science was helpless before ancient sorcery. The Lord of the Lions held him in an unbreakable grip. It was not a comforting thought.

The demigod met him at the door. “You obtained the fowls?” it asked, sounding anxious.

“Of course,” said Roger. “The cage is in the back seat. Give me a few minutes and I’ll haul it to the basement.”

“Good,” said the Crouching One, “very good. I will reward you handsomely for your devotion, my faithful servant. When I rule your world, this state of California will be your plaything. For I am a generous God.”

Roger bowed, not believing a word the demigod said. Talk was cheap, even among immortals. While the Lord of the Lions needed neither food nor drink, it required living sacrifices every few days to maintain its energy levels. After experimenting with various small animals, they discovered that chickens worked best.

Every three days, Roger traveled to a farm outside the city and bought several chickens. The owner eyed him curiously each trip, but with satanic cults, food fetishes, and oddball pet owners thriving in California, Roger’s money spoke louder than any suspicions.

“Von Bern called while you were out,” said the Crouching One. “I spoke to him at length.”

After numerous demonstrations, the demigod had finally learned how to use a telephone. Roger grimaced, remembering the trouble he had had explaining the instrument to the ancient being. The Lion God believed all technology to be modern magic. For the sake of his sanity, Roger agreed.

“Well, what did the German have to report?” Roger asked, hoping for the worst. Von Bern was evil to the core, but he was an incompetent clod.

“The fool failed again,” growled the Crouching One, blue sparks flying. “Exactly as you predicted. He had Collins in his grasp and could not kill him. The human escaped.”

Elated, Roger tried his best to sound disappointed. “I warned you. Von Bern and his goons are creatures of instinct. They can’t deal with a man who thinks instead of merely reacts. In this modern age, old-fashioned methods no longer work. If you want to defeat this champion, you need to use someone who understands him, someone who thinks like him.”

“Perhaps,” said the Lord of the Lions. “Perhaps. But, he deserves a chance. Remember, his plot had a double edge. Even though Collins managed to stay alive, he didn’t guess the German’s other trap. If all goes well, this champion will be rendered ineffective by his own kind. Wouldn’t that be a delicious irony? Speaking of delicious, I grow hungry for life.”