Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

“Disgusting little tramps,” said Cassandra with a sneer.

“They seem to enjoy themselves,” said Hazel, cackling again.

Jack winced. The witch’s laughter hurt his ears. “Someone want to fill me in?” he asked. “Who are these mall nymphs? And, more important, can they actually help us?”

“Mall nymphs are the genius loci of shopping malls,” said Simon cheerfully. “Like our friend Cassandra, they date back to the time of ancient Greece.”

“Don’t link me with them,” said Cassandra angrily. She glared at Simon. “Shameless female spirits, they called themselves dryads during the Golden Age. They lived in forest groves, frolicking naked among the trees. Entirely devoid of shame, the vixens delighted in tempting unwary soldiers foolish enough to camp in their glades.”

Jack stifled a grin. With a flash of insight, he realized a basic truth about the Amazon. Cassandra was a prude. He wondered if the trait somehow tied in with her “insidious weakness.” Reminding himself to question Simon about Amazons, he focused his attention on what Hazel was saying.

“Immoral or not, mall nymphs love secrets. They pry them out of any male supernatural they encounter. And, since they are among the most beautiful and definitely the most amorous of all our kind, the girls entertain many, many visitors. I’m sure von Bern or his lieutenants have enjoyed their company numerous times.”

Jack pursed his lips. “Uh, how do you propose persuading these lovely ladies to reveal what they know? Or haven’t you thought about that?”

Simon smirked. “Trust me on this one, Jack. I’m on excellent terms with the girls. They’ll tell me anything. I guarantee it.”

Jack turned to the old witch and her familiar. “Hazel?”

“Simon is an obnoxious braggart,” said the witch, “but he has a certain way with the ladies. If the mall nymphs will speak freely with anyone, it will be with him.”

“Cassandra,” Jack continued, “any thoughts?”

“Hazel’s right,” said the Amazon, her expression sour. “Simon possesses a silver tongue. He can talk a bird out of a tree if he sets his mind to it. Let him work his wiles on the nymphs. After all, do we have any other leads?”

“My feelings exactly,” said Jack. He stood up. “I’m ready to head off and meet these nymphs.”

“You might be,” said Simon, “but unfortunately, the malls don’t open till noon on Sunday.”

The changeling held up the newspaper with Jack’s picture. “While I dislike raising the possibility, since the advent of all those ‘Most Wanted’ shows on television, aren’t you taking a big chance going to the shopping mall? I would hate for civilization to collapse because a nosy old grandmother spots your face and calls the cops.”

“I didn’t think of that,” admitted Jack.

Hazel cackled and scurried for the bedroom, sending Sylvester flying to the floor. “I hate when she does that,” said the cat. “Hurrying never solves anything. We cats know better.”

Hazel scuttled back into the kitchen, holding a half-filled flask in one gnarled hand. “Almost forgot I had this stuff. Potion number ten.”

She filled a paper cup to the top with the black fluid. It looked like India ink. And smelled like turpentine. Jack wondered if the old witch made the stuff in the sink. He hoped Hazel wasn’t going to ask him to swallow it. She did.

“Bottoms up,” she said, handing him the container. Before he could blurt out his question about the ingredients, she shook her head. “The same answer as earlier. You’re better off not knowing.”

Eyes squeezed shut. Jack swallowed. A jolt of electricity raced through his body, standing his every hair on end. As with the previous drink, the sensation vanished in an instant. Other than a slight tingling to his skin, he felt fine.

“Nice trick,” said Simon, grinning.

Cassandra shook her head, smiling faintly. “Witchcraft.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack asked, suddenly apprehensive. “What happened?”

Hazel handed Jack a small mirror. “See for yourself, dearie.”

Gripping the looking glass with both hands, Jack stared at his reflection. He gasped, as he found himself confronted by a perfect stranger. Or, more exactly, a not-so-perfect stranger.

“My hair is purple,” he whispered, “and cut in a Mohawk. My teeth are yellow and my skin is too pink. There’s a gold skull earring dangling from my left ear. And I don’t have any eyebrows. What did you do to me!”

“Touch your ear,” commanded Hazel. “Feel an earring?”

“No,” said Jack, watching in the glass as his hand reached up and tugged at the gold skull. “Nothing’s there. But, in the mirror…”

“It’s an illusion,” said the witch. “The potion creates a perfect, three-dimensional simulacrum. Beneath the deception, your features haven’t changed a whit.”

“Thank god,” said Jack. “Why purple hair?”

Hazel shrugged. “Why not? These spells work the way they want. Not much I can do to control them. Cheap ingredients.”

The witch’s tone turned serious. “One word of warning. The spell isn’t a particularly strong one. I’m not sure how long it will last. Or if its magic will survive contact with a stronger sorcery. So, beware.”

“If that’s the case,” said Jack, “let’s move it. By the time we arrive, the mall will be open. Cassandra, you’ll drive?”

“Of course, assuming my car will start. Don’t expect me to help you find those mall tramps, though. I’ll wait outside.”

“Agreed,” said Jack.

He was looking forward to meeting the nymphs. They sounded delightful. And not having Cassandra around as a chaperone didn’t upset him in the least.

Cassandra’s car made it to the mall. Barely, chugging and wheezing, the old wreck collapsed in a parking space. Muttering curses in ancient Greek, the Amazon slammed her door shut and stalked to the front of the auto. Wrenching the hood open, she glared at the engine like a particularly vile enemy.

“You’ll run,” she spat out, “or I’ll rip your innards to nuts and bolts.”

“Uh, Simon and I will head into the mall, Cassandra,” said Jack, edging away from the car. “We’ll be back soon.”

“Whenever,” said Cassandra, her hands fiddling with the motor. Her eyes glistened with battle lust. “I’ll be here.”

Jack and Simon hurried to the mall’s main entrance. Neither of them said a word until they were inside.

“I’m glad she’s on our side,” said Jack, letting loose the breath he had been holding since the parking lot.

“Cassandra definitely has a style all her own,” said Simon. He glanced around the wide hall. “The nymphs usually hang out in the center of the mall. Let’s head there. It might take a while to find them. They tend to walk around a lot.”

As they walked through the long gallery, Jack recalled the mystery he had wanted to question the changeling about.

“In one of our conversations, Cassandra mentioned an ‘insidious weakness’ that doomed most of her companions. You have any notion what she’s referring to?”

“Of course,” said Simon, smiling. “If you tried, you could probably guess it easily enough. Amazons lived for battle. They possessed none of the usual female longings and desires. But humanity created them with human emotions.

“Amazons are immortal and nearly invulnerable. But they have one fatal flaw. If they fall in love, truly in love, they become human. They metamorphose from deathless warrior to mortal woman.

“That is what happened to Cassandra’s companions. Over the centuries, they grew lonely, took lovers, became wives, raised children, died. Surrounded by the temptations of flesh and spirit, they could not resist experiencing life. Only Cassandra stayed true to the Amazon creed. She is the last of her kind, and very lonely.”