Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

Storm clouds gathered in Jack’s face, as he remembered an abbreviated conversation, “Simon was about to tell me once. Then he changed his mind. Instead, he remained true to his nature and never said a word.”

Megan grinned, an impish smile that lit up her entire face. “If that’s the case, I bet he never mentioned anything about your ancestry, either?”

Jack’s eyes bulged. “My ancestry? What are you talking about?”

“Dream communication, my darling,” said Megan, her fingers twirling through his hair, making concentration difficult. “It’s a rare talent. Only halfings can do it. On both ends.”

Jack shook his head, trying to make sense of what Merlin’s daughter was implying. “But, what you’re saying is that one of my parents…”

“…is a supernatural,” said Megan. “That’s why I was so surprised when you first walked into our office. Father cast a spell on the newspaper ad insuring that it would only attract halflings with the talents we felt necessary to defeat the forces of darkness. Never once during the semester I audited your class last year did I suspect you might be the one.”

“You audited my class last year,” said Jack, feeling he was fast losing track of the conversation. “Real Variables?”

“Right. Remember, I sat in the fifth row, in the back?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No wonder you looked familiar. But your hair was a lot darker and not so long.”

Megan laughed. “Some magic comes from bottles. Jack.”

“A halfling,” he said. “Which means one of my parents isn’t human but a supernatural entity. It can’t be my father. He has a family tree longer than your arm. That leaves Mom.”

He closed his eyes as if recalling old memories. “Very interesting. How very, very interesting. I can’t wait to phone home. This puts a whole new twist on the old family business.”

Together, they rose to their feet. Merlin, who had studiously ignored them for the past few minutes, was busily talking with Cassandra. There was no sign of Charon.

“I let him go,” the Amazon replied to Jack’s question about the ferryman. “What else was there to do? He harmed no one. And, despite his immense age, he could probably whip the bunch of us with one hand tied behind his back. I thought it best to allow him to depart in peace. We won’t see him again.”

“One less loose end to tie up,” said Jack. “Fine with me. Leaving us with ninety-one women and one battered reputation to save.”

“Reputation?” asked Merlin. He squinted at the wicker cages, rubbing his beard in concentration. “Whose?”

“Mine,” said Jack. “Let’s rescue these prisoners first. They’re the real problem. I can tell you the whole story over dinner. After sleeping for days, I bet you’re rather hungry.”

“Starved, actually,” said Megan. She patted Jack on the arm. “Don’t worry, Jack. Father’s terrific at repairing reputations.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Jack. “The nymphs—uh, I mean, Witch Hazel mentioned the King Arthur mess. Hopefully, my problems won’t prove to be so much trouble.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Megan, smiling a smile that set Jack’s heart racing at an unhealthy speed. “Sometimes a little trouble can be fun.”

The phone rang. Its inhuman face twisted with unspeakable rage, the Lord of Lions beckoned to Roger. “Answer it,” hissed the Crouching One.

The demigod wore a plain white cotton robe, decorated on each shoulder with a golden lion’s head. On its feet were simple leather sandals. In one hand, it held a slender polished wood scepter. On its hairless head, the Crouching One wore a gold circlet. It sat on a throne specially constructed of white marble, in the center of Roger’s library. It had been waiting there for lightning to strike for the past five hours.

Roger, dressed casually in blue jeans and a sweat shirt, hurried to pick up the receiver. He caught the phone on the third ring. After listening to a few words, he turned to the Lord of the Lions. “It’s for you,” he declared solemnly. “From Chicago. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s definitely not the German.”

Snarling in rage, the Lord of the Lions grabbed the telephone from Roger. “Speak,” it commanded. “I am listening.”

Silently, the Crouching One stood there, one ear glued to the receiver. The scowl on its face changed first to a look of absolute astonishment, then swiftly switched to anger, then finally ended in a mask of grim resignation.

“Thank you,” it said into the mouthpiece, catching Roger completely off guard. “Your information is greatly appreciated. When my day comes, you will be richly rewarded.”

Hanging up the phone, the demigod shrugged its shoulders in a very human-like expression of disgust. “Collins defeated von Bern and all his minions.”

“The Great Beast?” asked Roger.

“Sent back to the outermost dark,” said the Crouching One. “Obviously, you were correct. I underestimated our foe’s ability and ignored the Huntsman’s glaring faults. Those were mistakes I will not make again.”

Roger sincerely doubted that, but he knew better than to say anything.

“If von Bern and his troops were destroyed, who was that on the phone?” he asked instead.

“A contemporary of mine,” said the Crouching One, sounding almost nostalgic. “His people, the Etruscans, called him Charun. Like me, he was originally a death god. However, when his followers died out, the ancient Greeks adopted him into their religion, but no longer as a God. They renamed him Charon and made him a ferryman, a mere servant of their own gods. A reversal of fortunes, to be sure, but ultimately it worked in his favor. He escaped the exile the rest of us suffered centuries later, with the rise of the One God.”

“Why did he call? Old friend or not, he never phoned before.”

“Charon is interested in the welfare of only one being,” said the Lord of the Lions. “Himself. He loses nothing in informing me of Collins’s victory, and puts me in his debt. If I triumph, he claims a reward. If I do not, he is out nothing. He is an opportunist.”

“What now?” asked Roger. The Crouching One was accepting this setback with amazing equanimity.

“We wait. We watch. We plan.” The Lord of the Lions’s eyes glowed yellow as blue sparks creased his fingertips. “We devise a scheme avoiding the errors of this first attempt. We find new allies, stronger and more dependable allies.

“In the meantime, we leave Mr. Collins and his friends strictly alone. Let them wait and wonder until the moment is right. Then we strike, seizing power and crushing them with the same stroke.”

“You sound pretty positive,” said Roger, “for having lost the first round of the fight.”

“I am a God,” said the Crouching One, “and Gods are very patient. A battle was lost,” and blue sparks flashed across its features as it spoke, “but the war is far from over.”

Chicago’s newspapers reported several unusual stories the next morning.

The most dramatic, making both the local and national TV news, was the discovery of the ninety-one kidnapped women in an abandoned underground railway yard beneath the city streets. What kept the report in the public eye for more than a week was not the details of the story but the lack of them. For despite the vast diversity in age, nationality, and intelligence of the victims, not one of them remembered a single detail of their capture or imprisonment. It was as if someone or something had gone through each of their minds and erased all memories of their experiences involving the crime.

A few tantalizing details of odd and unusual discoveries in the underground tunnel network raised more questions than they answered. Who had blocked certain passageways with handcarts filled with bricks? And, more importantly, why?