Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

He raised his hands to quiet their protests. “No complaints. Too many of us traveling would attract attention. There’s no question that the Old Man of the Mountain knows too much about me. There’s probably a bunch of his agents spying on my every move. The only way to fool them is to create a magic doppelganger to take my place. The three of you working together can handle that spell. In the meantime, Cassandra and I can disguise our features and bring the battle right to our enemy, catching him by surprise. My plans aren’t certain yet, but without your cooperation, they’re doomed to failure.”

“You’re the boss,” said Fritz Grondark, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Dwarves are team players.”

“I can’t say I like being left behind when Megan’s safety is concerned,” declared Merlin. “But I know you will do everything possible to save her.”

“Woods witches can’t fight worth a damn anyway,” said Hazel. “Brews and potions are what me and Sylvester do best. We’re with you, as always, Jack.”

Moving with inhuman speed, Cassandra reached into her boot, withdrew a needle-thin stiletto, and thrust it into the floor. The steel blade quivered from the force of the blow as she spoke. “I pledge my life and my honor to this quest. We shall not fail.”

Jack licked his lips. The Amazon had a dramatic manner of stating her objectives.

“Hopefully,” he said, “we’ll achieve our aims with a minimal amount of violence,” The barest hint of a frown crossed Cassandra’s features. The Amazon preferred the direct, bloody method of settling difficulties. “But,” Jack continued grimly, “if it means we wipe out Hasan’s entire league of Assassins to rescue Megan, so be it. The Old Man of the Mountain has pushed us around long enough, It’s time we did some shoving of our own.”

“Every man in this airport is staring at me,” Cassandra whispered to Jack, eight hours later. “I can see the lust in their eyes. I doubt if I would draw this much attention if I was completely naked.”

“Exactly,” replied Jack, grinning. Though he probably felt closer to the Amazon than any other of his supernatural friends, she was so insufferably prim and proper that it secretly amused him to see her squirm. Cassandra was dressed to kill, and the gaze of every man, and most women, in the Las Vegas airport was fixed on her. “The best disguise is misdirection. If the Old Man of the Mountain has spies in the terminal, you’re the last person in the universe they’d peg as an Amazon warrior.’”

“If one more man winks at me,” said Cassandra, her voice quivering with emotion, “I will die of shame. After,” she promised grimly, “first ripping out his eyes and shoving them down his slimy throat.”

“Calm yourself,” said Jack. “We’re near the baggage claim. Once we locate our luggage, we’ll take a cab to the hotel. You’ll be out of public sight. At least, for a little while.”

Cassandra gasped. “You don’t expect me to wear clothing like this getup for our entire stay here? That’s unthinkable.”

“Better revise your thinking,” said Jack, cheerfully. “In Las Vegas, Cassandra Cole doesn’t exist. In her place is Saman’ta Jones, high-priced companion to millionaires and jet-setters. Besides,” he declared, unable to resist a small dig, “I think you look very sexy.”

Cassandra wore a full-length, lycra-spandex white cat suit. It hugged her curves like a second skin. A half dozen strategically placed cutouts revealed large patches of her chocolate-colored skin. The incredibly tight outfit clearly revealed her underclothes consisting of a tiny thong bikini and no bra. Five-inch spike-heeled boots and a three-inch-wide black leather belt completed the ensemble.

Her jet black hair was braided in the latest style, and dabs of color tinted her cheeks and eyelids. Gold chains around her neck clinked and jangled as they walked. And her fingers were capped with long white fingernails.

“I worried you might have a hard time with those heels,” murmured Jack as they rode the escalator down to the baggage claim. Under normal circumstances, the Amazon was a few inches taller than he. In boots, she was nearly a head higher. “But you’re managing them without effort.”

“In my career as a professional bodyguard, Jack,” said Cassandra, “I’ve had to attend more than my share of state functions undercover. Wearing fancy clothes isn’t as unusual for me as you might think. Dressing like a high-class hooker is the problem.”

“You could be wearing worse,” said Jack, then wished he hadn’t. Packed in their suitcases were outfits that made the Amazon’s current attire look tame. At least, Jack reflected, keeping Cassandra fighting mad wasn’t going to be difficult.

Merlin’s money, connections, and magic had smoothed their path to Las Vegas. Their new identities, and the clothes to match them, came from an unnamed but very secret agency that specialized in deception. Their features had undergone slight but significant changes, courtesy of one of Witch Hazel’s bitter potions. The wood witch guaranteed the results for a week. There was a harsher edge to Jack’s appearance and a softer one to Cassandra’s. The modifications were just enough so that the two of them were completely unrecognizable to anyone but their closest acquaintances.

Jack, dressed in a perfectly fitting dark pinstripe suit, was Gordon Green, an extremely wealthy and equally mysterious investment broker. In the inner pocket of his suit he had discovered a bank directory listing his accounts in several major investment firms. According to the entries, Mr. Green was worth well over $50 million. The billfold in his other pocket contained fifty crisp one-thousand-dollar bills. Merlin had money to burn.

Cassandra, despite her vocal and continual protests, became Saman’ta Jones. Getting the Amazon to wear the outrageous outfit selected for her by the deception bureau had been a major battle. Her screams of indignation had nearly shattered Jack’s eardrums. Persuading her that she couldn’t bring her weapons along on the trip had been the real challenge.

Reservations in one of the most expensive suites at the Seven Wonders of the World Resort proved to be no problem. Nor had there been any hassle purchasing first-class plane tickets for the two of them. Merlin the master sorcerer could work miracles on command. And when magic failed, money talked.

Once arrangements were finalized, the two ravens had been sent on ahead to do some preliminary scouting. “We fly at Mach three when necessary,” Hugo told them when asked. “Lucky our feathers aren’t real, otherwise they’d fry.”

A big, burly black man, standing nearly seven feet tall, awaited them at the luggage area. Dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, he held a white cardboard sign with the name “Mr. Green” scrawled across it. It took Jack a few seconds to remember that was his name.

“I’m Green,” he stated. “This is Ms. Jones, my secretary.”

Jack noted with some trepidation that the driver didn’t possess an aura. Another supernatural. Lately, his entire existence seemed to be defined by legendary beings. He glanced at Cassandra. She shrugged, clearly signaling she had no idea of their chauffeur’s true identity.

“Glad to meet you,” said the big man, his voice rumbling like thunder. He nodded to Cassandra, his gaze lingering for a moment on her outfit. The smile forming on his lips died when he saw the Amazon’s expression. “I’m John Henry. But you can call me Big John. Most people do.”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. He had never considered that songs might generate enough belief to bring their characters to life. Evidently, they did.