Robert Weinberg - Logical Magician 02 - A Calculated Magig

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HERE’S HOW AN UNEMPLOYED COLLEGE GRADUATE BECAME...
A LOGICAL MAGICIAN
HELP WANTED: Logical young man with an open mind and active imagination wanted
for highly unusual but financially rewarding career opportunity. Some risk involved.
Background in mathematics and fantastic literature advised.
Jack Collins never thought he’d find a job after college. Especially a job that combined his math skills
and his love of fantasy.
But then again, Jack Collins never thought that he’d be working for Merlin the Magician---or that
he’d be tracking down a savage, ancient demon in the streets of modern Chicago...
Well, the ad did say “some risk involved.”
A LOGICAL MAGICIAN
“Entertaining... lighthearted... a lot of fun.”
---Charles de Lint, Mystery Scene
Now the Logical Magician returns---in an all-out war between ancient mythology and modern
mathematics...
A CALCULATED MAGIC
A
CALCULATED
MAGIC
ROBERT
WEINBERG
If you purchased this hook without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen properly. It was reported as “unsold and
destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
To my mother, Dorothy Weinberg, the equal of any mom in this novel...
This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.
A CALCULATED MAGIC
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace edition / February 1995
All rights reserved. Copyright © 1995 by Robert Weinberg,
Cover art by Peter Scanlan.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.
ISBN: 0-441-00144-0
ACE®
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks
belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
scientia est potentia
(knowledge is power)
mundus vult decipi
(the world wants to be deceived)
8
Prologue
That no one ever guessed that Boris Bronsky was nothing more than an unimportant member of the
Russian State Department was directly attributable to sixty-three red Xs. The marks were engraved next
to the names of those who incurred the wrath of the Soviet premier or the secretary of the Communist
Party, The imposing list of his victims served as a grim warning to leave Boris Bronsky strictly alone. In a
country where spies spied on spies spying on spies, Boris retained astonishing autonomy. He worked
independently, without supervision, without interference, without controls.
Thus, on June 6, when Boris entered a dark alley of a disreputable section of Paris, no member
of any secret organization followed. Not that Bronsky ever worried about such matters. He was, in fact,
incredibly naive about the inner workings of the KGB and the Secret Service. It never once occurred to
him that his own organization would monitor his movements. He probably would have been even more
astonished to learn of the nine agents who had disappeared without a trace trying to keep pace with him
over the years. But Boris was a man with absolutely no imagination. That, and his total lack of ambition,
was why he had been chosen for this position in the first place a quarter of a century before.
His predecessor, Nikoli Valda, equally notorious in his time, had chosen Boris as his protégé
after reviewing the records of hundreds of civilian employees working for the KGB. Valda never
confided to his young assistant how he had made his choice. Many years later, Boris concluded it was
because he was a man of simple tastes, not easily bored. Which was actually closer to the truth than he
realized. For though he was respected by a few, feared by many, Boris Bronsky lacked ambition. And
that, considering the power he wielded, was all-important.
Among his family and friends, Boris was affectionately nicknamed “the Bear,” Standing six feet
four inches tall and weighing slightly more than 340 pounds, Boris’s resemblance to the animal was quite
apparent. A layer of thick, curly brown hair that covered much of his body helped to further the illusion.
As did his small, piercing black eyes. Bronsky looked the part of his namesake.
However, according to those who loved him, the title came from Boris’s gruff but friendly nature.
To his fellow Russians, bears were creatures of the circus---huge, powerful animals without the least bit
of meanness in their souls. Bears played with huge balls and buffeted clowns and suffered the most
outrageous practical jokes with a seemingly unlimited amount of patience. It was Bronsky’s gentleness
that earned him the nickname “the Bear.”
It was a measure of Boris’s skill at keeping his personal and professional lives distinct entities that
none of his family knew his other nickname, the one whispered behind his back by his lackeys in the
Kremlin. It was a title bestowed in fear, never written down, and known only to a very few. To those in
power, Boris Bronsky was “the Permanent Solution.”
Elimination of the enemies of the state was Boris’s specialty. He was the final resort, the last
protocol. Only after the secret police and the KGB had tried and failed was Boris summoned. His was a
talent used sparingly and with great deliberation. For once unleashed, Boris Bronsky was relentless,
unyielding, unstoppable. No one escaped “the Permanent Solution.”
He was, in a sense, one of the last Soviet institutions. In a time of one incredible change after
another throughout Russia, he remained a solitary, steadfast, unmoving rock. Sixty-three missions of
extermination had been assigned to Boris Bronsky. Of them, sixty-three had ended in the termination of
the victim or victims. No one could explain his success. Or dared question his methods. They knew only
that Boris never failed. Never.
Tonight, he was engaged in mission number sixty-four. At the end of the deserted alley was a
single door leading to a basement apartment. As usual, the door was not locked. Opening it, Boris
stepped inside. A single light bulb burned above the entrance. It shed just enough radiance to illuminate
one end of an old wood table extending into the inky blackness. Set in front of the table was a rickety old
chair. As best Boris could tell, it was the same table and chair that had been there on the first of his visits
twenty-five years ago.
Boris sat down. His hosts never arrived until a few minutes after he was settled. That, too, was
part of the ritual. They came after him and left before him. Never once had he caught a glimpse of them.
They moved in absolute silence and remained always in the shadows. Yet he knew immediately when
they entered the room. Their smell betrayed them.
Boris’s nose wrinkled in disgust. The most liberal doses of perfume could not hide the stink that
announced the arrival of his three hosts. It was a pungent, unforgettable smell that somehow reminded
Boris of reptiles.
Ignoring the odor, Boris leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I want a man killed. He betrayed
his country, Mother Russia. His death is necessary for the good of the state.”
“You know our price,” said the woman who usually did most of the talking. Her deep, gravelly
voice was barely more than a whisper, but it filled the entire chamber. Like her companions, she never
offered her real name. Instead, she used a title. “The Retaliator.” It fit.
“The money has already been transferred to your Swiss bank account,” said Boris, fidgeting in
his seat. No matter how many times he dealt with these women, he could not shake the feelings of dread
that accompanied the visit. Their very presence frightened him. There was something inhuman about
them. “Detail his crimes,” said another woman. Her voice was higher and shriller than her companions’.
She took the name “the Rager.” Righteous anger boiled through her every word.
“The traitor’s name is Sergei Karsnov,” began Boris. “He is forty-seven years old, stands one
hundred and seventy centimeters, and weighs a little under ninety kilos. He has black eyes and black hair
and speaks five foreign languages, including English, perfectly.”
“His crimes,” interrupted the Rager impatiently. “What were his crimes?”
“Sorry,” said Boris, mentally shaking himself. He should have remembered. The three killers
didn’t care about their victim’s appearance. They could learn that from the files he provided them at the
end of the meeting. However, for some unexplained reason, they preferred hearing aloud their quarry’s
transgressions.
“In 1989, working for the Department of Chemical Warfare, Karsnov developed a new strain of
the disease anthrax that could be administered by airborne spores. When tested on laboratory animals,
the new plague virus proved to be extremely efficient. Unfortunately, Karsnov felt the results were not
conclusive without a human sample. So, unbeknownst to his colleagues, he released a tiny sample of the
spores in St. Petersburg.”
“He poisoned his fellow countrymen to test the effect of a plague virus?” repeated the Rager,
sounding properly outraged. “What happened?”
“Exactly what you would expect,” said Boris. “Anthrax symptoms are very similar to those of
pneumonia but the treatment for one and the other are entirely different. The disease is deadly unless
handled properly. Nearly a hundred people died before Karsnov’s crime was detected. It took a
massive effort by the army and the KGB to stop the spread of the plague. By the time Karsnov was
implicated in the crime, the scientist had managed to flee the country.”
“And now you want him dead,” said the Retaliator. “You want justice for those who died.”
“Of course,” said Bronsky, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground. The assassins
demanded motivation as well as money. In a strange manner, they were highly moral killers. “The blood
of their mother, of Mother Russia, demands revenge.”
“The rules of the state must be obeyed,” said the third killer, who had remained silent until now.
Her voice was cold and remote. She was called “the Endless.”
“That is the law,” said the Retaliator in agreement.
“That is the law,” repeated the Rager.
Sighing deeply, Boris nodded. By those words, he knew that the three had taken the assignment.
Karsnov was as good as dead.
“You said he fled,” continued the Retaliator. “Where did he go?”
“To America, we think,” said Boris. “Karsnov has two passions. A protégé of hard-liners in the
Kremlin, he hates the United States with an all-consuming mania. He has spent most of his adult life
perfecting weapons to he used against the Americans. With the cold war over and peace between our
two nations, we suspect he plans to use the anthrax plague to fulfill his own twisted agenda.”
“His other passion?” asked the Endless.
“Karsnov loves to gamble. He plays cards compulsively, for hours, sometimes days on end. The
desire to win at any cost engulfs him and sweeps him away. That is why we think he is in America. My
colleagues in the Secret Service believe he is in Las Vegas, Nevada. Gambling,” he added unnecessarily,
“is legal there.”
“You have warned the Americans?” asked the Rager.
“Of course not,” said Boris. “They would never believe that Karsnov has turned rogue and is
working on his own. Like my superiors, they see a plot under every rock. Comrade Yeltsin is in the midst
of delicate negotiations for more aid from the United States. One mention of the anthrax plague would
destroy any hopes of that mission.”
“How did the scientist escape your own KGB?” asked the Retaliator. “Usually they are quite
capable of dealing with traitors.”
“We are not sure,” said Boris. “According to several reliable though not official sources, Karsnov
is being aided by an ultrasecret group of Islamic terrorists based in the United States. The group’s plans
are not known to us, but evidently they want revenge against the United States for the humiliation suffered
by Iraq in that war of a few years ago. What better way than to unleash a plague virus on the
unsuspecting citizens of a major American city?”
“We have dealt with fanatics before,” said the Endless.
“Those same unnamed sources,” said Boris slowly, “reported that members of this group, The
Brotherhood of Holy Destruction, wielded seemingly supernatural powers. According to unconfirmed
reports, they smuggled Karsnov out of Russia on a magic carpet. I knew it sounded incredible, but I
thought it only proper I should mention the story to you.”
“We have dealt with sorcery before as well,” said the Endless, her voice unchanged. “It exists,
but it can be stopped. We shall not fail.”
“I’m not worried,” said Boris, thinking of the previous sixty-three assignments. The meeting was
drawing to a close. There were only a few things left to be done. He reached into the attaché case at his
feet. “I brought along Karsnov’s files for you.”
“And a personal effect?” asked the Rager.
“Of course,” said Boris, reaching again into the case. “Karsnov wore this pocket watch for
years. In his haste to escape, he left it behind.”
Boris put the files and the watch onto the table. Carefully, he pushed them forward into the
darkness. Someone picked up the file and then the watch. He could hear it being passed around.
Bronsky shuddered in anticipation, knowing what came next. His every encounter with the three
mysterious hunters ended the same way.
“Labe, labe, labe,” chanted the three assassins in unison, their horrifying voices blending into a
monstrous chorus of sound. “Phradzou!”
An instant later, an unseen door opened and closed and they were gone. The hunters were off on
their mission to seek and destroy.
Boris rose to his feet, scratching his head in bewilderment. Dull and unimaginative, he still wished
he understood the purpose of that final burst of noise.
Years before, he had smuggled into the meeting a compact tape machine and had recorded the
mysterious words. A KGB language specialist had identified the phrase as ancient Greek and translated it
for him as “Seize him, seize him, seize him; mark him!”
The translation left Boris as much in the dark as before. He had no idea what the statement
signified or why the three assassins pronounced it at the end of each meeting.
A plain, simple man, not educated in the classics, Boris had never studied the famous Greek
playwrights. He had never heard of Aeschylus or his most famous play. Which, all things considered, was
probably for the best.
8
1
Stretching both arms high over his head. Jack Collins inhaled deeply, pulling lungfuls of fresh air into his
chest. He smiled. It felt good lolling in bed with no thoughts of rushing off to an early-morning class. After
attending college nine years straight, a little laziness never hurt anyone.
Idly, Jack checked the clock by the side of his bed. It was a few minutes after nine in the
morning. Under normal circumstances, he would have shaved, dressed, and breakfasted an hour and a
half ago. Right about now, he would be greeting the shuffling, half-asleep zombies who constituted his
first mathematics lecture class of the day. But times and circumstances were anything but normal.
Jack Collins, graduate teaching assistant in mathematics and logic at the local university, no longer
existed. Vanished along with that persona were his dreams of obtaining his doctoral degree and
becoming a full-time professor. Instead, in a dramatic change of fortunes, Jack had joined the investment
firm of Ambrose and Associates, Ltd., and become a hero. Through his efforts, aided and abetted by a
group of unlikely friends and allies, he had saved the world from the forces of everlasting night. And in the
course of his quest, met and romanced the most beautiful girl in the world.
The thought of Megan Ambrose, daughter of his boss, Merlin the Magician, made Jack smile.
Extremely bright and visually stunning, Megan was everything any man could ask for. That she cared for
him was one of those mysteries Jack was willing to accept with no questions asked. After his adventures
dealing with Dietrich von Bern, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, master of the monstrous Gabble Ratchets,
Jack felt he deserved a few breaks.
Besides, like himself, Megan was a halfling---a child of a supernatural being and a human parent.
As such, they were able to communicate with each other in their dreams. It was a talent that had saved
Jack’s life more than once during the past month, and it had forged unbreakable bonds between him and
Megan. Bonds that had led to their engagement and plans to be married in the reasonably near future.
Jack rubbed his eyes, banishing the last remnants of sleep from them. He yawned and blinked
several times, trying to focus his vision. Even though it was several weeks since his adventures had first
begun, he still had not completely adjusted to seeing the world through a pink haze. The rose-colored
contact lenses he wore enabled him to distinguish between normal people and supernatural beings.
Humans had auras, clearly visible with the magical eyewear. All other beings, which included trolls,
faeries, goblins, witches, familiars, vampires, and hundreds of others, did not.
Mankind shared the Earth with the creations of its own collective subconscious. According to
Merlin the Magician, who had spent centuries puzzling out the explanation, this cosmic overmind had the
power to turn dreams into reality. When enough people believed that a supernatural being or legendary
beast truly existed, it physically came into being. The myths and stories about the creature defined it, from
its appearance to the way it thought and acted. Once alive, these creations remained, unaffected by the
ravages of age, unless disbelieved out of existence. Which rarely ever occurred. By and large, they were
merely forgotten.
Immortal and unkillable except by very specific methods, the supernaturals survived long after the
belief that brought them into existence had died out. They changed with the times, blending in with their
creators, remaining ever true to their original nature. Good continued as good, evil stayed evil, and neutral
abided uninvolved and in between.
Thus, Merlin the Magician became a commodities broker, advising the rich and famous.
Cassandra Cole, last of the Amazons, turned into a martial-arts teacher and bodyguard. And barrow
trolls became neo-Nazi skinheads.
At first, it had been quite confusing to Jack. But not for long. As a voracious reader of fantasy
novels, he found Merlin’s explanation of the supernatural astonishing but otherwise quite acceptable.
Trained in logical thinking, he found his background in mathematics provided the right answers to
supernatural mysteries. It didn’t take Jack long to slip into his role as the Logical Magician.
Grinning, he rose from his bed and headed to the bathroom, three steps away. Living in a trailer,
everything was close by. To Jack’s way of thinking, it was one of the few benefits of such a life. One of
the very few benefits.
He was staying in the trailer camp more for protection than for lack of funds. Merlin paid him a
very generous salary. Moving out of his college apartment a week ago, he had been terribly tempted to
rent a fancy place on Chicago’s near north side. Or accept Megan’s offer that he share her expensive
condo. But as pointed out by his friends, both choices posed clearly unacceptable risks. Jack’s life was
still in deadly danger. And if he was killed, eternal night would engulf the globe.
Though he had defeated Dietrich von Bern, the Huntsman’s mysterious master was still at large.
An ancient demigod of incredible powers, it threatened modern civilization. Using his crystal ball, Merlin
proclaimed Jack the only one who could stop the entity. It was a duel not yet completed. Until the
creature had been found and somehow destroyed, Jack could not afford to relax an instant. Thus, he
stayed, surrounded by friendly supernaturals, in a trailer camp in the far western Chicago suburbs.
Megan visited as often as possible, but the cramped trailer provided little room for romance. Nor
did their dozens of busybody chaperons, ranging from the Witch Hazel and her familiar, Sylvester, a
talking cat, to Simon Goodfellow, a faery changeling who always managed to interrupt at the most
inconvenient instant possible. It was enough to try the patience of a saint. And Jack definitely felt anything
but saintly concerning Megan.
Wonderfully erotic thoughts about his girlfriend forced Jack to turn the shower water ice cold.
Short and slender, with dark hair and sparkling eyes, Megan resembled an elf. Which was probably why
Jack originally thought she was entirely supernatural and not merely a halfling. That she was very human
and quite passionate, he had discovered only recently. For all of her ethereal charms, Megan could be
quite risqué when the time and opportunity presented itself.
After showering and shaving, Jack flung on a shirt, sneakers, and pair of faded blue jeans. A
quick glance at the clock told him he had barely enough time to grab a bowl of cereal and milk before
meeting Cassandra on the meadow for his self-defense lessons. He grimaced as his muscles mentally
groaned in anticipation. These workouts were necessary, but not appreciated. World-saver or not, Jack
was a thinker, not a fighter. However, there was no arguing with an Amazon.
Arriving at the tree-lined glade at exactly nine-thirty, Jack was not surprised to find Cassandra
there and ready for action. The Amazon was a chronic overachiever. Her back to him, she had started
exercising on her own.
Self-discipline was a way of life to the Amazon. She always arrived early and left late. Practice,
practice, and more practice filled her life. Cassandra defined dedication---bordering on obsession.
Tall and slender, Cassandra had skin the color of dark chocolate. Her eyes and shoulder-length
hair were jet black. High cheekbones and a thin, aquiline nose gave her a fragile, delicate look. Only the
whipcord-lean muscles in her arms and shoulders hinted at the true strength she possessed.
In her hands, the Amazon held a thick walking staff. Capped on each end with silver, the stick
was covered with exotic markings carved into the wood. Simon had once mentioned in passing
something about ancient Greek mottoes. Jack felt sure they dealt with the glory of battle. A mythological
warrior woman, Cassandra didn’t fight to live---she lived to fight.
Jack watched, entranced as she wove her staff in an intricate series of maneuvers. The wood
moved so fast mat at times the air whistled with its passage. Cassandra twirled on her toes, graceful as a
ballet dancer, as she completed routines designed to kill or maim anyone foolish enough to engage her in
combat. Cassandra played rough. When necessary, she was deadly.
“About time you arrived, Jack,” declared the Amazon without turning. He was quite positive she
had never seen him. But she had known he was there. “You’re three minutes late.”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “How did you identify me?”
“Your breathing, of course,” she said. She spun around and planted her staff six inches into the
hard soil. “Once you’ve mastered the fundamentals of self-defense, I’ll teach you some basic survival
techniques. You make too much noise walking. And you breathe way too loud.”
Jack sighed. He didn’t recall any of the fantasy novels he enjoyed dwelling on the hero’s tedious
and painful training sessions. In books, the protagonist was always in perfect shape and a master fighter.
Unfortunately, teaching mathematics didn’t require any such skills. It was going to be another traumatic
morning.
The Amazon smiled, as if reading his thoughts. Mentally, Jack grimaced. Cassandra reserved her
grins for days when she planned the most demanding physical torments imaginable. He wondered if it
was too late to remember another appointment.
Cassandra took one step toward him when her eyes widened in sudden surprise. Something
large and black rocketed over their heads. “Assassins!” screeched the bird. “Assassins!”
Instantly, the Amazon launched herself at Jack. Her right shoulder slammed into his chest,
sending the two of them sprawling to the earth. Above them, the clearing exploded with the roar of
automatic weapons.
Jack gulped in shock as Cassandra’s staff disintegrated into a thousand toothpicks. On the far
side of the glade, the greenery vanished, swept away by a steel broom.
“Stay flat,” commanded Cassandra and disappeared into the woods. Knowing his limitations,
Jack had no intentions of doing anything but.
An eternity passed in less than a minute. As suddenly as it had begun, the gunfire ceased. Still
wary, Jack stayed put. At the moment, the ground seemed the safest place to be.
With a flap of wings, a huge raven landed only a few inches from Jack’s nose. Intense pinpoint
black eyes stared into his.
“All’s clear,” declared the bird, in a surprisingly deep voice. It spoke with a slight accent that
Jack found vaguely familiar. “The babe neutralized the opposition. I spotted three men and she got them
all. Tough cookie, that lady.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” asked Jack. “You could be trying to trick me.”
“After warning you of the attack in the first place?” replied the raven. “That doesn’t make sense,
Johnnie.”
Jack groaned. The nickname confirmed his worst fears. The bird squawked with a noticeable
Swedish accent. It sounded just like his mother. Who was the only person in the world who still used that
particular boyhood tide.
“You’re Hugo?” guessed Jack, sitting up. He had never been very good at telling his mother’s
two pet blackbirds apart. “I never knew you could talk.”
“I didn’t know you were hanging ’round with Amazons,” retorted the bird. “So we’re square.”
Jack groaned in dismay. It had only been a few weeks since his final encounter with Dietrich von
Bern and his army of Border Redcaps. He had hoped for a little more rest before returning to the fray.
However, this unexpected assassination attempt didn’t bode well for the future. Jack had a feeling it was
going to be a long day. A very long day.
8
2
A few seconds later, Cassandra appeared at the edge of the clearing dragging an unconscious man by
the feet. A short, powerfully built man with a dark brown beard that covered his face, he was dressed in
khaki green combat fatigues. That his head bounced along the ground with solid thumps bothered the
Amazon not a bit. Cassandra hated being disturbed during their practice sessions. Jack knew better than
to ask die fate of the other two attackers. Sometimes he preferred not knowing all the answers.
“There were three of them,” declared the Amazon, dumping the lone survivor a few feet away
from Jack. “Each man carried an AK-47 and knew how to use it. For humans, they made remarkably
little noise. Lucky for us, your friend here sounded the alarm.”
“Humans?” repeated Jack, caught by surprise.
He had naturally assumed their enemies to be supernatural entities. New minions of his sinister
foe, sent to eliminate him before he could interfere in the demigod’s schemes. Jack stared at the
unconscious man with undisguised annoyance. The assassin definitely possessed an aura. He was
distressingly mortal.
“What’s the story with this clown?” asked Hugo, hopping forward to peer into die man’s face.
“Disgruntled ex-student?”
“I never saw him before in my life,” said Jack. “Besides, math majors don’t carry automatic
weapons. At least,” he added cautiously, “none of my students did.”
“Let’s wake him up and ask him a few questions,” said Cassandra. There was an icy calmness to
her voice that made Jack shiver. “If he proves uncooperative, I can break a few of his bones. Slowly.
One at a time.”
“I can peck his eyes out if you want,” added Hugo helpfully, “Haven’t done it for centuries, but I
think I still remember the technique. It’s like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how, you never forget.”
“No need to resort to torture unless absolutely necessary,” said Jack, turning green. Born of
mankind’s most vivid imaginings, the supernaturals had a tendency to view everything in terms of
extremes. There were no grays for them, only blacks and whites. “The sight of you two should loosen his
tongue quick enough.”
“Maybe,” said Cassandra, sounding doubtful. “Though anyone using an AK-47 isn’t going to
start talking just because he’s threatened by a talking bird.” She smiled. “Crushing a few fingers usually
starts them babbling.”
“Talk first, torture later,” said Jack firmly.
“Spoilsport,” said Cassandra.
Pulling the man up by his collar into a sitting position, the Amazon slapped him briskly across the
face a few times. After a few hits, the bearded man grunted in pain and opened his eyes.
“We failed, huh?” he said, glancing at the trio without fear. “I assume you got the other two and
I’m the only one left,” The man spat. “Damned bird ruined the ambush. No fair using animals as lookouts.
How’d you manage that trick?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” said Jack, trying to sound tough. “Who are you and why did you try to
kill us?”“I did my best,” said the bearded man, talking to himself. He completely ignored Jack’s remarks.
“The Old Man warned us it wouldn’t be easy.”
“Old Man?” asked Jack, picking up on the title. “Who are you talking about? Are you with some
intelligence agency or something? The CIA? The FBI?”
“Quit babying the bozo, Johnnie,” said Hugo, flapping up to the startled prisoner’s shoulder, “Let
me poke out one of his eyeballs. That will get us some answers.”
“Game’s over and we lost this round,” said the prisoner. “But my reward’s earned. I’m outa
here. I’m off to paradise.”
The instant the man completed the phrase, he slumped lifelessly in Cassandra’s arms.
“Hell,” said the Amazon, releasing her grip on the prisoner. His body dropped like a sack of
cement to the ground. “A poison stick-it note.”
“A what?” asked Jack, his gaze still captivated by the dead man. A few seconds ago, the
prisoner had been a living, talking being. Now he was lifeless clay. Jack swallowed hard, trying to keep
his breakfast down. Despite weeks of heroics, he was not cut out for life-and-death situations.
“A poison stick-it note,” repeated Cassandra, grimacing. “It’s a recent development in the
espionage field. All those spy novels and movies the past few decades rendered the
hollow-tooth-with-poison suicide gambit worthless. An easily inserted plastic mouthpiece prevented a
captured operator from taking the easy way out.
“Since modern interrogation methods could break even the most hardened or fanatic agent, a
new suicide method had to be developed. That’s the poison stick-it note. It’s a deadly pellet placed
directly in the skull. Merely thinking the proper phrase sends the necessary electrical impulses to the brain
and releases the toxic chemical. So far, the method has proven to be a hundred percent effective. The
only way to stop someone from suicide is to keep him unconscious. Which makes questioning your
captive awfully difficult.”
Jack rose to his feet. “Great. It was bad enough when I was dealing with a power-hungry
demigod determined to conquer the world and turn it into a vast wasteland. Now, for some unknown
reason, secret agents willing to commit suicide rather than be questioned by us are looking to kill me.
What else can go wrong?”
Hugo glided up onto Jack’s right shoulder and settled uncomfortably close to his ear. The
blackbird was surprisingly light for its size.
“Your mother wants to see you, Johnnie,” it stated. “She’s waiting for you downtown in Merlin’s
office.” “Mother,” said Jack, inhaling a deep breath. He had almost forgotten about her. “She’s in
Chicago. Not in New Jersey.”
“You catch on quick,” said the raven sarcastically. “Freda arrived in the city this morning on a
business trip. After hearing about your encounter with magic, she wanted to talk to you. Not to mention
meet your fiancée. So she sent me to find you. I arrived overhead just in time to spot those mugs
creeping through the woods. When I saw the firepower they were carrying, I thought a warning was in
order.” “My mother,” said Jack again. “In Chicago. At Merlin’s office,” He paused for an instant. “How
did she learn about Merlin? And my experiences with magic? I never said a word on the phone about
any of that.”
“A little bird told her,” cawed the raven. Jack swore the bird was laughing at him. Spreading its
wings, Hugo darted skyward. “See you two downtown.”
Cassandra’s gaze followed the raven until it was out of sight. “Your mother is an animal trainer?”
“Not that I ever knew,” replied Jack. “Though I guess it’s possible. I recall my father once stating
he first met her at a circus.”
“A lot of supernaturals gravitated to circuses and traveling shows,” said Cassandra. “They
provided wonderful camouflage for beings with unusual powers.”
“Mom rarely talks about her days as a performer,” said Jack with a shrug. “I gather some of her
relatives were disturbed when she left the act to get married. Dad just grins whenever I ask and mumbles
something about seven sisters being too many for any one family.”
Jack scratched his head, trying to sort out his thoughts. “Ever since I realized Mom was the
supernatural member of the family, I’ve been trying, without success, to place her in some mythology. It’s
not easy trying to associate one of your parents with a legendary character. I never paid much attention
to Mom’s pet blackbirds.”
Cassandra tossed the corpse of the bearded assassin over one shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.
I’m sure she’ll tell you all you need to know. How about changing your clothes? You don’t want your
mother to see you covered with dirt. In the meantime, I’ll take care of the bodies.”
“Whatever you say,” declared Jack. “I’ll meet you at the car in half an hour.”
“Sounds good,” said Cassandra. Then, before he could wander off, she grabbed him by an arm.
Barely exerting any pressure, there was incredible power in the Amazon’s fingers.
“Stay alert, Jack,” she warned. “If someone wants you dead, there’s a good chance they sent out
more than one kill squad. There could be another bunch of assassins back at camp.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” promised Jack, feeling very melodramatic. “One brush with death a
day is my limit.”
Walking as quietly as possible through the woods, Jack considered the morning’s events. As
usual, things were taking place at a much faster rate than he preferred.
In most of the fantasy novels he read, the hero always had long periods of time when nothing
happened. That was when the brilliant hero finally put all the facts together and came up with the startling
deductions that saved the day. Jack shook his head in disgust. Most of his thinking was done while
running from one supernatural menace after another. What little free time he had, he usually spent
recuperating or sleeping.
Concentrating, he tried to recall anything else his father had ever said about his mother. They had
met when his dad was in Europe on a business trip thirty years ago. Other than the odd match she made
with his father---she was tall, busty, and blonde, while his father was short, dark, and slender---he
couldn’t think of anything the least bit unusual about her. She made a wonderful peanut butter, lettuce,
and mayo sandwich; enjoyed working for the family export business; and owned a horse named Flying
Feet that she rode once a week on Saturday.
Her two pet ravens, Hugo and Mongo, she kept outside in a special birdhouse in the backyard.
They often disappeared for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, but they always came back. Thinking
back to his earliest childhood, Jack couldn’t remember a time when the birds hadn’t been around. He
wondered, idly, if his mother was a witch and the birds were her familiars.
Somehow, he couldn’t imagine his mom as a witch. Especially not after having met a witch
named Hazel who lived in the trailer camp along with her cat, Sylvester. With a mental shrug, he pushed
the idea from his mind. As Cassandra had stated, he would learn the truth soon enough. He was nearing
his trailer. Time to watch out for strangers.
Fortunately, no one suspicious was about. Jack hurriedly changed into a pair of good slacks and
a sport shirt. He also managed to wash his face and comb his hair before heading over to the parking lot
where he was to meet Cassandra. After all, though his mother might be a witch or a sorceress or one of a
dozen other types of supernatural entities, first and foremost, she was still his mom.
8
3
Cassandra waited patiently by the side of a 1967 Buick Electra. Piled at her feet were three AK-47
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HERE’SHOWANUNEMPLOYEDCOLLEGEGRADUATEBECAME...ALOGICALMAGICIANHELPWANTED:Logicalyoungmanwithanopenmindandactiveimaginationwantedforhighlyunusualbutfinanciallyrewardingcareeropportunity.Someriskinvolved.Backgroundinmathematicsandfantasticliteratureadvised.JackCollinsneverthoughthe’dfindajobaftercolleg...

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