"Well met, Cassandra Cole," answered Simon, bowing elegantly. Taking one of her hands in his, he kissed her fingertips. "It was in Paris, during the Revolution, I believe."
"Ah yes," she said. "If I recall, it was under remarkably similar circumstances. I saved your butt from a gang of marauding goblins."
Eyes twinkling, she turned to Jack. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your mortal friend? After all, he's the reason I'm here."
"Sorry," said Simon. "I didn't mean to be rude. Cassandra Cole, say hello to Jack Collins. Jack, Cassandra. She's an Amazon. Toughest babe I've ever met. Awfully good-looking for someone well over two thousand years old."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Jack. Up close, the black woman was incredibly attractive. She was also several inches taller than Jack, forcing him to look up when he spoke to her. "That was an impressive display of fighting."
"Thanks," said Cassandra, grinning. "Though it really wasn't much. I'm out of shape. Life's too easy in this century. Back in the Middle Ages, I blindfolded myself to fight troll gangs. It evened out the odds slightly. Not enough, though. Ogres, on the other hand, they were a challenge. Always could count on ogres for a good scuffle."
"Uh, Cassandra," said Simon, "knock it off. This isn't the place for idle chatter. You know if my cousins escaped that fire the other night?"
"Burn a faerie?" laughed Cassandra. "Not likely. Lucky for you. They're the ones who sent me searching for Collins. Them and Witch Hazel. I didn't know you were along for the ride."
"What are you talking about?" Jack asked. "I never met any of Simon's relatives. What do they want with me? And how did you find me?"
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."
Chapter 21
"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."
"I'll bring in the chickens," said Roger quickly.
After his last mishap, he definitely did not want to appear too eager. At present, he was quite happy leaving von Bern in command of the hunt. The German's continued failure only served to promote Roger's aim. Silently, he prayed for Collins's success.
"Yes, the fowls," said the Crouching One, its eyes glistening. When it was hungry, the demigod was almost bestial in nature. At times, Roger expected the Lord of the Lions to drop to all fours and run through the house like a gigantic cat. "Take them to the basement. I will begin the ritual immediately."
Roger shuddered. The demigod conducted the sacrifice behind closed doors, and Roger had no desire to find out what took place during the ceremony. The weird howling and dark smoke that filtered into the rest of the house spoke of things best not questioned. Afterward, nothing remained of the birds other than a few feathers and bloodstains on the concrete floor.
"Von Bern reported that the Border Redcaps kidnapped their final victim," announced the Crouching One as Roger marched to the front door. "She joined the rest in the cavern. At least, in that task, he satisfied my demands. There are ninety-one women waiting for the kiss of fire."
Roger felt a familiar chill of horror race through him. Ninety-one was an occult number of incredible power. The product of the mystic numbers seven and thirteen, it contained both nine and one, the two other major figures of power. If the Lord of the Lions fed on the souls of ninety-one human sacrifices, his strength would be increased a thousandfold. The demigod would become uncontrollable.
The murder of nearly a hundred innocent women mattered nothing to Roger. Their deaths weren't his concern. He worried only about himself. He wanted the Crouching One incredibly powerful, but not until he was the entity's master. Not until then. Fervently, he prayed that Jack Collins understood what von Bern planned to do next. And that Collins had some plan to stop him.
Chapter 22
YAWNING, JACK ROLLED over and fell out of bed. With a groan, he sat up and opened his eyes. As usual, it took a few seconds for them to focus on his surroundings. A row of sightless skulls stared back at him from a nearby shelf. Next to them stood several dozen corked beakers filled with unidentifiable potions, each cryptically labeled with a number. Beneath them, held captive in a fragile wire cage, were several large tarantulas. Shaking his head, Jack muttered, "This doesn't look like Kansas, Toto."
Wearily, he crawled back onto the edge of the cot and pulled on his clothes. The trouble with sleep these days, he reflected unhappily, is that I wake up more exhausted than when I retired.
His head hurt. It felt as if Indians had used his skull as a tom-tom. Frowning, he tried to concentrate on Megan's latest attempt to contact him through dreams. After a minute, a single word emerged. "Beltane." It sounded familiar, but he wasn't sure where he had heard it before. But discovering its meaning wouldn't be hard. Not with the company he was keeping these days.
When he stretched, his hands touched the roof of the trailer. The mobile home belonged to another one of Simon's friends, an ugly old crone named Hazel. She had to be the witch Cassandra had mentioned earlier. By the time they reached the trailer camp last night, he wouldn't have cared if she was a dragon. All that mattered was that Hazel had an extra bed he could use. Simon was quartered with his relatives somewhere else on the lot.
Still feeling hazy, he wandered forward, into the tiny combination kitchen-living room of the camper. His hostess stood in front of a small stove, humming to herself as she worked. Hazel fit perfectly in the camper's cluttered quarters. A thin little old lady, a few inches over five feet tall, with wrinkled skin and stringy gray hair, she looked like she had stepped right out of Hansel and Gretel.
The witch was busily stirring a mysterious concoction in a huge pot. Small, unidentifiable black objects floated in a bubbling white glop the consistency of oatmeal. Warily, Jack approached the old woman.
"Morning," she said, not turning. Her voice was surprisingly mellow for one so old. "Simon stopped in an hour ago to see if you were awake. He went out for the Sunday papers. Want some breakfast?"
Jack licked his lips, not sure how to answer. He was hungry, but Hazel was a witch. Swallowing his apprehension, he nodded. "Sure. What do you have?"
"How about some of this witch's brew, dearie?" she asked. "I eat some every day. It's honey nut oatmeal, with raisins thrown in for flavor."
She chuckled. "Caught you by surprise, didn't I? You thought maybe it was stewed lizard with toad tongues? I may be a witch, son, but I enjoy my creature comforts. Grab a couple of bowls from the cupboard, and let's eat."
Jack devoured two bowls of oatmeal along with several slices of cracked wheat bread and a glass of orange juice. "This cereal is delicious," he declared, pushing himself away from the table. "I can't eat another bite. Is it an old family recipe?"
"Probably," said Hazel. "The Quaker family, that is. I buy the ready-made stuff. It tastes a lot better than anything I ever made. Don't believe any of these folks who long for the 'good old days.' Preparing all your own meals from scratch was a pain in the ass. I know. I was there. Give me modern convenience food any time."
Reaching over to the kitchen counter, Hazel pushed a button on the portable radio. Nothing happened. Grimacing, the witch shook the device, but it refused to make a sound. "Batteries must be dead. I'll buy some later."
A large black cat strolled over to the table and rubbed up against Jack's leg. Without thinking, he bent over and scratched the animal's neck.
"That feels great," said the cat. "How about getting the back, too?"
Jack jerked his hand back in shock. Hazel grinned and pulled the animal onto her lap. Immediately, it started licking the remnants of oatmeal from the witch's dish.
"Sylvester's my familiar. When I was created, everybody got black cats. Toads and goats and interesting stuff came later. Like everybody here in the trailer camp, he's magic."
"So I noticed," said Jack. He stared at the cat. For a second, the cat stared back, then returned to its cereal.
"How does he form the words?" asked Jack. "I didn't think cats had the proper vocal cords for human speech."
"They probably don't," said Hazel, "but who cares? Magic functions independent of science, Jack. The rules for one don't apply for the other. Or, if we follow Arthur C. Clarke's logic, maybe they're actually the same and we're just too damned primitive and ignorant to understand the common factors."
"You read Clarke?" asked Jack, astonished.
"Of course," said Hazel. "Doesn't everybody?"
"I guess so," said Jack. He winced as the throbbing in his head increased. "You happen to have any aspirin handy?"
"Headache?" asked Hazel.
"A killer," replied Jack. "A Megan Ambrose special."
Briefly, he related his experiences with dream communication. Hazel nodded knowingly as he described his problems remembering Mer
lin's daughter's messages.
"A perfect case for recipe number four," said Sylvester, licking its paws.
"My thoughts exactly," said Hazel. Rising from her chair, she bustled into the bedroom. She returned carrying one of the beakers Jack had noticed when he awoke.
Pouring a small amount of a vile yellow liquid into a cup, the witch handed it to Jack. "Drink this," she commanded. "It'll cure your headache in a flash."
"What's it made from?" Jack asked, staring at the fluid.
"You don't want to know," said Hazel. "Drink."
Jack drank. The potion tasted terrible, but he forced himself to swallow every drop. Instantly, an invisible wave of fire engulfed his forehead. He blinked and it was gone. Along with his headache.
"Incredible," he declared. "You could make millions selling bottles of that stuff."
The witch smiled knowingly and recorked the beaker. "You mind your own business and save the world, Jack, and I'll mind mine. The mass market isn't ready yet for witch's brew."
"Hazel worked as a pharmacist once upon a time," said Sylvester, hopping from the table to the floor. "Until they fired her."
"Why?" asked Jack. "Practicing without a license?"
"Nonsense," said the witch. "My credentials were perfect. Supernaturals have a talent for forging documents and manufacturing backgrounds. It's a survival skill necessary to live hundreds of years among mankind. We've learned to blend in, not make waves.
"I slipped and stayed with the same company too long. During a cross-check of employee records, they discovered that according to their files, I was eighty years old. Damned do-gooders forced me to retire. They wanted me to enjoy my golden years."
"Tough break," said Jack. "Been out of work long?"
"Two decades next month," replied Hazel, grinning. "I saved plenty and invested it wisely. After five centuries of struggling, I decided to take a few years off. Bought me this trailer and settled down in the country with Sylvester."
"No desire to return to work?"
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