"Drug lord! Drug lord!" the white-haired woman screamed. "Help, help, help!"
"We're trapped," wailed Simon.
"Not yet," said Jack. Reaching with both hands into his pockets, he pulled out all of his loose cash. Though he had spent freely, there were still hundreds of dollars left.
"Free money!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, and threw the bills into the air. "Free money!"
The mall erupted like a volcano. Crowds appeared out of nowhere. People shot out of store fronts as if propelled by cannons. Men and women, children and adults all raced madly for the cash cascading onto the pavement.
"Free money!" Jack shouted again, and tossed the rest of his reserve high over his head.
No one was immune to the siren song. Girls and boys battled over loose change. Men and women crawled on the floor, grabbing at any paper that moved. Even the little white-haired old lady shut up and lunged for a twenty floating past her face. A dozen yards away, the security guard struggled desperately with a teenager for a fifty. No one noticed Jack and Simon sprinting for the exit.
"Never underestimate the power of cold cash," declared Jack as they burst through the doors and into the parking lot "And, in a showdown between greed and justice, take greed every time. It's a sure bet."
"There's Cassandra," said Simon, pointing down a row of parked cars.
"Get that beater started!" he shouted to the Amazon. "Security's after us!"
The old wreck's motor roared to life as Jack and Simon ripped open the back doors and hurled themselves inside. Not waiting for an explanation, Cassandra backed the auto into the aisle. Foot pressed down on the accelerator, she sent the car roaring past the long row of parked cars, heading for the street.
Ahead of them, sirens wailed. Red lights flashing, a mall patrol car roared into view. Tires squealing, the vehicle sped swiftly towards the end of the aisle, seeking to cut off their escape route.
"No way they're stopping me," declared Cassandra savagely, and she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. "Hang on."
Engine bellowing in pain, black smoke cascading from its tailpipe, the old car thundered forward. Ahead of them, the police car screeched to a halt, blocking all but a few feet of the aisle. Two security officers jumped out of the vehicle, took one frightened look at the massive wreck heading straight at their car, and ran for cover.
"Cowards," sneered Cassandra, and she slammed both feet onto the brake, spinning the steering wheel at the same time. Rubber burned as the auto wrenched sideways. Spinning furiously, it smashed sideways into the side of the security vehicle. The police car groaned in pain as the force of the collision hurled it backwards. Metal screeched against metal as for one instant the two cars remained locked in a steel embrace. Then Cassandra's foot hit the accelerator and sent her car howling through the enlarged opening into the street.
"Easy as pie," she said, laughing merrily. "You boys survive okay?"
"Physically or mentally?" asked Jack, trying to force his fists to unclench. "What about pursuit?"
"Real cops will be after us in a few minutes," said Cassandra. "Not to worry. There's a haunted cul-de-sac up ahead. It's invisible to mere mortals. We can hide there till nightfall."
"Haunted?" said Jack. By now, nothing surprised him. "What about ghosts?"
"Spirits know better than to fool with an Amazon, Jack," said Cassandra, "They'll stay out of sight. Damned spooks are afraid of their own shadows. If they had them."
Jack sighed. Merlin hadn't lied. Magic was everywhere.
"One minor problem," said Cassandra, as she steered the car onto a dirt road that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Up ahead, he spotted a rickety old wood bridge crossing a moss-covered stream. The haunted cul-de-sac.
"What's that?" asked Jack, envisioning goblins, demons, perhaps even a dragon or two waiting for them in the shadows.
"We need a new car. This old heap is shot. It's fine for smashing police cars. But won't do us much good if von Bern shows up. We'll need some real fire under the hood to give that limo of his a race."
"Even after throwing money to the crowd, I have plenty of cash left back at Hazel's trailer," said Jack. "Tomorrow morning, we'll go automobile shopping. Then, hopefully, at night, January will reveal the location of von Bern's hideout."
He clenched his hands together in frustration. "We're running out of time. Even if we discover where the German has his prisoners, I don't know how to rescue them. And there are only four more nights till Beltane."
Chapter 26
THE REST OF the evening proceeded exactly as Cassandra predicted. They left the haunted cul-de-sac shortly after eight o'clock and returned to the trailer camp without difficulty. At ten, Jack suffered through the indignity of watching reports of his appearance at the shopping mall on the Sunday Night News. Each time the reporter referred to him as "the alleged drug kingpin of Chicago's South Side," Jack winced. Merlin would have to be a magician to repair the damage to his reputation.
Channel 9, with an hour news program to fill, devoted a whole section of their broadcast to his exploits. Along with an interview with Benny Anderson, they ran a montage of close-ups made by his students and classmates. Jack slumped lower and lower in Hazel's sofa as he listened to their remarks. The statements painted him as a combination of the Marquis de Sade and Hannibal Lecter. Sandra Stevens, eager as ever to grab the spotlight, assured the unseen newsman that "Professor Collins rarely displayed any interest in his students," and "he often came to class looking as if he was zoned out on drugs."
Jack chewed on his lower lip in disgust. He didn't regret the many extra hours he had spent tutoring Sandra. That was part of his job. What he did regret was giving her a passing grade for trying hard. Getting ready for sleep that night, his only consolation was that at least he didn't have to wake up early for classes the next morning.
Hazel insisted he drain another potion before bed. "It will sharpen your memory while you sleep and when you rise," she told him. "If Merlin's daughter contacts you in dreams, this drink will ensure you remember what she says."
Closing his eyes and holding his nose, Jack gulped down the formula. As before, it tasted dreadful. "Don't you have any potions that taste good?" he asked.
"Lots of them," said Hazel. "Problem is, they don't do much of anything. Only the vile ones work right. It's part of the lore."
"I should have guessed," said Jack, "People expected witch's brew to be nauseating, and thus it was. Belief led to definition."
Worn out, Jack drifted off to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. And found himself floating in a featureless, gray void. Megan Ambrose hovered only a few feet away.
"Jack," she said, sounding relieved. "I was beginning to think you'd never arrive. I've been reciting poetry aloud to keep from going crazy. It's incredibly boring having your mind awake while your body remains asleep."
"Sorry," he said. "I've had a busy day."
"Your image appears much sharper tonight," she said. "Maybe you'll retain more of our conversation. Did you remember my warning about Beltane?"
"Not really," he admitted. "However, I've since pieced together von Bern's plans. You didn't, by chance, tell me the location of his hideout the other evening?"
"No," said Megan. "I have no idea where we are. I gather you don't either."
"Not yet," said Jack. "But I hope to find out tomorrow. I'm meeting with a nymph named January who knows something important."
"A nymph?" said Megan, her voice noticeably cooler. "You didn't mention any nymphs in our previous discussions."
"I only met them today," said Jack. "They seem like nice girls."
"So I've heard," said Megan icily. "Why don't you tell me all about your busy day. Jack? It sounds... fascinating."
"It began with a witch named Hazel," said Jack, launching into a description of his activities for the past fifteen hours. A firm believer in protecting both his reputation and his life, he minimized his encounter with the four nymphs. Though, from a certain glint in Me
gan's eyes, he suspected she was not so easily fooled.
"Witch Hazel, Simon Goodfellow, and Cassandra Cole," she remarked when he finished reciting his adventures. "I've heard good things about them. You've assembled a fine band of adventurers, Jack."
He nodded. "I almost feel like Jim Phelps on the old Mission Impossible TV show. Each supernatural adds a special talent or skill to our team. Hazel has her spells; Cassandra's the muscle; and Simon provides the information."
"Don't forget the most important member of the group," said Megan softly. "Jack Collins. He's the one with the brains. Without you, Jack, nothing would happen. The others aren't leaders, they're followers. They need you to make the right decisions."
Jack grimaced. "That's the problem, Megan. So far, I haven't done a damn thing to justify their faith in me. Or your father's either. If I'm supposed to save the world, civilization is in big trouble."
"Nonsense," said Megan.
She snapped her fingers and was instantly at Jack's side. "Wonderful what you can do in dreams," she said, as she circled one arm around Jack's neck and pulled his mouth to hers.
An eternity or two later, she released him. "Kissing in dreams isn't real," she sighed, "but it's better than nothing."
Jack agreed. Megan's kiss wasn't as fiery or as passionate as the nymphs' embraces, but it touched him in a place the others never came close to. His heart.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"No reason," she replied. "Or every reason. Call it a confidence booster. I have faith in you, Jack. Take my word for it. You're the right choice. I know it."
"I'm not stupid enough to argue with the girl of my dreams," he said. "But making love here isn't going to save you from being burnt alive by Dietrich von Bern."
"You'll stop him," said Megan.
"I wish I shared your confidence," said Jack. "Finding von Bern's headquarters is only the first step. After that, I've got to defeat him and the Border Redcaps somehow. And I don't have a clue to his weakness."
"He must be vulnerable to something," said Megan.
"That's what's driving me nuts," said Jack. "According to the old legends, cold iron defeated the forces of darkness. But I've seen firsthand that's not true anymore. Iron and steel no longer affect the supernaturals. Until I understand why, nothing about them makes sense."
"I'm not sure I follow what you're saying," said Megan.
"There has to be an underlying logical basis to the rules governing the existence of the mythical creatures living on our world," said Jack. "Your father worked out the principles of how you are all created. Again and again, I've witnessed the truth of his deductions. Every supernatural entity obeys the specific beliefs, the particular legends that brought it to life. Though they've evolved over the centuries, Simon and Hazel and the nymphs and all the rest are still true to their original nature. The universe requires consistency. There has to be cause and effect. But, if that's true, why isn't cold iron deadly to von Bern and his unholy crew?"
Megan shrugged. "Modern times?"
"Uh-uh," said Jack. He tapped his fingers together in frustration. "Rules are rules, no matter when they are applied. Consider, for example, Walsh the vampire. He still couldn't cross running water. And sunlight killed him."
"But didn't you tell me that the cross didn't harm him?" replied Megan. "Why should one method work and not the other?"
"I don't know," said Jack. "But there must be an answer."
"Maybe you're approaching the problem from the wrong direction," said Megan. "What about the other monsters you faced? You defeated them with unconventional methods of attack."
"That's true only in a manner of speaking," said Jack. "In those cases, I had no choice other than to experiment with new approaches to the old solution. The creatures had evolved with the times, and the old versions of eliminating them no longer applied to their new forms. I merely updated the answers to fit their modern states. The rules hadn't changed, only the representations."
He paused, as the meaning of his own words vibrated through his mind. "Maybe that's it. Walsh wasn't harmed by the cross because it personally meant nothing to him. It no longer represented what it did a hundred years ago."
Jack grinned. "As the monsters evolve, so do the icons affecting them. That's the law I've been searching for. The solution is a symbolic one. A century ago, the crucifix stood for the triumph of good over evil, light over darkness. It was a unique symbol, the embodiment of a specific principle deadly to creatures of the night like the vampire. More important, people believed in its power. And that belief made it work.
"However, as civilization changed, religion fragmented into a thousand different beliefs, with none of them holding sway over mankind's psyche. A symbol sacred to one group meant nothing to another. Walsh was unaffected by the cross because it was no longer the proper icon. In our modern world, the crucifix no longer represented the forces of light.
"Fortunately, the general rules about vampires still held true. They were specific, not symbolic. Sunlight killed Walsh because sunlight vanquishes darkness by definition."
"Does that help you with von Bern?" asked Megan.
"If we apply the same logic to the German, it does," said Jack. "Since cold iron no longer affects von Bern, it logically implies that the metal was merely a specific example of a general category of objects that harmed the Wild Huntsman and his allies. Over the years, people confused the specific with the symbolic. As was the case with vampires and crosses.
"Time passed, and for some reason I don't yet understand, steel lost its effect against the creatures of the night. If anything, I suspect it became too commonplace, and people no longer believed that it possessed the unique property that originally made it an icon. However, the original symbolism never changed. That's what's really important. Obviously, something else replaced cold iron."
"What?" asked Megan.
"I don't know," said Jack. "First, I need to figure out the general case. In other words, what did steel symbolize? If the crucifix represented the power of light over darkness, what meaning did cold iron possess that made it so deadly to von Bern and his cronies? Once I solve that enigma, it shouldn't require much effort to rationalize that principle for the modern world. Which will enable me to find the proper icon. And the German's weakness, I hope."
"I hope so too," said Megan, reaching for him again. "You're starting to fade. Night must be coming to an end. One last kiss before you leave..."
Jack could still feel the warm touch of Megan's lips against his when he awoke. With a smile and a sigh of relief, he realized that he had retained full memory of his dream. Then a frown of concern clouded his features. The sun pouring in through the trailer window signaled it was Monday morning. Each hour brought Beltane a step closer. And with it, the end of civilization. Not to mention the untimely death of the girl of his dreams. Hurriedly, he slipped on his new clothing. There wasn't a minute to waste.
Chapter 27
"TODAY," SAID CASSANDRA, in a tone indicating no compromise, "we buy a car."
"Whatever you say," said Jack, resigned to the inevitable. Not that there was anything else to do in the meantime.
An hour's worth of discussion had brought them no closer to a solution to the mystery of steel. No one in the entire trailer complex had any idea why cold iron had been once deadly dangerous and now was nothing more than inert metal. Even Simon, the wellspring of obscure knowledge, was baffled. The changeling controlled a vast library of facts, but he was worthless when it came to theory. Even Hazel, in Jack's opinion the wisest person in the camp, was stumped. It was his problem, and he was obviously the only one who could solve it.
"Take Sylvester with you," said Hazel. "He can spot a bargain a mile away. Follow his instincts. You won't be sorry."
"I thought witches and their familiars couldn't be separated by any great distances," said Jack.
"A useful folktale," said Hazel, "but not true. Sylvester and I are linked telepathically, but otherwise he's a co
mpletely independent entity. He does what he wants and goes where he likes. He's anxious to help. Will you let him?"
"Why not?' said Jack. "If I can have an Amazon for a bodyguard and a changeling for a reference librarian, a magical cat for an advisor makes perfect sense. Before we depart, though, let's finish my beauty treatment."
After the fiasco the day before, they had settled on a much less complicated disguise. Cassandra dyed Jack's hair and eyebrows white. With his eyes pink from the magic contact lenses, he looked like an albino.
"The best disguise," she declared, "focuses attention on one physical trait or abnormality. People seeing you will immediately notice your white hair and not see anything else. Your features won't register with them. No one will ever connect you with the fugitive drug lord. It's a simple but effective trick. I learned it from Ulysses."
"This stain won't permanently alter my appearance?" said Jack, nervously running one hand through his silver locks. "I don't mind staying silver for a few days. But looking like Elric is carrying my interest in fantasy fiction a step too far."
"Don't you worry, dearie," said Hazel. "A good washing with shampoo will restore your true color. The only magic involved comes from a bottle."
An hour later found Cassandra, Jack and Sylvester at "Honest Abe's Used Car Lot" in the far western suburbs. "Honest Abe," they soon discovered, referred not to Abraham Lincoln, but to Abe Ortigara, the owner of the automobile dealership. A big, hearty man in his mid-sixties with a booming voice and the bushiest eyebrows Jack had ever seen on a human being, Abe himself insisted on accompanying them on their survey of his stock of second-hand cars.
"I always try to spend a little time each week on the lot myself," said Abe, walking them down a row of used autos. "It helps me keep my feet on the ground instead of my head in the clouds. You let your salesmen do all the work, and soon, they're running the whole company. That's the quickest path to financial ruin in the car business. I've owned this place for thirty years and I plan to own it another thirty. No retirement in the picture for Abe Ortigara. Selling cars is my life."
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