After a few minutes of feeling sorry for himself, Jack perked up. While the world might be doomed in a few months, he had held his own last night against the forces of darkness. Even Simon had been impressed by his handling of Walsh.
Jack grinned. The garlic powder and the sun lamp caught the vampire completely by surprise. The trick was applying modern logic to legendary beasts. The supernatural beings of long ago had evolved through the ages. It made perfect sense to Jack that the methods of dealing with them would change as well. Cause and effect never went out of date. The only problem was deducing the new rules before it was too late.
Jack still was at a loss why running water and artificial sunlight had affected the vampire while prayer and a cross had not. As a mathematician, contradictions like that bothered him. They bothered him a great deal until he figured out the logical structure behind them. Which, he decided cheerfully, might have been the reason Merlin selected him as mankind’s champion.
Feeling quite satisfied with himself, Jack stepped to the front window of his apartment. April in Chicago was usually a bizarre month for weather. Either the temperature hovered slightly above freezing and it rained for weeks, or it was near sixty every day with bright sunny skies. Jack’s first year in Chicago, six inches of snow had fallen on Easter, only to melt three days later in eighty-degree heat. To the delight of everyone this year, especially the weather forecasters, spring had arrived in fine fashion, with beautifully balmy afternoons and comfortable temperatures.
Raising the curtains, Jack set the sunshine bathe him in its warmth. Raising his arms over his head, he stretched for the ceiling. Lazily, his gaze swept across the edge of the campus and to the street beyond. And froze.
Slowly and carefully, he backed away from the glass. His eyes remained fixed on two figures barely visible in the shadows of a deserted building a hundred yards distant. Neither gave an indication they had spotted him. Jack wanted to keep it that way.
Once he edged past the last possible angle of visibility, he immediately dropped to the floor. Scrambling on his hands and knees, he crawled back to the window. Cautiously, he raised his eyes above the window ledge, positioning himself so that the center frame hid his forehead.
Squinting, Jack searched nervously for the unholy duo he had glimpsed seconds ago. It only took an instant to locate them. As far as he could tell, they had not moved. He breathed a sigh of relief. His enemies evidently knew approximately where he was located, but didn’t have a precise fix on his whereabouts. He was safe, though not for long. Even now, companions of the two across the street might be searching the building for him.
At the precise instant that thought passed through Jack’s mind, someone knocked on his apartment door.
“Hey, Jack,” called a familiar voice from the hallway. “It’s me, Simon. Open up.”
Cursing slightly, Jack scurried over to the door and opened it. “Get inside,” he commanded softly, urgently. “Quick.”
“Now what?” asked Simon, stepping into the apartment. He looked around anxiously. “The forces of darkness are at low ebb during the daytime. We’re safe till night.”
“Glad to hear that,” said Jack. He pointed a finger at the rear window. “Want to tell our buddies across the street the news?”
Moving with inhuman grace, Simon positioned himself at the glass. The changeling’s features shifted to a bland, innocuous face resembling neither his nor Jack’s. Only then did he risk a look out the window. After a few seconds, his skin turned a delicate but definite shade of green. Jack licked his lips uneasily.
“You recognize them?” he asked.
“Unfortunately,” said Simon. He slipped back to the center of the parlor, rearranging his visage with each step. Jack closed his eyes, unable to watch. He found the process unsettling. It reminded him of a Gumby cartoon, but with a real person instead of a clay image.
“A young punk and a big dog, right?” asked Jack, wanting to be sure there was no mistake. “They were lounging in the doorway of the deserted store down the block. Neither of them possesses an aura.”
Simon’s face was still green. There was no humor in his voice when he spoke. “And you thought a vampire was bad news. Walsh was a pushover compared to those two watching this place. We’re in real trouble now, Jack.”
“How cheering,” said Jack, noting that Simon included himself in the danger. At least there was no more waffling on the faerie’s part. “Care to tell me who that character really is, and why that dog gives me the shivers?”
Simon edged back to the window. He beckoned Jack to follow. “Notice anything unusual about him?” the changeling whispered, as if speaking aloud he might be heard by those below.
Jack stared intently at the young man across the street. Tall and lean, he was dressed in faded blue jeans and a black leather jacket. Arms folded on his chest, he appeared half-asleep. Skin the color of old leather, his mouth was a thin red gash curled in an unchanging sneer. On his head, he wore an old red baseball cap, turned back to front in the prevailing style. Except for the fact that he lacked an aura, he could have been exactly what he appeared—a shiftless thug with nothing to do.
“He looks like a typical gang member,” replied Jack softly. “Complete with his colors.”
“A red cap?” asked Simon.
“According to the lecture given by campus security to all staff members,” said Jack, “hat and scarf colors are the usual identification marks for street gangs. Though I don’t recall any mention of an organization sporting red caps.”
“He belongs to a different gang than most,” said Simon, his lips curling in a sneer of disgust.
“Originally, his kind lived in the British Isles. That’s where I met them first. Many of us living here now emigrated from there during the Great Wars. We were a gentle folk, and fled the violence engulfing our ancestral home. But not them. They came much later. Not until your cities started to decay, and death walked the streets. That’s the type of surroundings they desired. That’s when they arrived, like a blight descending on the land.”
“They’re faeries?” asked Jack.
“Of a sort,” said Simon. “Among us, his kind are called the Border Redcaps. They’re a mixed breed, part faerie, part troll, part ogre, part who-knows-what else. The only certainty is that they are absolutely evil.”
“Border Redcaps?” asked Jack. “I never heard of them.”
“Few have,” said Simon. “They are not the type of character that populates the novels you favor. There is none of the romantic antihero so popular among current writers. The darkness within them is not a seductive, tempting sort. They are not rebels but cold-blooded murderers. The Redcaps kill without emotion, because it is what they do best. They are butchers of men.
“Their red caps are dyed red from the blood of their victims. They live in high towers along the border between the haves and the have-nots and prey on both. In Chicago, they inhabit the deserted upper floors of the high-rise public housing tenements.
“The police treat them like any other gang, not realizing the true extent of their wickedness. Each year, hundreds upon hundreds of runaways and the homeless disappear without a trace. They vanish into the night, never to be seen again.”
“The Border Redcaps?” asked Jack, for a second time. “But why?”
“As I said, it is their nature to kill. And,” added Simon, “they need a steady supply of fresh blood to keep their caps red.”
“What about the dog with him?” asked Jack, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. A big, black Doberman, the hound waited patiently beside its companion. Looking at it gave Jack the chills. There was something terribly wrong with the beast, something unnatural.
Simon drew in a deep breath. He swallowed hard several times before answering.
“The Redcap worries me,” he said, “but he’s no great surprise. From the story you told me, I suspected that his sort were involved in the kidnappings. They serve as the devil’s footsoldiers. However, the fiends are m
ere rank-and-file troublemakers. Add them all together and they have the brains of a halfwit. The fools are incapable of anything more than casual brutality and skull smashing.”
“Which indicates someone else is directing their activities,” said Jack. “Who?”
“Their lord is chief among the followers of the dark in Chicago,” answered Simon. “A merciless coachman, he rides the night winds with a pack of jet-black dogs at his side.”
The changeling lowered his voice, as if afraid of being heard. “The howling of his terrible hounds paralyzes any beast that hears it with fright. A once mighty leader whose sins were so great that after his death he was reborn in legend as an Archfiend. In olden times, the beasts he commanded were called the Gabble Ratchets, the ‘Corpse Hounds.’ One such monster waits and watches below. It loyally obeys only one master—Dietrich von Bern, the Lord of the Wild Hunt.”
As if summoned by the mention of that name, a heavy fist pounded on the door of Jack’s apartment. Caught by surprise, and overwhelmed by Simon’s rhetoric, Jack went numb all over. Ghastly visions of a devilish huntsman and his baying hounds raced through his head. Again came the pounding, this time accompanied by a gruff, loud voice.
“Open up, Collins. We know you’re in there. It’s campus security. We want to have a talk with you. Right now!”
12
Jack peered through the peephole in the door before opening it. He had no desire to learn the hard way that the Border Redcaps were masters of mimicry. A feeling of relief washed over him as he recognized Benny Anderson, chief of the college police force. Bald except for a fringe of white hair, with flat ears, puffy red cheeks and diamond-hard blue eyes, Anderson resembled a kewpie doll on speed. Then, paranoia struck back as Jack remembered Simon’s amazing chameleonlike powers.
“You have any identification?” Jack called out nervously.
Turning a brilliant shade of crimson, Anderson hammered on the paneling. “Identification!” he roared. “You open this blasted son-of-a-bitch door in one second, Jack Collins, or I’ll smash it to splinters. And you—you two-bit butthead—with it! Enough of this bloody stalling.”
Nodding, Jack fumbled with the lock. It was definitely Anderson. An ex-marine drill sergeant, he possessed a style uniquely his own. And a vocabulary to match.
“Sorry, chief,” said Jack, stepping side to let the security chief enter. “Don’t blame me for being careful. I was mugged yesterday. I’ve been seeing shadows ever since.”
“Sure,” said Anderson, swaggering about the living room casually. His sharp eyes flickered back and forth, as if mentally photographing everything for later appraisal. His gaze rested for a second on the smashed formica of the dining-room table, but he said nothing. “I understand.”
He nodded to Simon. “Nice to see you, Fellows. You have business with the Professor?”
“Business?” replied Simon, shrugging unconcernedly. “You might say that. I’m enrolled in Professor Collins’s tutorial. I missed the last few classes. He was nice enough to let me stop by and find out what I missed.”
“Sure,” said Anderson again. He turned to Jack. “Naturally, I heard about the attack. Dr. Nelson submitted a report on it. Nasty business, getting booted in the head and all. No motive for the attack, according to your statement. You sticking to that story?”
“Yes,” said Jack, fearing the worst. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” declared Anderson, his voice cold. “Nelson mentioned you were flashing a big roll of bills. A lot more money than most graduate students carry in their pockets. Especially ones supposedly knocked around by a motorcycle gang.”
Jack flushed. “What are you leading up to, Anderson? You accusing me of drug dealing?”
The instant after he made the remark Jack was sorry he mentioned drugs. But by then it was much too late.
“Drugs?” said Anderson, his lips curving in a sinister smile. The security chief looked like a rattlesnake ready to strike. With Jack as his prospective dinner. “I never once brought up drugs.”
“I found a new job,” said Jack, the words rushing out. Panic sent his mind into overdrive. “You know I’ve been looking for one for weeks. My new boss advanced me a week’s salary to pay off some of my bills. That was the money Nelson noticed. If he had asked, I would have told him just like I’m telling you. And that’s the truth.”
The chief frowned. “No reason to get riled up, Collins. You can’t blame me for doing my job. That’s why the Dean pays my salary. It was an honest mistake. I’ll even apologize—once I check the story with that new employer of yours. Got a phone number I can call?”
Jack’s mouth went bone dry. “Uh, that won’t be possible.”
“No?” Anderson’s voice was ice cold again. “Why not?”
“He… she… they left town for the week,” said Jack. “That’s why I was paid in advance. Mr. Ambrose asked me to watch the office while he’s gone. No one’s there at present. It’s a small consulting firm in the Loop.”
“Sounds awfully strange to me,” said Anderson. “A boss hires a new worker and then leaves town the same day. Putting the fledgling employee in charge of an empty office, no less. You ain’t planning any sudden trips yourself, are you, Collins?”
“No, nothing,” said Jack.
“Good,” said the security chief. “I’d hate for you to leave campus before I could verify your story. ’Cause if you did, I’d have to report my suspicions to the Chicago police. And they might not be so trusting of our grad students as me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Jack.
“I hope you’re not lying, Collins,” said Anderson, his voice growing progressively softer. “I hate drugs and I hate drug dealers. They make me sick. And, when I’m sick, I get angry. Real angry. Angry enough to break all the bones in a man’s fingers and toes, one at a time.”
Inside his shoes, Jack’s toes curled. “I’m telling the truth. Nothing but the truth.”
“We’ll see,” said Anderson, heading for the door. “We’ll see.”
The officer gone, Jack collapsed to the sofa, his body drenched in sweat. “Our friends still outside?” he asked Simon.
“Haven’t moved an inch,” reported the changeling. “If they stand any stiffer, they’ll grow roots. Like I said, during the day they’re weak. Tonight is when to worry.”
Jack sighed. The day was not off to a good start. He had an uneasy feeling things were not going to get any better.
“You planning to stay on campus like you told the chief?” asked Simon.
“That depends on our buddies across the street,” said Jack. “Anderson’s paranoid and mean. No question he’s a problem I’ve got to face sooner or later. But he’s only human.”
“And the pair watching this building aren’t,” said Simon.
“Exactly,” said Jack. “Give me a minute to think.”
While Simon cheerfully rummaged through the kitchenette, preparing a second breakfast, Jack contemplated the dilemmas facing him. Merlin and Megan were in terrible danger. The world needed to be saved from an ancient God. His enemies, including Border Redcaps, Corpse Hounds, and the Wild Huntsman, knew where he lived. Benny Anderson suspected him of dealing in illegal drugs. And there were tests from last week still ungraded.
After ten minutes of mental juggling, Jack finally settled on a schedule of attack. Sort of.
“Today’s Friday. Thank god for that. I shifted my tutoring classes to Gleason. So I don’t have to worry about handling them. But the other two courses I teach require my presence today. I owe my students that much. Then, there’s Professor Winston’s class at seven p.m. that I grade the papers for. So I have to attend his lectures. Once that’s finished, I’m free for the weekend.
“Say we meet at my office in the mathematics building at eight-thirty? That’s when we’ll plot out our strategy for dealing with this von Bern character.”
“Meaning,” said Simon, polishing off a piece of
toast, “you don’t have the foggiest notion what to do, and you’re praying the extra hours will give you a glimmer.”
“That’s about the size of it,” admitted Jack. “You got a better idea?”
“Nope,” said the changeling. “But I’m not the one supposed to save the world.”
For that remark. Jack had no answer.
13
“The vampire failed,” said Roger, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another. “He’s gone without a trace, and Collins remains alive. Somehow, this unlikely champion defeated one of our most powerful allies.”
The Crouching One, sitting in a huge armchair that dwarfed its small features, bent its head slightly in reply. The demigod seemed strangely pleased by the bad news.
“As I expected,” it replied, a brief smile of satisfaction drifting past its lips. “No ordinary mortal could defeat one of the night spawn in combat. Walsh’s death merely confirmed my suspicions. His loss matters little otherwise. The magician, Merlin, obviously prepared this young man as mankind’s champion.
“Once he is eliminated, none will stand before us. Collins is one frail mortal against the hordes of darkness. The time has come for our allies to put an end to this annoyance. The night of blood approaches. Soon, very soon, my unconquerable spirit shall envelop the world in eternal darkness.”
Roger yawned. The Crouching One rarely had anything brilliant to say. It was obsessed with ruling the Earth. Though immensely more powerful than any of the other supernatural creatures Roger had ever encountered, the demigod was no different in character. All of its actions were governed by a basic set of desires that seemed programmed into its personality. The Lord of the Lions lacked motivation. It acted in certain ways not because it wanted to, but because it had to.
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