The troll leader snorted. “Screw Athena. Dumb bitch goddess.”
“Bad remark,” said Simon, grinning. “A very bad remark. It’s not a good idea to make Cassandra mad.”
“You dare insult the goddess,” said Cassandra, her voice flat and menacing. “For that you will suffer. Suffer dearly.”
Moving with blinding speed, Cassandra attacked. Like a serpent’s tongue, the bottom end of her walking stick lashed out and caught the lead troll in the crotch. Grunting in shock, he doubled over in pain. The grunt turned into a shriek as the stick’s top slammed into his mouth, jarring loose a handful of teeth.
Twirling on her toes like a ballet dancer, Cassandra thrust the walking stick directly into the path of the whirling chain. Jerking the wood staff at precisely the right instant, she yanked the metal links right out of the astonished troll’s grasp. Snarling, the monster lunged for its weapon, dangling only inches out of reach. With a snap of her wrists, Cassandra whipped the steel off her post and into the troll’s face. Bones crunched and blood spurted in fountains as the creature stumbled back, howling in surprise.
Bellowing in mindless fury, the troll with the knife swung the blade in a deadly arc aimed to slice the black woman in half. Effortlessly, Cassandra leaned out of the weapon’s path. Off balance, the slasher stumbled past her. Instantly, the wood staff hammered him across the back, driving him to the ground. As he fell, his arms tangled with the walking stick and wrenched it away from Cassandra. For an instant, she stood defenseless.
“Got you,” crowed the fourth troll, wrapping his huge arms around Cassandra’s chest. More cautious than his fellows, he had circled the black woman and attacked from the rear. Locking his hands together, he squeezed.
“Hai!” screamed Cassandra and drove her left heel into the troll’s left arch. The monster ground its teeth together in pain but refused to let go. Eyes squeezed shut with effort, the creature tightened its grip further.
Wedging her skull under the troll’s chin, Cassandra jerked her head back sharply. Blood bubbled out of the monster’s mouth, but it continued to squeeze.
“Enough of this shit,” Cassandra declared angrily. Hooking her own fingers together, she pulled the double fist up towards her breasts. Brute strength battled brute strength. And the troll lost.
The monster’s fingers popped apart and Cassandra dropped to the ground. Whirling around, she savagely swung a leg up in a short, lethal arc. Her toes sank deep into the troll’s midsection. Coughing blood, the creature collapsed.
The fourth troll’s heroics had given its comrades a chance to recover and regroup. Battered and bruised, they rushed Cassandra in a bunch.
Fists flashed faster than Jack could follow. But he had no doubts as to their accuracy. They sounded like jackhammers pounding pavement. The trio of trolls staggered out of the woman’s reach, whimpering in fear.
As if by magic, Cassandra once again held her wood walking stick. Her face grim, she advanced on the cowering skinheads.
“Insult the goddess, will you?” she declared angrily. Her staff crunched into the troll leader’s side. Ribs cracked. Again, the staff lashed out, catching the monster in the chest. As Cassandra raised her weapon a third time, the troll’s courage broke. With a shriek, it turned and ran.
“Don’t hurt us,” begged the two trolls still standing. “Don’t hurt us.”
“Get going, and take your buddy with you,” said Cassandra, pointing her staff at the unmoving fourth troll. “And if I see any of you goons in this neighborhood again, I won’t play so nice.”
“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am,” said the trolls. Gathering up their fallen comrade, they wobbled down the street as fast as they were able. The darkness swallowed them.
“Killing trolls is nearly impossible,” Cassandra remarked pleasantly, as if discussing the weather. “But they hate being roughed up. Especially when it’s done by a woman. Those four won’t be pestering the locals for the next few weeks.”
Tucking her walking stick under one arm, Cassandra linked her hands and cracked her knuckles. Brushing traces of dust from her clothing, she walked over to Jack and Simon.
“Well met, Simon Goodfellow,” she said with a smile. “Long time, no see.”
“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.”
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.
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 tarant
ulas. 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?”
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