“I salute you, Collins,” said von Bern, raising his sword as Jack approached. “You accomplished the impossible. Neither I nor my dread master treated you with the respect you deserved. We vastly underestimated your talents. I assure you, we will not make the same mistake twice.”
“You won’t have the chance, von Bern,” said Jack, continuing to walk towards the German. “Release Megan and her father, and maybe I’ll consider letting you escape. Maybe. Otherwise, you’re due to follow Leviathan to limbo.”
The Huntsman chuckled. “Not very likely, young man. Charon has his orders. If anything happens to me, he will crush the pretty Miss Ambrose to a pulp. After disposing of her, he will do the same to her illustrious father. Recall, please, that the ferryman is neither good nor evil, but neutral. Your unusual armament cannot harm him.”
Von Bern’s voice hardened. “I am the one who is in charge, Mr. Collins. Put down that strange weapon you carry and perhaps I’ll consider letting you escape. You have my word on it.”
Jack snorted, remembering from their encounter at the math complex how much the Huntsman’s promise was worth. Casually, he flipped the button turning on the power to his secret weapon. He was less than twenty yards from the German and closing quickly.
“Stop,” cried von Bern, his voice rising a note. “Take another step forward and the girl is dead.”
“Then what?” asked Jack. “With her gone, you have no one to hide behind.”
“Still,” said the German, raising his Chaos Sword high in the air and turning to Megan, “I’ll vanish knowing that I made your life miserable. Make your decision now, Collins. Does the girl live or die?”
“Leave her out of it,” said Jack. “Fight me. I’m your enemy, not Megan. There’s no honor killing defenseless women.”
“Honor?” laughed the Huntsman. “Only fools believe in such concepts. I led the Wild Hunt for centuries because it kept me alive, eternally young. Justice and fairness mean nothing to me. I refuse to fight you because I know I cannot win against your magical devices. And I only engage in battles that I am assured of winning.”
“Just as I suspected,” said Jack, raising the black rectangular box chest-high. Perched on its top was a sighting device much like that of a high-powered rifle. “You’re so afraid of dying that you’ll stoop to any level to stay alive.”
“Perhaps,” said the Huntsman, pausing dramatically. “But better…”
Not waiting for the German to finish his sentence, Jack fired. The one fact he had learned from his dealings the past few days with the supernaturals was that given the slightest chance, the fantastical entities loved to talk. They had a flair for the dramatic, and none of them could resist having the last word. One and all, they were hams. Which gave Jack the necessary few seconds he needed to aim and fire his weapon.
A slender beam of red-orange light like that of a neon tube leapt from the end of the box. Slender as a pencil, the ray caught von Bern in the chest. The look of absolute shock that crossed the Huntsman’s face lasted less than a heartbeat. Then, he was gone, the Sword of Chaos dropping like a stone to the concrete.
“Helium-neon laser beam,” said Jack unnecessarily, but quite satisfied with the correctness of his deductions. He swung the beam so that it touched the cement at Charon’s feet. “Coherent, ordered light. The ultimate icon of order versus chaos. It’s definitely the final word in the battle between light and darkness.”
“It doesn’t scare me,” said Charon. Megan, her eyes wide with fear, pushed hopelessly at his encompassing arms. His voice cold and deep, rumbled like thunder. “I am a creature of neither.”
“But you are a stupid old fool, honoring bargains with darklings,” declared Cassandra, directly behind the ferryman. She had silently mounted the concrete platform from the rear during Jack’s confrontation with von Bern. Feet spread wide for optimum effect, the Amazon swung her walking stick in a short, brutal arc at Charon’s head.
With a crack audible throughout the entire underground complex, the staff connected with the ferryman’s skull directly above his left ear. Charon staggered a few inches, then righted himself, as the pole exploded into shards the size of toothpicks. The Amazon’s jaw dropped in amazement.
Looking puzzled, Charon turned and stared unhappily at Cassandra. “Why did you do that? I wasn’t planning to hurt the girl. After thousands of years of comradeship, you should know, Cassandra, that I would never obey an order like the one given to me by von Bern. The Huntsman believed only in himself. I served him because he paid me well, but I retained my own ideals. And killing the helpless was never among them.”
As if confirming his words, the ferryman opened his arms and let Megan free. By the time Jack reached Megan, she had nearly finished untying her father.
“Good to see you again, Jack,” said Merlin, stretching and turning his long fingers. “Sorry I never provided you with the information you needed in your quest. Though you seem to have managed quite well on your own.”
The magician surveyed the underground train yard, with the thirteen wicker cages filled with women dangling from the ceiling. “Cleaning up this mess and explaining it to the media is not going to be easy. But it shall be done.”
Merlin’s gaze touched the gas laser hooked onto Jack’s belt. “Coherent light to battle the forces of darkness. Nice touch. We’ll have to discuss the notion when there’s more time.”
Basking in the magician’s praise, Jack swiveled to Megan—only to have her catch him square in the face with a slap that nearly jarred his eyeballs loose.
“That’s for acting silly with those outrageous mall nymphs,” said Megan. Then, before he could recover, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him with all the intensity of their dream embraces. This time, however, it was real, and left them both, several minutes later, breathless.
“And that,” she stated once she regained her voice, “was for rescuing me.”
Arms around his neck, she looked deep into his eyes, waiting for another kiss. After a few seconds, she grew impatient for his response. “Kiss me, you fool,” she declared. “I won’t bite.”
“Uh, Megan,” said Jack, feeling very ill at ease, “it’s not that I don’t enjoy kissing you. I do. Very much so. Too much so, I think, for a casual romance. That’s the trouble. What with the difference in our ages…”
“Casual romance?” repeated Megan, frowning. “Difference in our ages? What are you mumbling about, Jack? You’re not that much older than me. I turned twenty-three last month.”
“Twenty-three?” Now it was Jack’s turn to be confused. “But, you’re Merlin’s daughter. He’s hundreds of years old.”
“So what?” asked Megan. “I’m a halfling—half-supernatural, half-human. My mother is a perfectly normal middle-aged woman. She married Merlin knowing full well that someday age would part them. So far, she’s been remarkably happy. Mom’s been visiting relatives in Florida the past few weeks. She probably never knew we were gone.”
Megan glanced at her father proudly. “The old boy is pretty lively, considering his age. From what I gather, he’s fathered more than a few children over the centuries. Being supernatural doesn’t mean you’re sterile, Jack. I thought you knew all about this.”
“How?” said Jack. “How was I supposed to know?”
“Your friend Simon, the changeling,” said Megan. “Didn’t he tell you when we had our first dream talk? He must have realized then that I wasn’t a supernatural. The fey folk don’t dream. Only humans or halflings can. That’s why Father never made contact while you slept. He couldn’t.”
Storm clouds gathered in Jack’s face, as he remembered an abbreviated conversation, “Simon was about to tell me once. Then he changed his mind. Instead, he remained true to his nature and never said a word.”
Megan grinned, an impish smile that lit up her entire face. “If that’s the case, I bet he never mentioned anything about your ancestry, either?”
Jack’s eyes bulged. “My ancestry? What are y
ou talking about?”
“Dream communication, my darling,” said Megan, her fingers twirling through his hair, making concentration difficult. “It’s a rare talent. Only halfings can do it. On both ends.”
Jack shook his head, trying to make sense of what Merlin’s daughter was implying. “But, what you’re saying is that one of my parents…”
“…is a supernatural,” said Megan. “That’s why I was so surprised when you first walked into our office. Father cast a spell on the newspaper ad insuring that it would only attract halflings with the talents we felt necessary to defeat the forces of darkness. Never once during the semester I audited your class last year did I suspect you might be the one.”
“You audited my class last year,” said Jack, feeling he was fast losing track of the conversation. “Real Variables?”
“Right. Remember, I sat in the fifth row, in the back?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No wonder you looked familiar. But your hair was a lot darker and not so long.”
Megan laughed. “Some magic comes from bottles. Jack.”
“A halfling,” he said. “Which means one of my parents isn’t human but a supernatural entity. It can’t be my father. He has a family tree longer than your arm. That leaves Mom.”
He closed his eyes as if recalling old memories. “Very interesting. How very, very interesting. I can’t wait to phone home. This puts a whole new twist on the old family business.”
Together, they rose to their feet. Merlin, who had studiously ignored them for the past few minutes, was busily talking with Cassandra. There was no sign of Charon.
“I let him go,” the Amazon replied to Jack’s question about the ferryman. “What else was there to do? He harmed no one. And, despite his immense age, he could probably whip the bunch of us with one hand tied behind his back. I thought it best to allow him to depart in peace. We won’t see him again.”
“One less loose end to tie up,” said Jack. “Fine with me. Leaving us with ninety-one women and one battered reputation to save.”
“Reputation?” asked Merlin. He squinted at the wicker cages, rubbing his beard in concentration. “Whose?”
“Mine,” said Jack. “Let’s rescue these prisoners first. They’re the real problem. I can tell you the whole story over dinner. After sleeping for days, I bet you’re rather hungry.”
“Starved, actually,” said Megan. She patted Jack on the arm. “Don’t worry, Jack. Father’s terrific at repairing reputations.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Jack. “The nymphs—uh, I mean, Witch Hazel mentioned the King Arthur mess. Hopefully, my problems won’t prove to be so much trouble.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Megan, smiling a smile that set Jack’s heart racing at an unhealthy speed. “Sometimes a little trouble can be fun.”
42
The phone rang. Its inhuman face twisted with unspeakable rage, the Lord of Lions beckoned to Roger. “Answer it,” hissed the Crouching One.
The demigod wore a plain white cotton robe, decorated on each shoulder with a golden lion’s head. On its feet were simple leather sandals. In one hand, it held a slender polished wood scepter. On its hairless head, the Crouching One wore a gold circlet. It sat on a throne specially constructed of white marble, in the center of Roger’s library. It had been waiting there for lightning to strike for the past five hours.
Roger, dressed casually in blue jeans and a sweat shirt, hurried to pick up the receiver. He caught the phone on the third ring. After listening to a few words, he turned to the Lord of the Lions. “It’s for you,” he declared solemnly. “From Chicago. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s definitely not the German.”
Snarling in rage, the Lord of the Lions grabbed the telephone from Roger. “Speak,” it commanded. “I am listening.”
Silently, the Crouching One stood there, one ear glued to the receiver. The scowl on its face changed first to a look of absolute astonishment, then swiftly switched to anger, then finally ended in a mask of grim resignation.
“Thank you,” it said into the mouthpiece, catching Roger completely off guard. “Your information is greatly appreciated. When my day comes, you will be richly rewarded.”
Hanging up the phone, the demigod shrugged its shoulders in a very human-like expression of disgust. “Collins defeated von Bern and all his minions.”
“The Great Beast?” asked Roger.
“Sent back to the outermost dark,” said the Crouching One. “Obviously, you were correct. I underestimated our foe’s ability and ignored the Huntsman’s glaring faults. Those were mistakes I will not make again.”
Roger sincerely doubted that, but he knew better than to say anything.
“If von Bern and his troops were destroyed, who was that on the phone?” he asked instead.
“A contemporary of mine,” said the Crouching One, sounding almost nostalgic. “His people, the Etruscans, called him Charun. Like me, he was originally a death god. However, when his followers died out, the ancient Greeks adopted him into their religion, but no longer as a God. They renamed him Charon and made him a ferryman, a mere servant of their own gods. A reversal of fortunes, to be sure, but ultimately it worked in his favor. He escaped the exile the rest of us suffered centuries later, with the rise of the One God.”
“Why did he call? Old friend or not, he never phoned before.”
“Charon is interested in the welfare of only one being,” said the Lord of the Lions. “Himself. He loses nothing in informing me of Collins’s victory, and puts me in his debt. If I triumph, he claims a reward. If I do not, he is out nothing. He is an opportunist.”
“What now?” asked Roger. The Crouching One was accepting this setback with amazing equanimity.
“We wait. We watch. We plan.” The Lord of the Lions’s eyes glowed yellow as blue sparks creased his fingertips. “We devise a scheme avoiding the errors of this first attempt. We find new allies, stronger and more dependable allies.
“In the meantime, we leave Mr. Collins and his friends strictly alone. Let them wait and wonder until the moment is right. Then we strike, seizing power and crushing them with the same stroke.”
“You sound pretty positive,” said Roger, “for having lost the first round of the fight.”
“I am a God,” said the Crouching One, “and Gods are very patient. A battle was lost,” and blue sparks flashed across its features as it spoke, “but the war is far from over.”
Epilogue
Chicago’s newspapers reported several unusual stories the next morning.
The most dramatic, making both the local and national TV news, was the discovery of the ninety-one kidnapped women in an abandoned underground railway yard beneath the city streets. What kept the report in the public eye for more than a week was not the details of the story but the lack of them. For despite the vast diversity in age, nationality, and intelligence of the victims, not one of them remembered a single detail of their capture or imprisonment. It was as if someone or something had gone through each of their minds and erased all memories of their experiences involving the crime.
A few tantalizing details of odd and unusual discoveries in the underground tunnel network raised more questions than they answered. Who had blocked certain passageways with handcarts filled with bricks? And, more importantly, why?
A thorough examination of all the entrances to the system revealed the crooks’ method of stealing away their victims without being discovered. But, again, no one could explain why an entrance to the network located by the Field Museum, far away from the scene of the criminal activity, showed definite signs of having been recently disturbed. Nor could investigators explain the smashed concrete at the mouth of that same tunnel, as if it had been hit repeatedly by a gigantic battering ram.
There were whispers, too, of giant wicker baskets found on the floor of the railway yard and ropes dangling from the ceiling. No one, other than the most outrageous tabloids, seemed willing to connect the two, and even those papers dared not
suggest anything as incredible as ancient sacrificial rites involving human beings. Though there were those stacks of timber directly beneath each of those ropes, and the remains of timing devices filled with gasoline. It was all quite mysterious.
The police and FBI tried to maintain an aloof attitude towards the press’s questions, but neither department was able to hide its frustration dealing with the kidnap victims. If it could happen once, the Federals argued, it could happen again. So they had to know the truth, the whole truth, to prepare for any future disappearances. But they soon discovered that wanting and learning were two entirely different matters.
It wasn’t that the women weren’t cooperative. By and large, they wanted to know as much as the investigators what took place in that vast underground railyard. But try as they might, they couldn’t remember. Not a glimpse, not a hint, not a word of what took place remained. Their minds had been swept clean of every detail.
It was incredible. Even supposed flying saucer victims were troubled by partial memories or weird dreams. Not so with the “Chicago 91” as they were dubbed by the media. Drugs and hypnosis proved equally ineffective. They just could not remember. It was uncanny. It almost seemed… supernatural.
In any case, none of the women suffered for their ordeal. They were given a standing ovation by the Chicago City Council, received special letters of thanks from the mayor, and even got a call from the President of the United States. Several of their group, chosen by a random lottery, appeared on Oprah. And several enterprising local firms produced a full line of novelty T-shirts, caps and buttons featuring witty sayings about the women or their ordeal.
Despite the lack of facts, all three major TV networks announced immediate plans to film a made-for-TV movie about the disappearance. Hollywood insiders confirmed that each production featured a different explanation—ranging from visitors from another planet, to a top-secret Army experiment with nerve gas, to a fiendish scheme by a well-known Arab potentate whose dream of revenge against America was foiled by a secret government task force. Needless to say, none of the explanations came close to matching the truth behind the kidnappings.
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