A Calculated Magic lm-2 Page 8

  “It is quite warm,” said Jack, nodding. He was sweating profusely, though definitely not from the heat or humidity. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. “I’ll take off my shirt.”

  “Let me,” said Megan. Bending her head, she kissed him gently on the neck. Her fingers played with the top button of his shirt. Opening it, she kissed him at the top of his chest. “I’ll bet you’ve never been undressed by a woman before.”

  Jack knew better than to answer. There had been that wild incident with the mall sprites a few weeks ago. But since they were supernatural beings and thus, technically, not actually women, they might not qualify. He quickly decided silence was the better part of valor. Instead, he let himself drift happily into a nirvana-like state of physical pleasure. His breath quickened as Megan’s lips sank lower and lower.

  Megan, her own breath coming in short, intense gasps, was fumbling with Jack’s belt, when they were unexpectedly interrupted.

  “Nice technique,” declared a deep, booming voice from the corner of me patio farthest from the door. “At least, for a human.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Jack, struggling up from his half-reclining position. His shirt dropped to the ground. “Can’t I ever be seduced without interruption?”

  Next to him, Megan, her features flushed with passion, swung around and glared at the intruder. “Who the hell are you? And how did you get on my patio?”

  “Not who,” said Jack, casting a meaningful glance at the inside of the apartment. He had a strong premonition they were no longer safe on the open patio. Megan was too angry to notice. “But what?”

  The speaker was shaped like a man but was definitely not human. Eight feet tall, with neon red skin, he was immensely broad at the shoulders and incredibly narrow at the waist. His head was the size of a pumpkin, with long, pointed ears and a bare trace of a nose. Growing increasingly concerned. Jack noted that their visitor’s legs vanished into wisps of smoke. He had no feet. His arms, folded across his huge chest, were as long as the tentacles of an octopus. And ended in hands with four fingers instead of five.

  “You’re a genie,” said Jack, finally placing the being. “Like the one in the Disney cartoon.”

  “Great flick,” said the supernatural. “I loved it. Saw the movie twenty times. That Robin Williams is great. But I’m no genie. They’re dweebs. I’m an Afreet. I’m a lean, mean, fighting machine.”

  “How interesting,” said Jack. He laid a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s time we went inside, good-lookin’? Wearing that outfit, you’ll get chilled.”

  About to make a caustic remark, Megan caught the expression on Jack’s face. For the first time since the appearance of the Afreet, she seemed to realize their precarious situation. The genie had not come to her patio to discuss animation. It was there for a purpose. Being a creature of Arabic mythology directly linked it with the Old Man of the Mountain.

  “I am getting chilly,” she declared, pulling her dressing gown tightly closed. “And it is getting late.”

  “Later than you think,” said the Afreet. Before either of them could move, the creature reached out with both hands and grabbed Megan by the shoulders. Effortlessly, it raised her ten feet into the air.

  “You’re light as a feather,” the entity declared. “Thank Allah for small favors.”

  “Put her down!” Jack yelled. The Afreet ignored him. Desperately, Jack looked around the patio for some sort of weapon. The best thing he could find was a three-pronged hand shovel. Waving it wildly, he charged the neon demon.

  “Sorry, Charlie,” said the Afreet, rising into the air, a struggling Megan clutched close to his chest, “but I’m running a little late. No more time to talk. Don’t worry about the girlfriend. She’ll be safe with me. You know what they say about flying. It’s the safest method of travel.”

  “Take me,” cried Jack. “I’m the one you want, not her.”

  “Nope,” said the Afreet, so high now that it was no more than a red dot in the moonlight. “The boss told me to get the babe. And I got her. Stick close to the phone, buddy. You’ll get a call from us. Sooner than you think. Bye-bye.”

  With a whoosh like the noise of a jet airliner taking off, the Afreet disappeared. Jack clutched his head in despair. Megan was gone, kidnapped by an Afreet. Most likely she was a prisoner of the Old Man of the Mountain, one of the vilest villains in all history.

  Cursing, Jack picked his shirt off the ground and reentered the penthouse. The Afreet had said to stay close to the phone. He planned to do exactly as commanded. At the moment, it didn’t seem like he had much choice.

  11

  The call came an hour later. Jack had contacted Cassandra immediately after entering the apartment. She, in turn, relayed the bad news to Merlin and Jack’s mother. All of them, and the two ravens, assembled shortly afterward in the penthouse, to impatiently await the phone message and make plans. When the telephone Finally rang, it was almost anticlimactic. Placing the speaker on its loudest setting, Jack picked up the receiver.

  “Jack Collins here.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Collins,” said the caller. The supernatural being spoke without the slightest trace of an accent. His tone was surprisingly mellow. He talked with the quiet self-assurance of a gambler holding a fistful of aces. “Men call me Hasan al-Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Jack. “The original leader of the Hashashin never waged war against women. He fought his battles with men. The Old Man of the Mountain, in his own fashion, was a man of honor.”

  “As am I,” declared al-Sabbah. “I sent my Afreet to merely kidnap your fiancée, not harm her. She arrived here a short while ago in perfect health. Ask her yourself.”

  There was an instant’s silence on the phone. Then, to Jack’s immeasurable relief, Megan’s voice filled the room.

  “Jack? Is that you?”

  “I’m here, sweetie. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said his fiancée, “other than having a miserable headache. My ears kept popping whenever the genie flew over a mountain. He’s not very good at controlling air pressure.”

  Megan paused. “That damned Afreet loved old movies. The entire trip he regaled me with impressions of his favorite stars in their best roles. He did everything from Bogart discussing the water in Casablanca to Cagney’s death scene from White Heat. It was terrible.”

  “I understand,” said Jack, realizing what Megan left unsaid. With Hasan al-Sabbah close at hand, she had to watch her words carefully.

  “Keep the faith, honey,” said Jack. He wanted to say a great deal more, but not with an audience present. “I’ll rescue you. Somehow.”

  Silence again, then al-Sabbah returned on the line. “Ms. Ambrose is safe and unharmed, Mr. Collins. As my guest, she will be treated like visiting royalty. In fact, her quarters will be heavenly. And, within a week, at the conclusion of certain business transactions that need not concern you, she will be returned unsullied.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain paused. His pleasant voice grew cold. “I must apologize for the inept assassination attempts by my followers. Acting on the advice of several business associates, I foolishly delegated a team of Hashashin to ensure your noninterference in an upcoming… transaction. I suspected any mortal capable of dealing with Dietrich von Bern was more than a match for my recruits. But my client insisted, and the customer is always right.

  “Three attempts and three failures convinced my patrons they were wasting their money and my time. Freed to follow my own instincts, I decided that kidnapping your sweetheart was the solution to our problems. Please do not disappoint me by playing the hero.”

  Jack grimaced, knowing what came next. The routine never varied. By their very definition, supernaturals followed certain basic behavior patterns. It was part of their nature. All of them talked too much. They explained their reasons for every action. Villains, like al-Sabbah, always began by flattering their opponents. Then, afterward, came t
he threats.

  It was terribly predictable. Jack felt as if he had become part of a cliché-filled manuscript. Unfortunately, Megan’s life depended on his outwitting the script. And for all of his melodramatic poses, Hasan al-Sabbah was a very dangerous opponent.

  “If you insist on meddling in my affairs,” declared the Old Man of the Mountain, “your beautiful lady love will suffer the consequences. I believe you understand my method of conditioning the faithful. The routine, with minor variations for modern times, remains remarkably similar to that I employed centuries ago. Heavily drugged men are easily fooled by willing houris and low-level magical effects. The treatment provides me with assassins willing to do anything to achieve their heavenly reward. The only problem is that the coarse, brutal thugs I am forced to recruit lately are oftentimes extremely harsh with the nymphs in my gardens. Very harsh, Mr. Collins.”

  The blood drained from Jack’s face. “You’re not threatening to put Megan…”

  “She is a beautiful woman,” said al-Sabbah slowly. “Exactly the type of female reputed to inhabit paradise.”

  “You fiend,” said Jack, his hands clenched into fists. “You dirty rotten monster.”

  The Old Man of the Mountain laughed, a high-pitched cackle that barely sounded human. “Of course,” he declared. “I am no more and no less than what humanity made me. Don’t blame me for your basest instincts, Mr. Collins. Blame mankind.”

  Jack drew in a deep breath, calming himself. “A week, you said?”

  “Seven days,” said al-Sabbah. “Remain in Chicago that time and she will be returned to you unharmed. You have my word. Disobey me and her blood will stain your hands.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” asked Jack. “Von Bern made lots of promises. And he broke every one of them.”

  “A man in my profession requires a spotless reputation, Mr. Collins,” said al-Sabbah, sounding slightly miffed. “No one wants to deal with an assassin who lies. My word is my bond. Once given, it is never compromised.”

  “I guess I have no choice,” said Jack.

  “Correct,” said al-Sabbah. “You have no choice at all. Goodbye, Mr. Collins.”

  Hands shaking. Jack replaced the receiver on the telephone. Folding his arms across his chest to steady his nerves, he turned to the others. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Word or not,” said Cassandra, “I don’t trust him.”

  “Whatever he is planning,” said Merlin, “it bears directly on the fate of our civilization. The Old Man of the Mountain must be stopped.”

  “As long as Megan remains in al-Sabbah’s power,” said Freda, “his hands are locked around your throat. There’s nothing to stop him from squeezing them shut.”

  “Guys like al-Sabbah only understand one thing,” said Hugo. “Force. Negotiating is seen as a sign of weakness. Your mom’s right. The Old Man’s a snake. The only way to deal with a snake is to bite off its head.”

  “For all of his remarks about returning Megan unharmed,” said Mongo, “I noticed that al-Sabbah offers no guarantees about your safety afterward. Villains of his nature strongly believe in protecting their back. To them, the only good enemy is a dead one. And you can be sure he considers you his enemy.”

  Jack nodded. “I expected to hear nothing less. As legendary heroes, you refuse to compromise with evil. It’s against your basic nature. On the other hand, being strictly mortal, I’ve spent my entire life learning how to make compromises. Up to a few weeks ago, I would have readily agreed to all of the Old Man’s conditions. But since then, I’ve learned some valuable lessons. Ones that will hopefully help me formulate a plan to defeat al-Sabbah and rescue Megan.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Merlin. “Remember, Jack, Megan’s my only daughter. I want her back. Unharmed.”

  “Me, too,” said Jack, his features grim. “That’s why we can’t make any deals with the Old Man of the Mountain. Al-Sabbah can’t be trusted. Outwitting him is the only way to save Megan and protect mankind. Which is why understanding how the Old Man of the Mountain thinks is so incredibly important. We have to devise a scheme that will catch him by surprise. And he’s a master of deceit.”

  Pausing to gather his thoughts, he slipped into his basic lecture mode. Old habits died hard, especially after years of graduate school. “Humans are unpredictable. That’s because they make decisions based on emotions as well as logic. Despite the best efforts of social scientists, no one yet has been able to accurately predict how different people will react to the same situation. Identical experiments yield conflicting results. That violates the fundamental tenets of the scientific method. Thus, traditional hard-science practitioners such as chemists and physicists refuse to think of psychology as a true science. The basic rules of cause and effect don’t work when applied to people.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, Jack continued. “However, supernaturals aren’t human. Created by mankind’s shared subconscious mind, they obey specific rules. Though you have plenty of latitude in your everyday actions, you can’t violate certain basic defining characteristics. Each of you, in your own fashion, acts logically,” Jack grinned. “Which means that someone trained in mathematics can predict how you will react to specific events.”

  “Big deal,” interrupted Hugo. “So you knew in advance we’d all reject al-Sabbah’s demands. Maybe you actually guessed what the Old Man of the Mountain was going to say. What’s it matter? Megan’s still his prisoner. I don’t see you predicting her free.”

  “Not yet,” said Jack, “but give me time. The Old Man of the Mountain has a league of assassins and an Afreet on his side. That’s an awful lot of firepower to overcome. As I said before, the only way for us to defeat al-Sabbah is by outthinking him. Using logic is the answer.”

  “Well,” said his mother, “if anyone can do it, you’re the one, Johnnie. Didn’t Merlin call you the Logical Magician?”

  Jack nodded, the weight of the world once again slipping onto his shoulders. He only hoped that Merlin wasn’t wrong.

  Defeating Dietrich von Bern had been a major struggle. He had an uneasy feeling that the Old Man of the Mountain was going to be a much more difficult opponent. And sooner or later he was going to have to face the demigod behind the scenes. A god that, by definition, couldn’t be killed.

  12

  An hour later, after much fruitless discussion leading nowhere, they finally broke for the night. Jack desperately needed rest. The supernaturals, created without mortal frailties, could function for days without sleep. But he was only human.

  “Tomorrow,” he declared, yawning. “We’ll finalize plans tomorrow morning.”

  He hugged his mother. “No reason for you to stay around for another day. Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control. It’s my job, remember. I’m the Logical Magician. Give my best to Dad.”

  “I’ve always let you make your own decisions, Johnnie,” said his mother, “and I’m not planning to change now. Do whatever’s necessary to rescue Megan.” Reaching out, she ruffled Hugo’s feathers. “Use the ravens. They possess incredible powers, even if they do talk too much. And if you find yourself in desperate straits with no possibility of escape, send them looking for help. They won’t fail you.”

  Minutes after everyone had departed, promising to meet the next afternoon in Merlin’s office, Jack collapsed onto Megan’s bed. Alone. It was definitely not the scenario he had envisioned only a few short hours ago. Totally exhausted, he barely managed to kick off his shoes before drifting to sleep. The last thing he heard was Hugo asking Mongo. “What did she mean about us talking too much?”

  He didn’t dream. A fact that unsettled him the next morning as he chewed on a piece of toast. One of the benefits of being born the child of a supernatural was the ability to communicate in dreams with other halflings. Especially Megan. Not hearing from his fiancée frightened Jack. An active imagination and a steady diet of splatterpunk horror novels read during the past year suggested too many unpleasant explanations. Gulping down a Co
ke, he expressed his fears to the two ravens.

  “You’re probably worrying about nothing,” said Mongo. “Any powerful magical being can blanket dream transmissions fairly easily. The Old Man of the Mountain isn’t stupid. He wants to keep you in the dark about his whereabouts and his actions. His Afreet is probably keeping Megan’s sleep messages bottled up tight.”

  “That sounds logical,” said Jack, feeling slightly relieved, “though completely misguided. Megan already passed along the important information last night. She did it during our phone conversation,” He paused. “Still, I’d feel a lot better if I knew for sure the extent of the genie’s powers.”

  “No problem,” said Hugo. “I’ll fly over to the library and do some research. Meet you at Merlin’s office in an hour.”

  With a loud caw and a flap of wings, the raven was gone. Jack blinked. Somehow, Hugo exited the apartment without opening a window. The Afreet wasn’t the only magical being possessing unusual talents.

  “How did he do that?” Jack asked Mongo.

  “Do what?” replied the raven, busily pecking at a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal. The birds exhibited a voracious and extremely non-discriminatory appetite. “This stuff tastes great. Why didn’t your mother ever buy it?”

  “It’s loaded with sugar,” said Jack. “Bad for your teeth. Though, in your case, I guess it doesn’t matter. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Question?” said Mongo, delicately peeling a banana with one claw. Any minute. Jack expected the bird to start making French toast. “What question?”

  “How did Hugo depart with all the windows closed?”

  “Easy,” said Mongo, eyeing a box of graham crackers. Hopping over to the package, the raven peered at the list of ingredients. Obviously it was checking to see if the wafers contained sugar. Cawing happily, it ripped the top off the carton. Fortunately, Megan maintained a well-stocked kitchen cabinet. “We know the secret of flying through solid objects. Spying for Odin required us to master a lot of tricks.”