A Calculated Magic lm-2 Read online

  “But that violates the fundamental laws of the universe,” said Jack.

  “Nonsense,” replied Mongo. At long last, the bird seemed finished with breakfast. “Atoms consist primarily of space. The total mass of electrons, neutrons, and protons is negligible. Hugo and I merely manipulate our physical structure so that the atoms of our bodies slip through the atoms of the opposing barrier. It’s simple.”

  Jack frowned. “I was terrible at physics,” he said. “That’s why I went into logic,” His eyes narrowed. “Where did you learn about atomic structure?”

  “Asimov wrote a column on the subject in one of your digest magazines,” said Mongo. The bird quickly changed the subject. “Don’t you think we should be heading downtown? Merlin’s probably wondering what’s keeping us.”

  “Okay,” said Jack, rising from his chair. “But the next time I visit my parents’ home, I plan to check all of my magazines for beak marks. God help you birds if I find any.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they departed for Chicago’s Loop. Mongo flew on ahead, scouting the route. Cassandra, armed with a half dozen throwing stars, assorted knives, and a wire garrote wound about her wrist, drove their car. The Amazon was feeling mean and hunting for trouble. Though there was nothing she could have done to prevent Megan’s abduction, Cassandra felt personally responsible for its taking place. The expression on her face was enough to keep any would-be assassins at bay. She was not a happy Amazon.

  Merlin, Witch Hazel, and Fritz Grondark awaited them at the magician’s office. As did Hugo and his twin. And an unusual postcard.

  “It came with the morning mail,” said Merlin, handing the photo card to Jack. “Though it was addressed to you, I couldn’t help noticing the message. Which prompted me to pull out my crystal ball and attempt a reading. Hazel helped, as did Sylvester.”

  The witch’s familiar meowed loudly. “I hate predicting the future. It hurts my eyes peering into that stupid glass.”

  “But you see things better than we do, dearie,” said Hazel. A bent, old crone with scraggly while hair, she looked every bit the witch she was. Appearances were deceptive, though. Hazel was a good witch, and a valuable ally in the battle against the forces of evil.

  Jack studied the postcard. One side consisted of a color photo of one of the newest hotels in Las Vegas. On the reverse was scribbled a short note. “Hope to see you at the big auction next week,” The cryptic statement was signed, “An old friend.”

  “Your crystal ball didn’t reveal who sent this message?” Jack asked, knowing the answer in advance. “Or why?”

  “Of course not,” said Merlin. “However, focusing on the card, Sylvester stared into my magic sphere. That’s when he caught a glimpse of a room filled with people, both human and supernatural. Their attention was fixed on a small, hairless man dressed in white robes, holding a glass vial in one hand. Standing behind him was a huge neon red figure.”

  “The Afreet,” said Jack, “and the Old Man of the Mountain. Any idea what he was offering for bid?”

  “Not a glimmer,” replied Sylvester. “The vision lasted only a second. Sorry, Jack.”

  “No need to apologize,” said Jack. “Combining your information with what I already surmised gives us a pretty clear picture of what’s taking place. And when.”

  “It does?” said Cassandra. “I must have missed something somewhere. Would you care to explain?”

  “Yeah,” said Hugo. “Add me to the list of lost souls. It seems awfully likely that the postcard’s a trap. Or a phony lead designed to lure you away from the real action.”

  “I doubt it,” replied Jack. “Especially in view of the clues Megan passed on to me last night over the phone. During the famous scene in Casablanca where Bogart discussed the water, the characters directly referred to the city being located in the desert. Just like Las Vegas. And when Cagney died at the end of White Heat, he screamed, ‘Top of the world. Ma.’ ”

  Jack held up the mysterious postcard. “Notice the name of the hotel on the front of our letter. The Seven Wonders of the World Hotel and Casino. I’m willing to bet a fistful of silver dollars that the Old Man of the Mountain has his headquarters in the penthouse on the top of that resort.”

  “But who sent the card?” asked Cassandra.

  “I’m not positive but I’m willing to venture a guess,” said Jack. “Remember, the ancient demigod behind all of these schemes didn’t return to our world on its own. Someone had to call it back. Perhaps that individual did it entirely by accident. Who knows the actual circumstances? In any case, this card seems to indicate we have a friend in the enemy camp.”

  “Maybe,” said Hugo. “But I wouldn’t trust my feathers to anyone fooling around with spells dealing with the Ancients. Summoning a demigod to the real world ain’t the same thing as making pudding. Nobody with a noble heart tries something like that in the first place. Not without a reason. Get my drift? This character ain’t lily white.”

  “Agreed,” said Jack, “but we can’t ignore the facts. Hasan is holding Megan prisoner in Las Vegas. He’s doing it to prevent us from interfering with an auction he’s holding within the next week. I’m not sure how the demigod fits into this whole scenario. It might be working behind the scenes. Or it could merely be a participant in the bidding. In any case, I can’t see any way to avoid the obvious. We have to attend the event as well. Megan’s fate, and possibly that of civilization, depends on it.”

  “It sounds like the plot of a horror novel,” said Hugo. “I remember the cover blurb of one published a few years ago. ‘Gavel-to-gavel terror where the bidding is for your soul and all sales are final.’ It was called The Devil’s Auction, but I’ll be damned if I can remember the author’s name.”

  “Who cares?” said Jack. “These horror authors write a book or two, then disappear. They never amount to much. We need to make plans, not talk about old books.”

  “I’m going,” said Cassandra, in a voice that brooked no discussion. “I have a score to pay back to that Afreet and his boss. Besides, you’ll need someone to guard your back against the assassins. And I’m the best one to do it.”

  “My beak and talons are yours to command,” said Mongo.

  “Mine too,” said Hugo. “Blood’s good for the digestion. Plus, your mom would never forgive us if we let you get hurt.”

  “If you need the services of a dwarven mechanic,” said Fritz Grondark, “I’m willing and available.”

  “To save my daughter’s life,” declared Merlin solemnly, “I will do whatever is necessary,” He paused. “Defeating an Afreet will require powerful sorcery.”

  “You can say that again,” cawed Hugo. “I ransacked the mythology section at the Chicago Public Library downtown for information about genies. It’s a nice place. Too bad they spent so much money on the building they couldn’t afford to buy any new books. Volumes I beaked through were at least twenty years old. Fortunately, legends don’t change over the centuries.”

  “Would you care to share with the rest of us what you discovered?” Jack asked sarcastically. There were no short remarks or replies with supernaturals. Saying yes or no took five to ten minutes.

  “Be glad to,” said Hugo, completely unaware of Jack’s impatience. “The facts ain’t particularly comforting. Afreets are the meanest and most powerful genies of Arabian mythology. Creations of fire and air, they exercise control over both mediums. They can fly, call up storms, and set objects ablaze. Though Afreets normally appear slightly larger than a man, because of their gaseous nature, they can assume nearly any size. They can swell up as big as an elephant or shrink down to the dimensions of a bug. Fortunately, as with most extremely powerful elemental spirits, they have the brainpower of a dinosaur.”

  “Any other weaknesses?” asked Jack.

  “That’s the really bad news,” said Hugo. “Damned genies don’t have many. They’re nearly indestructible. Glass frightens them. They refer to it as ‘frozen fire.’ According to most legends, Afreets can’t escape f
rom a properly sealed glass bottle.”

  “Logical,” said Jack. “Glass incorporates fire, air, and sand, all major factors of their existence.”

  “Properly sealed is the problem, Johnnie,” continued Hugo. “King Solomon imprisoned most of the genies in bottles, then buried the receptacles in the desert sand. He trapped them in the vessels by impressing his magic signet ring into the wax covering the container’s mouth. Nothing less will work. You need King Sol’s ring to cage this baby, and that ring disappeared two thousand years ago.”

  “Terrific,” said Jack, gloomily. Closing his eyes, he drew in several deep breaths. Mentally, he recited the fundamental theorem of calculus to steady his nerves. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked around at his companions.

  “I refuse to give up before we start. Things look grim, but they looked pretty bad when we fought Dietrich von Bern and the Border Redcaps. Yet we defeated him and a Great Beast as well.”

  “Couldn’t we use the same modern devices that defeated those fiends against the Old Man of the Mountain?” asked Cassandra. “Hasan sounds equal in evil to the Wild Huntsman.”

  “Unfortunately, different cultures perceive certain behavior in entirely different manners,” said Jack. The same idea had flitted through his mind earlier and he had dismissed it after a few minutes’ thought. “The Old Man of the Mountain is not thought to be a villain in Middle Eastern mythology. Like death, he’s neutral. The Assassins kill for religious beliefs or profit. In either case, that’s not considered a sin. Hasan and his servants are immune to our original weapons. We need other devices to overcome them.”

  “Sounds pretty challenging to me,” said Hugo. “Considering that the Old Man of the Mountain is supposed to be immortal. Genies can’t be killed, only imprisoned. And there’s always the question of how to disbelieve out of existence a demigod nobody believes exists in the first place.”

  “Mere details,” said Jack. “The one thing to remember is that if supernatural beings evolve with the times, then the methods of dealing with them have to change as well. We’re going to use modern logic to win this war.”

  Feeling slightly more confident, Jack rose from his chair. A dozen ideas crowded into his head. Several he rejected immediately as taking too much time or being too risky with Megan’s safety at stake. But a number of others offered real promise. Everything depended on the situation in Las Vegas.

  “This mission is going to require use of everyone’s particular talents,” he declared. “I’m going to Las Vegas as soon as possible. Cassandra will accompany me for protection. The ravens will come along to act as our spies. The rest of you are going to stay here.”

  He raised his hands to quiet their protests. “No complaints. Too many of us traveling would attract attention. There’s no question that the Old Man of the Mountain knows too much about me. There’s probably a bunch of his agents spying on my every move. The only way to fool them is to create a magic doppelganger to take my place. The three of you working together can handle that spell. In the meantime, Cassandra and I can disguise our features and bring the battle right to our enemy, catching him by surprise. My plans aren’t certain yet, but without your cooperation, they’re doomed to failure.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Fritz Grondark, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Dwarves are team players.”

  “I can’t say I like being left behind when Megan’s safety is concerned,” declared Merlin. “But I know you will do everything possible to save her.”

  “Woods witches can’t fight worth a damn anyway,” said Hazel. “Brews and potions are what me and Sylvester do best. We’re with you, as always, Jack.”

  Moving with inhuman speed, Cassandra reached into her boot, withdrew a needle-thin stiletto, and thrust it into the floor. The steel blade quivered from the force of the blow as she spoke. “I pledge my life and my honor to this quest. We shall not fail.”

  Jack licked his lips. The Amazon had a dramatic manner of stating her objectives.

  “Hopefully,” he said, “we’ll achieve our aims with a minimal amount of violence,” The barest hint of a frown crossed Cassandra’s features. The Amazon preferred the direct, bloody method of settling difficulties. “But,” Jack continued grimly, “if it means we wipe out Hasan’s entire league of Assassins to rescue Megan, so be it. The Old Man of the Mountain has pushed us around long enough, It’s time we did some shoving of our own.”

  13

  “Every man in this airport is staring at me,” Cassandra whispered to Jack, eight hours later. “I can see the lust in their eyes. I doubt if I would draw this much attention if I was completely naked.”

  “Exactly,” replied Jack, grinning. Though he probably felt closer to the Amazon than any other of his supernatural friends, she was so insufferably prim and proper that it secretly amused him to see her squirm. Cassandra was dressed to kill, and the gaze of every man, and most women, in the Las Vegas airport was fixed on her. “The best disguise is misdirection. If the Old Man of the Mountain has spies in the terminal, you’re the last person in the universe they’d peg as an Amazon warrior.’”

  “If one more man winks at me,” said Cassandra, her voice quivering with emotion, “I will die of shame. After,” she promised grimly, “first ripping out his eyes and shoving them down his slimy throat.”

  “Calm yourself,” said Jack. “We’re near the baggage claim. Once we locate our luggage, we’ll take a cab to the hotel. You’ll be out of public sight. At least, for a little while.”

  Cassandra gasped. “You don’t expect me to wear clothing like this getup for our entire stay here? That’s unthinkable.”

  “Better revise your thinking,” said Jack, cheerfully. “In Las Vegas, Cassandra Cole doesn’t exist. In her place is Saman’ta Jones, high-priced companion to millionaires and jet-setters. Besides,” he declared, unable to resist a small dig, “I think you look very sexy.”

  Cassandra wore a full-length, lycra-spandex white cat suit. It hugged her curves like a second skin. A half dozen strategically placed cutouts revealed large patches of her chocolate-colored skin. The incredibly tight outfit clearly revealed her underclothes consisting of a tiny thong bikini and no bra. Five-inch spike-heeled boots and a three-inch-wide black leather belt completed the ensemble.

  Her jet black hair was braided in the latest style, and dabs of color tinted her cheeks and eyelids. Gold chains around her neck clinked and jangled as they walked. And her fingers were capped with long white fingernails.

  “I worried you might have a hard time with those heels,” murmured Jack as they rode the escalator down to the baggage claim. Under normal circumstances, the Amazon was a few inches taller than he. In boots, she was nearly a head higher. “But you’re managing them without effort.”

  “In my career as a professional bodyguard, Jack,” said Cassandra, “I’ve had to attend more than my share of state functions undercover. Wearing fancy clothes isn’t as unusual for me as you might think. Dressing like a high-class hooker is the problem.”

  “You could be wearing worse,” said Jack, then wished he hadn’t. Packed in their suitcases were outfits that made the Amazon’s current attire look tame. At least, Jack reflected, keeping Cassandra fighting mad wasn’t going to be difficult.

  Merlin’s money, connections, and magic had smoothed their path to Las Vegas. Their new identities, and the clothes to match them, came from an unnamed but very secret agency that specialized in deception. Their features had undergone slight but significant changes, courtesy of one of Witch Hazel’s bitter potions. The wood witch guaranteed the results for a week. There was a harsher edge to Jack’s appearance and a softer one to Cassandra’s. The modifications were just enough so that the two of them were completely unrecognizable to anyone but their closest acquaintances.

  Jack, dressed in a perfectly fitting dark pinstripe suit, was Gordon Green, an extremely wealthy and equally mysterious investment broker. In the inner pocket of his suit he had discovered a bank directory listing hi
s accounts in several major investment firms. According to the entries, Mr. Green was worth well over $50 million. The billfold in his other pocket contained fifty crisp one-thousand-dollar bills. Merlin had money to burn.

  Cassandra, despite her vocal and continual protests, became Saman’ta Jones. Getting the Amazon to wear the outrageous outfit selected for her by the deception bureau had been a major battle. Her screams of indignation had nearly shattered Jack’s eardrums. Persuading her that she couldn’t bring her weapons along on the trip had been the real challenge.

  Reservations in one of the most expensive suites at the Seven Wonders of the World Resort proved to be no problem. Nor had there been any hassle purchasing first-class plane tickets for the two of them. Merlin the master sorcerer could work miracles on command. And when magic failed, money talked.

  Once arrangements were finalized, the two ravens had been sent on ahead to do some preliminary scouting. “We fly at Mach three when necessary,” Hugo told them when asked. “Lucky our feathers aren’t real, otherwise they’d fry.”

  A big, burly black man, standing nearly seven feet tall, awaited them at the luggage area. Dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, he held a white cardboard sign with the name “Mr. Green” scrawled across it. It took Jack a few seconds to remember that was his name.

  “I’m Green,” he stated. “This is Ms. Jones, my secretary.”

  Jack noted with some trepidation that the driver didn’t possess an aura. Another supernatural. Lately, his entire existence seemed to be defined by legendary beings. He glanced at Cassandra. She shrugged, clearly signaling she had no idea of their chauffeur’s true identity.

  “Glad to meet you,” said the big man, his voice rumbling like thunder. He nodded to Cassandra, his gaze lingering for a moment on her outfit. The smile forming on his lips died when he saw the Amazon’s expression. “I’m John Henry. But you can call me Big John. Most people do.”