A Calculated Magic

2

A few seconds later, Cassandra appeared at the edge of the clearing dragging an unconscious man by the feet. A short, powerfully built man with a dark brown beard that covered his face, he was dressed in khaki green combat fatigues. That his head bounced along the ground with solid thumps bothered the Amazon not a bit. Cassandra hated being disturbed during their practice sessions. Jack knew better than to ask die fate of the other two attackers. Sometimes he preferred not knowing all the answers.

“There were three of them,” declared the Amazon, dumping the lone survivor a few feet away from Jack. “Each man carried an AK-47 and knew how to use it. For humans, they made remarkably little noise. Lucky for us, your friend here sounded the alarm.”

“Humans?” repeated Jack, caught by surprise.

He had naturally assumed their enemies to be supernatural entities. New minions of his sinister foe, sent to eliminate him before he could interfere in the demigod’s schemes. Jack stared at the unconscious man with undisguised annoyance. The assassin definitely possessed an aura. He was distressingly mortal.

“What’s the story with this clown?” asked Hugo, hopping forward to peer into die man’s face. “Disgruntled ex-student?”

“I never saw him before in my life,” said Jack. “Besides, math majors don’t carry automatic weapons. At least,” he added cautiously, “none of my students did.”

“Let’s wake him up and ask him a few questions,” said Cassandra. There was an icy calmness to her voice that made Jack shiver. “If he proves uncooperative, I can break a few of his bones. Slowly. One at a time.”

“I can peck his eyes out if you want,” added Hugo helpfully, “Haven’t done it for centuries, but I think I still remember the technique. It’s like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how, you never forget.”

“No need to resort to torture unless absolutely necessary,” said Jack, turning green. Born of mankind’s most vivid imaginings, the supernaturals had a tendency to view everything in terms of extremes. There were no grays for them, only blacks and whites. “The sight of you two should loosen his tongue quick enough.”

“Maybe,” said Cassandra, sounding doubtful. “Though anyone using an AK-47 isn’t going to start talking just because he’s threatened by a talking bird.” She smiled. “Crushing a few fingers usually starts them babbling.”

“Talk first, torture later,” said Jack firmly.

“Spoilsport,” said Cassandra.

Pulling the man up by his collar into a sitting position, the Amazon slapped him briskly across the face a few times. After a few hits, the bearded man grunted in pain and opened his eyes.

“We failed, huh?” he said, glancing at the trio without fear. “I assume you got the other two and I’m the only one left,” The man spat. “Damned bird ruined the ambush. No fair using animals as lookouts. How’d you manage that trick?”

“I’ll ask the questions,” said Jack, trying to sound tough. “Who are you and why did you try to kill us?”

“I did my best,” said the bearded man, talking to himself. He completely ignored Jack’s remarks. “The Old Man warned us it wouldn’t be easy.”

“Old Man?” asked Jack, picking up on the title. “Who are you talking about? Are you with some intelligence agency or something? The CIA? The FBI?”

“Quit babying the bozo, Johnnie,” said Hugo, flapping up to the startled prisoner’s shoulder, “Let me poke out one of his eyeballs. That will get us some answers.”

“Game’s over and we lost this round,” said the prisoner. “But my reward’s earned. I’m outa here. I’m off to paradise.”

The instant the man completed the phrase, he slumped lifelessly in Cassandra’s arms.

“Hell,” said the Amazon, releasing her grip on the prisoner. His body dropped like a sack of cement to the ground. “A poison stick-it note.”

“A what?” asked Jack, his gaze still captivated by the dead man. A few seconds ago, the prisoner had been a living, talking being. Now he was lifeless clay. Jack swallowed hard, trying to keep his breakfast down. Despite weeks of heroics, he was not cut out for life-and-death situations.

“A poison stick-it note,” repeated Cassandra, grimacing. “It’s a recent development in the espionage field. All those spy novels and movies the past few decades rendered the hollow-tooth-with-poison suicide gambit worthless. An easily inserted plastic mouthpiece prevented a captured operator from taking the easy way out.

“Since modern interrogation methods could break even the most hardened or fanatic agent, a new suicide method had to be developed. That’s the poison stick-it note. It’s a deadly pellet placed directly in the skull. Merely thinking the proper phrase sends the necessary electrical impulses to the brain and releases the toxic chemical. So far, the method has proven to be a hundred percent effective. The only way to stop someone from suicide is to keep him unconscious. Which makes questioning your captive awfully difficult.”

Jack rose to his feet. “Great. It was bad enough when I was dealing with a power-hungry demigod determined to conquer the world and turn it into a vast wasteland. Now, for some unknown reason, secret agents willing to commit suicide rather than be questioned by us are looking to kill me. What else can go wrong?”

Hugo glided up onto Jack’s right shoulder and settled uncomfortably close to his ear. The blackbird was surprisingly light for its size.

“Your mother wants to see you, Johnnie,” it stated. “She’s waiting for you downtown in Merlin’s office.”

“Mother,” said Jack, inhaling a deep breath. He had almost forgotten about her. “She’s in Chicago. Not in New Jersey.”

“You catch on quick,” said the raven sarcastically. “Freda arrived in the city this morning on a business trip. After hearing about your encounter with magic, she wanted to talk to you. Not to mention meet your fiancée. So she sent me to find you. I arrived overhead just in time to spot those mugs creeping through the woods. When I saw the firepower they were carrying, I thought a warning was in order.”

“My mother,” said Jack again. “In Chicago. At Merlin’s office,” He paused for an instant. “How did she learn about Merlin? And my experiences with magic? I never said a word on the phone about any of that.”

“A little bird told her,” cawed the raven. Jack swore the bird was laughing at him. Spreading its wings, Hugo darted skyward. “See you two downtown.”

Cassandra’s gaze followed the raven until it was out of sight. “Your mother is an animal trainer?”

“Not that I ever knew,” replied Jack. “Though I guess it’s possible. I recall my father once stating he first met her at a circus.”

“A lot of supernaturals gravitated to circuses and traveling shows,” said Cassandra. “They provided wonderful camouflage for beings with unusual powers.”

“Mom rarely talks about her days as a performer,” said Jack with a shrug. “I gather some of her relatives were disturbed when she left the act to get married. Dad just grins whenever I ask and mumbles something about seven sisters being too many for any one family.”

Jack scratched his head, trying to sort out his thoughts. “Ever since I realized Mom was the supernatural member of the family, I’ve been trying, without success, to place her in some mythology. It’s not easy trying to associate one of your parents with a legendary character. I never paid much attention to Mom’s pet blackbirds.”

Cassandra tossed the corpse of the bearded assassin over one shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure she’ll tell you all you need to know. How about changing your clothes? You don’t want your mother to see you covered with dirt. In the meantime, I’ll take care of the bodies.”

“Whatever you say,” declared Jack. “I’ll meet you at the car in half an hour.”

“Sounds good,” said Cassandra. Then, before he could wander off, she grabbed him by an arm. Barely exerting any pressure, there was incredible power in the Amazon’s fingers.

“Stay alert, Jack,” she warned. “If someone wants you dead, there’s a good chance they sent out more than one kill squad. There could be another bunch of assassins back at camp.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” promised Jack, feeling very melodramatic. “One brush with death a day is my limit.”

Walking as quietly as possible through the woods, Jack considered the morning’s events. As usual, things were taking place at a much faster rate than he preferred.

In most of the fantasy novels he read, the hero always had long periods of time when nothing happened. That was when the brilliant hero finally put all the facts together and came up with the startling deductions that saved the day. Jack shook his head in disgust. Most of his thinking was done while running from one supernatural menace after another. What little free time he had, he usually spent recuperating or sleeping.

Concentrating, he tried to recall anything else his father had ever said about his mother. They had met when his dad was in Europe on a business trip thirty years ago. Other than the odd match she made with his father—she was tall, busty, and blonde, while his father was short, dark, and slender—he couldn’t think of anything the least bit unusual about her. She made a wonderful peanut butter, lettuce, and mayo sandwich; enjoyed working for the family export business; and owned a horse named Flying Feet that she rode once a week on Saturday.

Her two pet ravens, Hugo and Mongo, she kept outside in a special birdhouse in the backyard. They often disappeared for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, but they always came back. Thinking back to his earliest childhood, Jack couldn’t remember a time when the birds hadn’t been around. He wondered, idly, if his mother was a witch and the birds were her familiars.

Somehow, he couldn’t imagine his mom as a witch. Especially not after having met a witch named Hazel who lived in the trailer camp along with her cat, Sylvester. With a mental shrug, he pushed the idea from his mind. As Cassandra had stated, he would learn the truth soon enough. He was nearing his trailer. Time to watch out for strangers.

Fortunately, no one suspicious was about. Jack hurriedly changed into a pair of good slacks and a sport shirt. He also managed to wash his face and comb his hair before heading over to the parking lot where he was to meet Cassandra. After all, though his mother might be a witch or a sorceress or one of a dozen other types of supernatural entities, first and foremost, she was still his mom.