A Calculated Magic

4

They arrived downtown without further incident. However, remaining cautious, Cassandra insisted that they park blocks away from the building in which Merlin’s suite was located. Office workers breaking for lunch provided plenty of cover for their entrance to the complex and onto the elevators. Only when they were on the way up to the thirty-fourth floor did the Amazon relax.

“Dedicated assassins are real trouble, Jack,” she declared when they were alone on the elevator. “Over the centuries, I often served as a bodyguard for the rich and famous. I worked for both kings and queens and, at times, the masterminds who pulled their strings. In every case, when a group of dedicated professionals decided that their target had lived too long, death proved inevitable. Even the most competent protector, and I was the best,” the Amazon stated completely matter-of-factly, “could not stop fanatics.”

Jack nodded. “Ever hear the story of Saladin’s pillow?”

“No,” said Cassandra, a puzzled expression on her face. “I remained in the Far East during the Crusades. I found chivalry repulsive. What about Saladin?”

“I’ll tell you shortly,” said Jack, as the elevator stopped on Merlin’s floor. “First, it’s time to face my mother.”

Steeling himself for the inevitable, Jack pushed open the door that read, Ambrose Ltd., Investments. As always, a brief smile flickered across his lips as he silently scanned the company motto etched in black letters beneath the title. We Guarantee Your Future. Merlin used the best possible method to back up his investment advice. He studied the future in his crystal ball.

“Johnnie!” Freda Collins’s voice had lost none of its earsplitting intensity in the year since Jack had seen her last. As usual, the hug that followed squeezed the last breath of air from his lungs. Jack stood six feel tall, and was slender and dark like his father. His mother matched him in height, but was blonde, blue eyed, and big busted. Many people, seeing and hearing her for the first time, mistook her for an opera singer. Or a lady wrestler.

After crushing his shoulders to a pulp, his mom thrust him an arm’s length away. “Still skinny as ever,” she declared, with a laugh that shook the room. “Maybe married life will put a little meat on your bones.”

Then she paused, catching her first sight of Cassandra, who stood frozen in the doorway. “You?” said Freda, an odd note in her voice.

“You,” his mother repeated, this time not as a question, but as a statement of fact. Then she spat out a word in an unknown tongue that sounded remarkably like a curse.

Jack’s eyes bulged. In all of his life, he could never once remember his mother swearing. But he never recalled seeing the look of intense emotion that swept across her face as she stared at Cassandra.

“So you refer to yourself as Freda now,” said Cassandra, her own voice tight with suppressed feelings. “Quite a change from the old days.”

“You are obviously the one called Cassandra,” said Jack’s mother. “I should have recognized you from Merlin’s description. Though I assumed you long dead, food for the ravens.”

“As did I of you,” replied Cassandra. “Ripped to shreds on some battlefield by vultures.”

With a savage howl, Freda Collins flung herself forward. To be met in midair by a screaming Cassandra Cole. Arms locked around each other’s shoulders in an unbreakable grip. A few anxious seconds went by before Jack realized that the two women were embracing. And laughing wildly.

“Uh, care to explain what the hell is going on?” he asked, wondering where Merlin and Megan might he hiding. Not that he blamed them much for keeping out of the way. “I gather you two recognize each other.”

“In the good old days,” said Cassandra, her face beaming, “we were best of friends. Many were the times we fought side by side, slaughtering anyone foolish enough to cross our path.”

“Those were fine times,” nodded his mother in agreement. His mom, the one who baked gingerbread men at Christmastime. “The clash of steel, the sweat of battle, the smell of blood, the agonizing cries of the dying.”

“Remember the Thirty Years’ War?” asked Cassandra. “Fighting with the Swedes against Tilly in Leipzig. Those were violent days, filled with excitement.”

“Especially with the bubonic plague killing half the population of Venice the same year,” replied his mother. “They wanted to burn you as a witch because of your color. Lucky I was there with my sisters to save you from the fire.”

“I paid back that debt during the war between Russia and Poland thirty years later,” returned Cassandra. “Those Cossacks had more than a game of kiss and tell on their minds.”

“You were a demon,” said Freda. “How many did you slaughter that afternoon? Twenty, thirty?”

“Mother,” protested Jack, his face turning red. “What are you saying!”

“Sorry, Johnnie,” said his mother, not quite succeeding in suppressing a grin. “Different times, different customs. I’m quite satisfied living with your father these days, helping him manage his business. Each age has its noble warriors. In this century, businessmen fight the great battles. But it is fun to reminisce a little about the past.”

“Your sisters?” interrupted Cassandra.

“The same as ever. We talk infrequently. They took offense that I left the act to get married. The last I heard, they were touring out west in a rodeo. My ravens spy on them. According to the birds, they continue performing trick riding stunts, forming human pyramids on the backs of horses, and shooting holes in playing cards. The same dull stuff we did for Buffalo Bill.”

Jack rubbed his forehead in bewilderment. His mind was overloading with too much data too soon. He spotted Megan edging out of the door of Merlin’s inner office. Anxiously, he hurried over to his girlfriend.

“You were expecting this?” he asked, taking hold of her hands. As usual, a tingle of excitement raced through his body from the touch. To Jack, Megan was real magic, pure and simple. The old-fashioned kind.

“Not really,” she replied, grinning. “We thought it would be nice to leave you and your mother alone for a few seconds to say hello. Neither of us expected this outburst. Father’s hiding behind his desk. What’s the story?”

“Apparently Cassandra and my mom are old drinking buddies,” said Jack, rolling his eyes in mock dismay. “We know Cassandra is the last of the Amazons. My mother, it turns out, is evidently some sort of warrior maiden.”

Megan giggled, as behind them the two women chattered away contentedly. “Your mom reminds me of the lead singer in one of those Wagnerian operas. You know, the sturm-and-drang things featuring Rhine Maidens and Siegfried and the Norse Gods.”

Jack opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. He felt a little dizzy. It was either too many dramatic revelations in too short a time or going too long without lunch.

“The two birds that arrived with my mom?” he asked. “They anywhere around? I want to ask them some questions.”

“Probably yakking away with Merlin,” answered Megan. “I never met ravens who talked so much.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Jack, opening the door to the inner office. “Let’s say hello to your father. This pair won’t notice we’re gone.”

Merlin the Magician nodded a cursory hello to Jack and Megan as the two of them entered the inner chamber. The wizard, an elderly man with weather-browned skin and a long snow white beard, was engaged in a deep conversation with one of the ravens. Hugo and Mongo sat perched on the top of the magician’s chair, their yellow claws sunk deep into the leather.

Though he had lived with the birds most of his life, Jack still couldn’t tell one from the other. Now that he realized the pair were creations of magic, not nature, he understood their identical nature. The blackbirds had been imagined to life as twin ravens. Mankind’s subconscious mind had never given them any distinguishing aspects. Each bird was the exact duplicate of the other.

“Finally made it back,” said the raven, not speaking with Merlin. Jack assumed it had to be Hugo. “What took you so long?”

“We encountered some more problems on the highway,” replied Jack. “Besides,” he added, unable to resist, “it’s not as far traveling straight as the crow flies.”

“Crow?” squawked the bird, sounding indignant. “No insults, please. Mongo and I are ravens. We’re the most famous ravens in all of mythology.”

“I’ll bet,” said Jack. “Though I’m not sure how the pair of you hooked up with my mom.”

“Simple,” replied the bird. “Once the priests of the White Christ arrived in the northlands, the Boss realized his days were numbered. Before vanishing, he worked hard providing all of his loyal servants with good homes. Mongo and me always got along real well with your mother so we decided to stay with her. The wolves, Geri and Freki, moved in with your aunt Hannah.

“We stop in to see them once or twice a year. To keep things simple, they pretend now to be dogs,” The bird laughed, a bizarre sound. “Big, big, dogs, with immense teeth.”

“I’m lost,” said Megan, “completely, hopelessly lost.”

“Merely uninformed, daughter,” said Merlin, rising to his feet. “You’re lacking the proper information. This fascinating creature has just told Jack that his mother is one of the fabled ’Choosers of the Slain.’ Or, as they are called in books today, the Valkyries.”

Megan looked at Jack, her eyes wide. “Valkyries as in ’Ride of’?”

“You got it, sister,” said Hugo. Beside it, Mongo flapped its wings and cawed out a few barely recognizable bars of the Wagner piece. The screeching hurt Jack’s ears. “Freda was a high flier once. She and her sisters tore up the skies on Wings of Horses.”

“Then who are you two?” asked Megan.

“Hugi and Mugin at your service, ma’am,” said Hugo. The two birds dipped their heads, as if bowing politely. “Trained circus performers, notorious spies and gossips, and onetime companions to the mightly All-Father, leader of the Norse Gods, Odin.”

“It’s all coming back to me now,” said Jack. “Edmond Hamilton and Lester del Rey both wrote novels about ordinary mortals who find themselves in Götterdämmerung, the Twilight of the Gods. So did L. Sprague de Camp.”

An avid fantasy fan with a phenomenal memory, Jack’s knowledge of legendary and mythological characters came primarily from the stories he had read over the past decade. In most cases, the information he remembered served him better than consulting Bulfinch’s Mythology.

“Personally, I liked de Camp’s Incomplete Enchanter the best,” declared Hugo. “He portrayed Odin true to character—rude, mysterious, and always brooding.”

“Nah,” said Mongo. “Hamilton’s A Yank at Valhalla was tons more fun. He justified everything through super science and the story had a slam-bang finish. They don’t write stuff like that anymore.”

“You two read science fiction?” asked Jack, bewildered. “I didn’t know birds could read.”

“We’re not ordinary birds, Jack,” said Hugo. The raven’s piercing black eyes froze Jack with a wicked stare. “Don’t you forget it. In the old days, we flew all over gathering information for the All-Father. Each night we landed on his shoulders and described to him what was happening throughout the world.”

“World meaning the immediate surroundings,” interrupted Mongo, sounding slightly sarcastic. “Amazing how the scale of things changes once you escape the limits of the nearby surroundings.”

“Whatever,” said Hugo, flapping his wings in annoyance. “Give me a chance to explain without interruption, please.”

“I’m sure Jack has already deduced the rest,” said Mongo. “He’s a bright boy. You heard Merlin’s narrative how Johnnie saved the world from the forces of darkness.”

“Yeah,” said Hugo. “But think what he could have done with our help.”

The big raven shrugged, not an easy task considering it had no shoulders. “I guess Mongo’s right. It ain’t hard to figure out the full report. Since we had to spy and then report to the All-Father, we were created with the ability to read and speak.”

“But why indulge in fantasy fiction?” asked Jack. “Why not history? Or perhaps westerns?”

“Use your brain, Johnnie,” said Hugo. “How many times did you come home from school and find one of your books on the floor with the pages open? Or have a volume disappear for a week or two, then turn up again as if it had never been gone?”

Jack’s face turned bright red. “The two of you? Borrowing my books? My valuable, first-edition books!”

“Calm down,” said Mongo. “We tried to be careful with them.”

“Sure we were,” said Hugo. “Though turning the pages on those old pulp magazines put a hell of a crimp in my neck. The paper kept crumbling into shreds.”

“My pulps?” said Jack, growing more and more agitated. “You turned the pages of my pulps with your beaks? Some of those magazines are sixty years old. They’re irreplaceable!”

“Tasted like it, too,” said Hugo. Then, seeing the expression on Jack’s face, the raven quickly added, “The shreds, that is. The tiny bits of paper that fell off the edges.”

Freda Collins chose that moment, as her son started reaching out with both hands to wring the life out of the bird in front of him, to open the door to Merlin’s office. “Good to see you’re getting acquainted,” she declared cheerfully.

“Mother,” said Jack, dropping his hands to his sides, “your ravens have been secretly reading my fantasy books for years,” His voice trembled with the anger of a true collector. “They put beak marks in my pulps.”

“Blame me, Johnnie,” said his mother, calmly. “I gave them permission. The birds were bored. There wasn’t a lot for them to do the past few decades, now that warfare’s changed so much. Reading was their only escape from monotony. Besides, they liked your taste in literature.”

“Yeah,” said Hugo. “You never heard us complain. Including when you got hooked for a year on those dreadful H. P. Lovecraft Cthulhu Mythos pastiches.”

“Besides,” said Mongo, “flying around one day we found a used bookstore in the Bronx where there’s a complete set of Weird Tales in fine condition for sale—cheap. The owner doesn’t know a thing about pulp magazines. He’d probably let them go for a song. We couldn’t tell you about them before. But now Hugo and me can work as your book scouts. We’ll find plenty of bargains. Discovering hidden items is a talent we possess.”

“Well,” said Jack, taking a deep breath. “I guess I forgive you. But, in the future, inform me what you want to read. That way, at least, I can take the magazines out of the plastic bags for you.”

“Deal,” said Hugo.

Things quieted down after that. Freda updated Jack on family matters, including the latest scandals, marriages, and deaths. The two ravens provided the embarrassing details. Jack soon realized the birds hadn’t exaggerated their skill as spies. They knew the dirt on everyone.

Afterward, Jack was forced to recap in detail his adventures fighting Dietrich von Bern, the Wild Huntsman. His mother and the ravens had heard some of the story from Merlin. But the magician and Megan had been in enchanted sleep for most of the exploit. Jack, with Cassandra’s promptings, filled in the rest.

About halfway through the story, Merlin supplied lunch via a teleportation spell to the nearest restaurant. A BLT and a Coke did wonders soothing Jack’s temper. As did the admiring comments from both his parent and her blackbirds.

“My son, the world-saver,” said Freda Collins, when Jack finished his tale. “Not that I’m surprised. The blood of heroes flows in your veins. Too bad you never learned the identity of the demigod pulling the Huntsman’s strings. Hidden enemies are the most dangerous kind.”

“So far, even Merlin’s magic has proven useless,” said Jack. “The demigod stays far enough in the background to be untraceable. It’s a mystery that has to be solved sooner or later. But that’s the least of my problems. The events of this morning present a much more immediate dilemma. One that has to be dealt with right away.”

“This morning?” said Megan, her voice concerned. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t Hugo mention the assassins?” asked Jack.

“Assassins,” said Megan, her eyes flashing dangerously. She turned to the raven. “What assassins?”

“Oops, sorry,” said the bird quickly. Obviously, Megan frightened him a good deal more than Jack. “Since the attempt failed, I decided not to say anything till Johnnie arrived and could provide the details himself.”

“An assassination attempt,” said Merlin, frowning. “That’s strange. I recently tried using my crystal ball to predict our enemy’s next move. While the results were inconclusive, I saw nothing to indicate it planned any direct violent action against you. At least, not in the immediate future.”

“Not one attempt, but two,” said Jack. Briefly, he described both attacks and how Cassandra foiled each of them. “In both cases, the killers were mortals, not supernaturals. But I believe behind them stands a particularly fiendish supernatural mastermind.”

Jack drew in a deep breath. “No direct action, you said. Unfortunately, that doesn’t rule out working through a proxy. The demigod is staying safely out of sight and letting another monstrous figure fight its battles. Unlike Dietrich von Bern and his Border Redcaps, this villain uses human henchmen.”

“Which changes the rules of the game drastically,” said Cassandra. “Mortals aren’t bound by the same rules as supernatural entities. And there are so many of them.”

The Amazon did not look pleased. Nor did anyone else. “You hinted earlier you knew the identity of this new mastermind. Jack,” said Cassandra. “Who is it?”

“I’m not positive about the answer,” said Jack, “but everything I’ve seen and heard so far points to one infamous figure. The actions of the assassins and the few remarks made by our one prisoner before he committed suicide support my theory. Why he is serving our mysterious enemy I don’t know. But for some unexplained reason, I’ve been marked for death by the Old Man of the Mountain.”