A Logical Magician

9

Jack scrambled back into the kitchenette. Walsh leisurely folded, slamming the door behind him.

“You can’t cross the threshold to my home unless invited,” declared Jack, his mind racing furiously. For the first time in his life, he regretted not reading Dracula. His knowledge of the undead was limited to their infrequent appearances in humorous fantasy novels, and several Christopher Lee film festivals he had attended as a teenager.

Jack had no doubt about Walsh’s identity, even without Simon’s warning. The bogus IRS agent’s lack of an aura branded him supernatural. His glowing eyes and inch-long fangs proclaimed his grisly heritage.

“A mere matter of semantics,” said Walsh. He spoke quite well, considering the size of his incisors. “This is the twentieth century, not the eighteenth. The entry hall to an apartment building serves as a common threshold for all the individual units. And you did invite me in.”

Straining, Jack shoved the kitchen table in the vampire’s path. With an amused shake of the head, the monster grasped the formica top with one hand and squeezed. The hardened plastic exploded into dust. Vampires, Jack remembered immediately, were much stronger than ordinary mortals.

“What do you want, Walsh?” Jack asked, retreating behind the kitchen chairs.

“Information,” replied the vampire. He appeared in no hurry to catch Jack. From time to time, his gaze flickered over to Simon, standing motionless by the sofa. He seemed puzzled by the changeling’s presence. “My master wants to know all about you, Mr. Collins. And how you came to possess the talisman you carry.”

“It was a gift,” said Jack, sliding around the last of the chairs and darting into the living room. Grasping at half-remembered solutions, he began reciting the only prayer he could remember.

“Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

“Please don’t strain your memory,” said Walsh cheerfully. “That superstition died out a long time ago. Ditto, the cross thing. I departed this world an agnostic. None of those religious remedies affects me in the slightest. Why not be a good boy and just answer my questions? After all, we already know all about Merlin and his daughter.”

“Oh yeah,” said Jack, pushing the sofa into the vampire’s path. Simon remained frozen in place. He had not said a word since Walsh had entered the apartment. “If you’re that well informed, what do you want from me?”

“Mine is not to reason why,” replied the vampire. Reaching down, he latched onto the sofa with both hands. Effortlessly, Walsh wrenched it out of Jack’s grasp. Chuckling, he tossed it against the living-room wall. The whole apartment shook when it hit the floor.

“Why did the old wizard give you the talisman?” Walsh demanded. “And what did he tell you about my master?”

“Your master?” said Jack, backing up to the windows. He was out of running space. “Since when do vampires work for the Old Ones?”

“A matter of professional courtesy,” answered Walsh. “Besides, doing a favor or two for a God never hurts. He promised me New York for finding you.”

The vampire smiled, making him look even more ghastly. “So, you do know about the Old Ones. How very interesting. Please tell more.”

He stepped closer, edging around a still motionless Simon. Walsh frowned, swirling his cape dramatically.

“Don’t interfere in matters that are none of your concern, faerie,” he ordered, glancing at the changeling. “This affair isn’t any of your business.”

“That’s your mistake,” said Simon unexpectedly and wrapped his arms around Walsh. Jerking his body around, he wrenched the vampire to the floor.

“Run, Jack!” he shouted. “I can’t hold him long.”

Caught by surprise, Jack froze. He wanted desperately to help Simon, but he had no idea how. Already, the vampire was pulling free from the changeling’s grip. He would be loose in seconds.

Crosses and prayers no longer worked, but there were other ways to hurt a vampire. Struck by inspiration, Jack darted past the struggling supernaturals into the kitchenette. Wildly, he pawed through the bottles on his spice rack.

Hissing like a locomotive, Walsh broke Simon’s hold and shoved the changeling hard into the far wall. The faerie collapsed to the floor in a daze.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he growled at the Brit. The vampire turned to Jack, his red eyes blazing. He snarled, showing his huge yellow fangs. “No more Mr. Nice Guy. Talk or suffer the consequences.”

“Take a bite of this,” yelled Jack and flung the contents of the spice bottle in Walsh’s face. A gritty powder caught the vampire across the cheeks.

The monster shrieked in agony. His skin sizzled like bacon on a griddle. A hundred black burns dotted his features. He staggered back, hands clawing at his eyes.

“Time to leave,” said Jack, grabbing a groggy Simon by the arm. Behind them, Walsh howled like a wolf. “Definitely.”

Hastily, they scampered down the fire stairs. Jack had no idea how long Walsh would be out of action. Waiting for the building’s notoriously slow elevators was out of the question.

Huffing and puffing, he and Simon tumbled out the emergency exit located at the side of the complex.

“Where to?” asked the changeling. “He’ll be after us in a minute. And this time, he’s not going to be so polite.”

“The gym,” said Jack, pulling in one deep breath after another. “If we can make it there, I think we can arrange a surprise or two for Mr. Walsh.”

“Forward the Light Brigade,” declared Simon. “Etc., etc.”

Wearily, Jack set off towards the athletic center. Moving was an effort. It felt as if there were lead weights attached to his arms and legs. The day’s activities were wearing him down. He needed to rest. But first he had to deal with a vampire.

“Sorry for hesitating,” said Simon, as they ran. “Damned monster scared me witless. We faeries weren’t raised to be heroes. Vampires are out of our league.”

“No need to apologize,” wheezed Jack. “You acted when it mattered. That’s what counts.”

The changeling laughed. “Simon Goodfellow to the rescue. By the way, what was that stuff you threw at our toothy friend? I didn’t know they made anti-vampire powder.”

“Not exactly, but close enough,” answered Jack. “According to the legends, vampires can’t stand garlic. So I emptied a container of garlic salt on Walsh. It worked better than I expected.”

Simon whistled in admiration. “Pretty quick thinking. Maybe Merlin picked the right guy after all.”

“You better hope so,” said Jack as they ran up the steps to the athletic complex. “For both our sakes.”