A Logical Magician

13

“The vampire failed,” said Roger, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another. “He’s gone without a trace, and Collins remains alive. Somehow, this unlikely champion defeated one of our most powerful allies.”

The Crouching One, sitting in a huge armchair that dwarfed its small features, bent its head slightly in reply. The demigod seemed strangely pleased by the bad news.

“As I expected,” it replied, a brief smile of satisfaction drifting past its lips. “No ordinary mortal could defeat one of the night spawn in combat. Walsh’s death merely confirmed my suspicions. His loss matters little otherwise. The magician, Merlin, obviously prepared this young man as mankind’s champion.

“Once he is eliminated, none will stand before us. Collins is one frail mortal against the hordes of darkness. The time has come for our allies to put an end to this annoyance. The night of blood approaches. Soon, very soon, my unconquerable spirit shall envelop the world in eternal darkness.”

Roger yawned. The Crouching One rarely had anything brilliant to say. It was obsessed with ruling the Earth. Though immensely more powerful than any of the other supernatural creatures Roger had ever encountered, the demigod was no different in character. All of its actions were governed by a basic set of desires that seemed programmed into its personality. The Lord of the Lions lacked motivation. It acted in certain ways not because it wanted to, but because it had to.

While no student of psychology, Roger recognized a fatal flaw when he encountered it. The Crouching One could be controlled by its needs. Though it commanded astonishing powers, the demigod had the personality and instincts of a spoiled child. Given enough time, Roger felt sure he could subtly gain absolute mastery of the creature. And then the world would be his plaything.

“I want you to contact von Bern on that magical telephone device you use,” said the Crouching One, breaking into Roger’s daydreams. “Tell him to use whatever force is necessary to kill Collins. He can offer any reward, enlist any ally in this task. As long as the German does not jeopardize our master plan, he can do anything he wants to accomplish my desires. No half-measures this time. The human champion must die. Without any more delays.”

“You said that yesterday,” remarked Roger casually. “Are you confident the Huntsman can handle this situation on his own? He hasn’t shown any sign of competence so far. Chaos Sword or not, he’s not particularly bright. You need someone with real brains on the scene. Maybe I should fly to Chicago and personally oversee the operation. That way there would be no mistakes.”

“And leave me to fend by myself?” said the Crouching One, slowly shaking its head from side to side. “I would be lost without you, my faithful servant. Lost and alone. Helpless in this confusing, modern world.”

Not particularly superstitious, Roger found himself involuntarily crossing his fingers for luck. Sarcasm by the Crouching One usually preceded fireworks.

“It was only a suggestion,” said Roger. “I was merely trying to be useful.”

“Useful,” repeated the demigod. “How considerate. The thought of escaping my power never once entered your thoughts. You know that my strength wanes with distance. In Chicago, you would be free of my grip. And filled with the secrets learned from me.”

“I—I—I would never do that,” stuttered Roger, knowing his life was on the line. The Lord of the Lions was not a forgiving god. “I’m loyal to you. I swear it.”

The Crouching One nodded. “A wonderful thing, loyalty. It can be bought by many things—gold, jewels, love, even hate. But the strongest bond is fear.”

The demigod pointed to the book it had been reading before Roger had entered the library. “Do you see that small black spot on the cover of that volume, my loyal servant?”

Roger glanced at the hardcover. “Yes,” he answered, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

“Watch it,” said the Crouching One. “Watch it closely.”

Roger stared at the mark. A tiny, dark blemish, less than a half-inch in diameter, it looked like a fingerprint. With a sudden flash of insight, Roger realized that it was exactly that. The fingerprint of the Crouching One.

Staring intently for a minute started his eyes burning. He blinked to clear the tears, then blinked again, this time from bewilderment. The spot appeared larger. And darker. Much darker.

After a few seconds, Roger realized what was taking place. The circle consisted of crumbling black ash, as the leather binding aged hundreds of years in seconds. Like a slow but relentless blight, the mark continued to grow. The breath caught in Roger’s throat as within a minute the volume turned into a pile of dust.

“Look at your arm,” said the Crouching One. “You know where.”

Trembling, Roger gazed at his elbow, where the Crouching One had touched him after its escape from the magic circle. Barely visible were five tiny black spots. Choking back a scream, he looked at the smiling demigod.

“The touch of my hand is legend,” said the Crouching One. “Pestilence and plague are my servants. Death and decay are my children. Remain true to me and your rewards will be beyond number. Betray me, and the blight will claim you.”

Roger’s gaze jumped back and forth from the pile of dust to the fingerprints on his elbow. His face was white as chalk.

“I’ll contact von Bern now,” he finally managed to whisper hoarsely. “No more suggestions. Whatever you say, goes. You’re the boss.”

“A wise choice,” said the Crouching One. “A very wise choice.”