A Logical Magician

19

They decided to take a cab north. Jack experienced no second thoughts about the subway, once Simon described in garish detail a few of the supernatural monsters lurking in the dark tunnels. Worse things than will-o-the-wisps had crossed the ocean in the past few hundred years.

“America’s free and open,” explained Simon as they waited outside the motel for their cab to arrive. “There’s room to wander. Not much of that left in England. Or most of Europe, to be perfectly honest. A majority of supernatural were created in an age of rolling meadows and untamed forests. We’ve adapted pretty well to urban life, but we all need the woods. That’s why so many of my kind live in Chicago and the Midwest, where nature is always less than an hour’s ride away.”

“Considering the frequency of my encounters with your kith and kin,” said Jack, waving at the taxi cruising towards them, “a hell of a lot of you must reside in the city.”

“A goodly number,” said Simon with a sly smile as he climbed into the back seat of the taxi. “Several thousand at least. A vast majority of them come from the British Isles and Europe. As I mentioned with the banshees, Chicago’s large Irish population drew many of us here. Not to mention the lake, and the wilderness so close to the city.

“Other supernatural migrated to climates reminding them of home. I’ve been told that the Las Vegas area is filled with genies and other denizens of Arabic myth. There are Chinese dragons in California and dybbuks in the Jewish sections of New York City. Each kind travels to where it is most comfortable. The world is full of real magic, Jack. Unfortunately, you humans rarely notice it.”

Both of them settled comfortably in the cab. Simon gave the driver an address on Chicago’s far northwest side. As the driver steered the taxi into traffic, Jack recalled an idea from the night before.

“Head to the Loop first,” he directed the cabbie. “Stop at the first ATM we spot. Afterward, I want to find a coin shop. The bigger the better.”

“Why a coin shop?” asked Simon.

“Insurance,” answered Jack. “I need to buy some insurance.”

An hour later, they were once again proceeding north. Along with ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. Jack’s pockets clinked with a half-dozen antique coins. His insurance policy.

At five o’clock that afternoon, they arrived at the proper address. The house was located in an old Polish neighborhood of small bungalows and well-kept front yards. Unfortunately, all that remained of the structure was a blackened, burnt shell.

“Dis da right spot?” asked the cabbie. “Looks like dey had a fire here recently.”

“It’s the right house,” said Simon, his face ashen. “Pay the man, Jack. I need to ask the neighbors a few questions.”

After dismissing the taxi, Jack carefully inspected the ruined home. A series of police barricades connected by rope cordoned off the site from the street. There wasn’t much left to investigate. A few charred timbers pointing skyward gave mute testimony to the fury of the fire.

Simon wandered over, his hands clenched into fists. “The blaze broke out two nights ago. Around midnight, according to the folks across the street. It swept through the entire house in minutes. From the neighbor’s description, I suspect von Bern used a salamander. It’s been the firebug of choice the past decade for supernatural arsonists.”

“Any news of your cousins?”

“Mrs. Studzinski claims nobody escaped,” said Simon. “But faeries don’t die easy. Hopefully, they’ll turn up okay.”

Jack rubbed his fingers against his forehead. “Two nights ago was before Merlin hired me,” he said slowly.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Simon. “The forces of good and evil live in a precarious truce in the city, my friend. Occasionally, it erupts into battle. They attack a few of our centers. We retaliate and level a few of theirs. That could be what happened here.”

“Of course,” said Jack, “though stretching coincidence to the breaking point and beyond.”

He frowned. “Damn, damn, damn. Those mysterious kidnappings started a week ago. Plug this fire and who knows how many other attacks into the equation, and there’s only one possible solution. Merlin stumbled on the Old Ones’ plot—but not when it was first starting. Von Bern’s scheme is nearly finished. The novel’s almost over and I still don’t know the plot.”

“Oh, shit,” said Simon.

“Agreed,” said Jack.

“Same expression,” said Simon, “but different reason, Jack. We’ve got company—unwelcome company. Over there.”

Four massive figures were headed in their direction. Each one stood well over six feet tall and had incredibly broad shoulders. Big, powerfully built men dressed in tight white muscle tees and faded black corduroy jeans, they shared a common hair style. Or lack of one. Their heads were shaved clean.

Less than a block away, they shuffled forward slowly, ungainly, their huge arms swinging apelike from side to side as they moved. Red, green and black tattoos of snakes covered their exposed flesh—dozens and dozens of snakes with gaping jaws and fangs dripping venom. Etched on their shirts were the words, “Born to Raise Hell.” None of the quartet possessed an aura.

“Skinheads,” said Jack, backing up a few steps in the other direction.

“Worse,” replied Simon. “Trolls.”

Anxiously, Jack tried to remember everything he read about the mythical creatures. His subconscious drew a blank, other than the story of the three billy goats and a bridge.

“They’re not neutral?” he asked Simon, both of them walking backwards now.

“Far from it,” said the changeling. “They serve the dark. Willingly and completely. They hate the sunlight and become stronger as the night increases. Mistletoe destroys them, but all woods hurt them. Creatures of hatred, they are ugly in form and in spirit.”

Ugly, Jack decided, barely described the approaching monsters. With sloping foreheads, piglike red eyes nearly buried beneath heavy brows, flat noses, and chalky white cheeks, their faces defined the term “Neanderthal” perfectly.

The lead skinhead grinned, revealing a mouthful of broad, yellow teeth. In one shovel-sized hand, he held a crumpled flyer. The creature studied Jack’s features, then consulted the paper. Up and down, up and down the troll’s head bobbed before a glimmer of recognition flashed in its beady eyes.

“It’s him,” the creature growled in a voice so deep Jack’s ears hurt. “The one in von Bern’s flyer. His head is worth ten thousand in gold.”

“Ten thousand,” repeated a second troll, unwrapping a length of chain from around its waist.

“In gold,” added a third monster, sliding a pair of brass knuckles on each hand.

“For his head,” declared the fourth, pulling an immense switchblade knife from one boot.

“Easy money,” said their leader. Though he carried no weapon, he appeared quite capable of ripping Jack’s head off his shoulders without any mechanical assistance. “Good fun, too.”

Jack’s gaze swept the area. The cab was long gone. Except for him, Simon, and the trolls, the street was empty of life. “Think the nice people in these bungalows will come to our aid if those monsters start ripping us apart?” he asked Simon softly.

“Are we discussing modern city dwellers?” retorted the changeling. “They might call the police—after the trolls finish the job and leave. Maybe then. Maybe not.

“I think we better retreat,” continued Simon. “Those hulks are strong and mean. But they’re also dumb and slow.”

“South,” said Jack, and he started running.

Simon hesitated for an instant, gestured obscenely with one finger at the trolls, then dashed after Jack. Bellowing in rage, the four monsters followed. They ran with the grace of participants in a sack race.

Mathematics majors rarely spent very many hours on the athletic field. Jack was no exception. His track experience consisted primarily of running after a missed bus or subway train. However, his life had never before depended on his speed. He surprised himself by soon outdistancing his demonic pursuers. After five blocks, he slowed down to a fast walk.

Huffing and puffing, he glared at Simon. The changeling seemed hardly winded by the sprint. “Was that necessary?” Jack asked, laboring to suck air into his lungs.

“I warned you,” said Simon. “I can’t help myself. Mischief is my business. At least, we escaped from those lugs pretty…”

Simon swallowed the rest of the sentence. Jack swore. Dead ahead of them, less than fifty feet away, at the next intersection, waited the same four trolls.

“You gave me the finger,” rumbled the lead monster. “That wasn’t nice. I’m gonna bite your hand off for that.”

“Back the way we came,” Jack shouted and set off as fast as he was able.

Running hurt, but he managed decent speed for three blocks. Again, there was no sign of any pursuit. Simon, features grim, caught up with him right past the intersection of two streets.

“How did they do that?” Jack gasped, bending over and trying to regain his breath.

“I’m not sure,” said Simon. “Nobody knows what powers trolls possess. Unfortunately, that’s because…”

“…nobody survives to tell the tale,” said Jack. “Any idea what hurts them other than mistletoe?”

“Cold iron?” suggested the changeling.

“I doubt it,” answered Jack, “seeing that they carried chains and knives.”

“They’re back,” said Simon.

Jack shook his head in despair. The trolls stood less than twenty feet behind them. They were close enough for him to see the nasty glint in their tiny eyes.

“We know shortcuts,” said the troll wearing the brass knuckles. “Lotsa shortcuts. You can’t escape us.”

“Nobody escapes trolls,” added the troll with the chain. “Nobody.”

“There’s always a first time,” said Simon. “Climb on my back and grab hold of my neck, Jack. No arguments. I’m stronger than I look. And you’re in no condition to run.”

Incredibly, Simon ran for nearly eight blocks carrying Jack piggyback before finally collapsing to the pavement. Lying side by side in the street, man and changeling waited for the inevitable arrival of the trolls.

“One trick left,” said Simon, pushing himself up on one elbow. His features wavered and changed. Jack gasped as he stared at his own face for the second time in twenty-four hours. He would never be comfortable with Simon’s talent.

“Two Jack Collinses,” said Simon. “They won’t know which one is real. Seeing double might confuse them long enough for us to escape.”

“More likely they’d merely rip both our heads off,” replied Jack.

“Good point,” said the changeling, letting his features return to normal. “Now that you mention it, I think I’ll stick with my own handsome visage.”

The air in the intersection ahead of them rippled and twisted as four trolls emerged out of nothingness. Wearily, Jack struggled to his feet, pulling Simon with him.

“That’s the secret,” Jack declared, astonished. “They cross space through four-dimensional crossroads. Somehow, they mix quantum mechanics and magic. Incredible.”

“I get the message,” said Simon. “If they use intersections, we won’t. Head for that alley.”

Narrow alleyways cut through many of Chicago’s older neighborhoods. Continuing in straight lines for miles, they provided rear access and limited parking for homes stacked one against another. And served as garbage routes for the city’s sanitation department.

Ducking around a large red Dumpster, Jack and Simon wheezed their way past locked garages and high wood fences. After a few minutes, they came to where the alley crossed the next street. No trolls appeared as they darted over the pavement and back into the passage.

“I hear them behind us,” Simon declared cheerfully, “moving with the grace of a herd of elephants. It appears that alley openings must not qualify as proper intersections. Twenty minutes and they’ll be hopelessly behind us. I can’t imagine that crossroad trick works if they have no idea where we are.”

Jack nodded in agreement. Their near brush with death had badly shaken his nerves. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

With darkness falling, they didn’t discover their deadly mistake until it was too late. Concentrating on the trolls behind them, they paid little attention to the alleyway ahead of them. Until it abruptly ended in a makeshift barbed-wire fence that stretched from one side of the passage to the other. Invisible from the street, the barrier effectively barred them from continued retreat.

“Hey,” said Simon. “Don’t these people know it’s illegal to block an alley?”

“We’ll report them later,” said Jack. “If we don’t move fast, those trolls will trap us here.”

Hurriedly, they backtracked to the mouth of the alley. And found their pursuers waiting for them.

“No more running,” said the troll leader, pounding one huge hand into the other. “We kill you now.”

“It’s against the law to murder people,” said Jack. His head turned desperately from side to side, searching for help. “Besides, violence never solves anything. Can’t we talk?”

He pulled the Universal Charge Card from his pocket. “I’ll pay you double what von Bern offered if you leave us alone. Think of that—double the price for not working.”

“Pay in gold?” asked the troll wearing brass knuckles.

“Not exactly,” said Jack. “ATMs don’t deal in precious metals. But cold cash will buy all the gold you want.”

“Nah,” said the troll with the chain. “It don’t matter what you offer. I like killing.”

“Me too,” said the leader. He spread open his gigantic arms. An evil grin spread across his face. “I’m gonna twist your head right off your shoulders.”

Jack clenched his hands into fists. If he was going to die, he planned to the fighting, useless as that might be.

“Is this a private party?” someone asked calmly from the darkness behind the trolls. “Or can anybody join in?”