A Logical Magician

21

“Well, doctor,” asked Roger, his voice quivering, “is it cancer? Tell me the truth.”

The physician shook his head. “As far as I can determine, Mr. Quinn, the marks on your elbow are a curious skin blemish and nothing more. I label them curious because of their uncanny resemblance to a man’s fingerprints. In all my years in medicine, I’ve never seen their like. If you’re truly concerned, we can run further tests. But, except for the discoloration, I can’t find a thing wrong.”

Roger stood up and put on his shirt. He shook his head. “That will be enough for the moment. Maybe I’ll return in a few days. My… uncle… is in town and requires constant attention. He dislikes my leaving him for any length of time. Fortunately, I needed to buy some sacrifices—I mean groceries—this afternoon, enabling me to escape for a few hours. If I don’t return soon, he’ll start to worry. And I definitely do not want him to grow disturbed.”

The doctor frowned. “Your uncle sounds like a tyrant. Why do you tolerate such behavior?”

“Relatives,” said Roger, suppressing a scream. “It’s an old story. Can’t live with them. Can’t live without them.”

“Oh,” said the physician. “I understand. Money problems? Well, if anything happens to those marks, give me a call. Otherwise, forget them. They’re harmless.”

Driving back to his mansion, Roger fought back tears of rage. He should have known better. Even modern medical science was helpless before ancient sorcery. The Lord of the Lions held him in an unbreakable grip. It was not a comforting thought.

The demigod met him at the door. “You obtained the fowls?” it asked, sounding anxious.

“Of course,” said Roger. “The cage is in the back seat. Give me a few minutes and I’ll haul it to the basement.”

“Good,” said the Crouching One, “very good. I will reward you handsomely for your devotion, my faithful servant. When I rule your world, this state of California will be your plaything. For I am a generous God.”

Roger bowed, not believing a word the demigod said. Talk was cheap, even among immortals. While the Lord of the Lions needed neither food nor drink, it required living sacrifices every few days to maintain its energy levels. After experimenting with various small animals, they discovered that chickens worked best.

Every three days, Roger traveled to a farm outside the city and bought several chickens. The owner eyed him curiously each trip, but with satanic cults, food fetishes, and oddball pet owners thriving in California, Roger’s money spoke louder than any suspicions.

“Von Bern called while you were out,” said the Crouching One. “I spoke to him at length.”

After numerous demonstrations, the demigod had finally learned how to use a telephone. Roger grimaced, remembering the trouble he had had explaining the instrument to the ancient being. The Lion God believed all technology to be modern magic. For the sake of his sanity, Roger agreed.

“Well, what did the German have to report?” Roger asked, hoping for the worst. Von Bern was evil to the core, but he was an incompetent clod.

“The fool failed again,” growled the Crouching One, blue sparks flying. “Exactly as you predicted. He had Collins in his grasp and could not kill him. The human escaped.”

Elated, Roger tried his best to sound disappointed. “I warned you. Von Bern and his goons are creatures of instinct. They can’t deal with a man who thinks instead of merely reacts. In this modern age, old-fashioned methods no longer work. If you want to defeat this champion, you need to use someone who understands him, someone who thinks like him.”

“Perhaps,” said the Lord of the Lions. “Perhaps. But, he deserves a chance. Remember, his plot had a double edge. Even though Collins managed to stay alive, he didn’t guess the German’s other trap. If all goes well, this champion will be rendered ineffective by his own kind. Wouldn’t that be a delicious irony? Speaking of delicious, I grow hungry for life.”

“I’ll bring in the chickens,” said Roger quickly.

After his last mishap, he definitely did not want to appear too eager. At present, he was quite happy leaving von Bern in command of the hunt. The German’s continued failure only served to promote Roger’s aim. Silently, he prayed for Collins’s success.

“Yes, the fowls,” said the Crouching One, its eyes glistening. When it was hungry, the demigod was almost bestial in nature. At times, Roger expected the Lord of the Lions to drop to all fours and run through the house like a gigantic cat. “Take them to the basement. I will begin the ritual immediately.”

Roger shuddered. The demigod conducted the sacrifice behind closed doors, and Roger had no desire to find out what took place during the ceremony. The weird howling and dark smoke that filtered into the rest of the house spoke of things best not questioned. Afterward, nothing remained of the birds other than a few feathers and bloodstains on the concrete floor.

“Von Bern reported that the Border Redcaps kidnapped their final victim,” announced the Crouching One as Roger marched to the front door. “She joined the rest in the cavern. At least, in that task, he satisfied my demands. There are ninety-one women waiting for the kiss of fire.”

Roger felt a familiar chill of horror race through him. Ninety-one was an occult number of incredible power. The product of the mystic numbers seven and thirteen, it contained both nine and one, the two other major figures of power. If the Lord of the Lions fed on the souls of ninety-one human sacrifices, his strength would be increased a thousandfold. The demigod would become uncontrollable.

The murder of nearly a hundred innocent women mattered nothing to Roger. Their deaths weren’t his concern. He worried only about himself. He wanted the Crouching One incredibly powerful, but not until he was the entity’s master. Not until then. Fervently, he prayed that Jack Collins understood what von Bern planned to do next. And that Collins had some plan to stop him.