No one was immune to the siren song. Girls and boys battled over loose change. Men and women crawled on the floor, grabbing at any paper that moved. Even the little white-haired old lady shut up and lunged for a twenty floating past her face. A dozen yards away, the security guard struggled desperately with a teenager for a fifty. No one noticed Jack and Simon sprinting for the exit.
“Never underestimate the power of cold cash,” declared Jack as they burst through the doors and into the parking lot “And, in a showdown between greed and justice, take greed every time. It’s a sure bet.”
“There’s Cassandra,” said Simon, pointing down a row of parked cars.
“Get that beater started!” he shouted to the Amazon. “Security’s after us!”
The old wreck’s motor roared to life as Jack and Simon ripped open the back doors and hurled themselves inside. Not waiting for an explanation, Cassandra backed the auto into the aisle. Foot pressed down on the accelerator, she sent the car roaring past the long row of parked cars, heading for the street.
Ahead of them, sirens wailed. Red lights flashing, a mall patrol car roared into view. Tires squealing, the vehicle sped swiftly towards the end of the aisle, seeking to cut off their escape route.
“No way they’re stopping me,” declared Cassandra savagely, and she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. “Hang on.”
Engine bellowing in pain, black smoke cascading from its tailpipe, the old car thundered forward. Ahead of them, the police car screeched to a halt, blocking all but a few feet of the aisle. Two security officers jumped out of the vehicle, took one frightened look at the massive wreck heading straight at their car, and ran for cover.
“Cowards,” sneered Cassandra, and she slammed both feet onto the brake, spinning the steering wheel at the same time. Rubber burned as the auto wrenched sideways. Spinning furiously, it smashed sideways into the side of the security vehicle. The police car groaned in pain as the force of the collision hurled it backwards. Metal screeched against metal as for one instant the two cars remained locked in a steel embrace. Then Cassandra’s foot hit the accelerator and sent her car howling through the enlarged opening into the street.
“Easy as pie,” she said, laughing merrily. “You boys survive okay?”
“Physically or mentally?” asked Jack, trying to force his fists to unclench. “What about pursuit?”
“Real cops will be after us in a few minutes,” said Cassandra. “Not to worry. There’s a haunted cul-de-sac up ahead. It’s invisible to mere mortals. We can hide there till nightfall.”
“Haunted?” said Jack. By now, nothing surprised him. “What about ghosts?”
“Spirits know better than to fool with an Amazon, Jack,” said Cassandra, “They’ll stay out of sight. Damned spooks are afraid of their own shadows. If they had them.”
Jack sighed. Merlin hadn’t lied. Magic was everywhere.
“One minor problem,” said Cassandra, as she steered the car onto a dirt road that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Up ahead, he spotted a rickety old wood bridge crossing a moss-covered stream. The haunted cul-de-sac.
“What’s that?” asked Jack, envisioning goblins, demons, perhaps even a dragon or two waiting for them in the shadows.
“We need a new car. This old heap is shot. It’s fine for smashing police cars. But won’t do us much good if von Bern shows up. We’ll need some real fire under the hood to give that limo of his a race.”
“Even after throwing money to the crowd, I have plenty of cash left back at Hazel’s trailer,” said Jack. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll go automobile shopping. Then, hopefully, at night, January will reveal the location of von Bern’s hideout.”
He clenched his hands together in frustration. “We’re running out of time. Even if we discover where the German has his prisoners, I don’t know how to rescue them. And there are only four more nights till Beltane.”
26
The rest of the evening proceeded exactly as Cassandra predicted. They left the haunted cul-de-sac shortly after eight o’clock and returned to the trailer camp without difficulty. At ten, Jack suffered through the indignity of watching reports of his appearance at the shopping mall on the Sunday Night News. Each time the reporter referred to him as “the alleged drug kingpin of Chicago’s South Side,” Jack winced. Merlin would have to be a magician to repair the damage to his reputation.
Channel 9, with an hour news program to fill, devoted a whole section of their broadcast to his exploits. Along with an interview with Benny Anderson, they ran a montage of close-ups made by his students and classmates. Jack slumped lower and lower in Hazel’s sofa as he listened to their remarks. The statements painted him as a combination of the Marquis de Sade and Hannibal Lecter. Sandra Stevens, eager as ever to grab the spotlight, assured the unseen newsman that “Professor Collins rarely displayed any interest in his students,” and “he often came to class looking as if he was zoned out on drugs.”
Jack chewed on his lower lip in disgust. He didn’t regret the many extra hours he had spent tutoring Sandra. That was part of his job. What he did regret was giving her a passing grade for trying hard. Getting ready for sleep that night, his only consolation was that at least he didn’t have to wake up early for classes the next morning.
Hazel insisted he drain another potion before bed. “It will sharpen your memory while you sleep and when you rise,” she told him. “If Merlin’s daughter contacts you in dreams, this drink will ensure you remember what she says.”
Closing his eyes and holding his nose, Jack gulped down the formula. As before, it tasted dreadful. “Don’t you have any potions that taste good?” he asked.
“Lots of them,” said Hazel. “Problem is, they don’t do much of anything. Only the vile ones work right. It’s part of the lore.”
“I should have guessed,” said Jack, “People expected witch’s brew to be nauseating, and thus it was. Belief led to definition.”
Worn out, Jack drifted off to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. And found himself floating in a featureless, gray void. Megan Ambrose hovered only a few feet away.
“Jack,” she said, sounding relieved. “I was beginning to think you’d never arrive. I’ve been reciting poetry aloud to keep from going crazy. It’s incredibly boring having your mind awake while your body remains asleep.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a busy day.”
“Your image appears much sharper tonight,” she said. “Maybe you’ll retain more of our conversation. Did you remember my warning about Beltane?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “However, I’ve since pieced together von Bern’s plans. You didn’t, by chance, tell me the location of his hideout the other evening?”
“No,” said Megan. “I have no idea where we are. I gather you don’t either.”
“Not yet,” said Jack. “But I hope to find out tomorrow. I’m meeting with a nymph named January who knows something important.”
“A nymph?” said Megan, her voice noticeably cooler. “You didn’t mention any nymphs in our previous discussions.”
“I only met them today,” said Jack. “They seem like nice girls.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Megan icily. “Why don’t you tell me all about your busy day. Jack? It sounds… fascinating.”
“It began with a witch named Hazel,” said Jack, launching into a description of his activities for the past fifteen hours. A firm believer in protecting both his reputation and his life, he minimized his encounter with the four nymphs. Though, from a certain glint in Megan’s eyes, he suspected she was not so easily fooled.
“Witch Hazel, Simon Goodfellow, and Cassandra Cole,” she remarked when he finished reciting his adventures. “I’ve heard good things about them. You’ve assembled a fine band of adventurers, Jack.”