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.
22
Yawning, Jack rolled over and fell out of bed. With a groan, he sat up and opened his eyes. As usual, it took a few seconds for them to focus on his surroundings. A row of sightless skulls stared back at him from a nearby shelf. Next to them stood several dozen corked beakers filled with unidentifiable potions, each cryptically labeled with a number. Beneath them, held captive in a fragile wire cage, were several large tarantulas. Shaking his head, Jack muttered, “This doesn’t look like Kansas, Toto.”
Wearily, he crawled back onto the edge of the cot and pulled on his clothes. The trouble with sleep these days, he reflected unhappily, is that I wake up more exhausted than when I retired.
His head hurt. It felt as if Indians had used his skull as a tom-tom. Frowning, he tried to concentrate on Megan’s latest attempt to contact him through dreams. After a minute, a single word emerged. “Beltane.” It sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he had heard it before. But discovering its meaning wouldn’t be hard. Not with the company he was keeping these days.
When he stretched, his hands touched the roof of the trailer. The mobile home belonged to another one of Simon’s friends, an ugly old crone named Hazel. She had to be the witch Cassandra had mentioned earlier. By the time they reached the trailer camp last night, he wouldn’t have cared if she was a dragon. All that mattered was that Hazel had an extra bed he could use. Simon was quartered with his relatives somewhere else on the lot.
Still feeling hazy, he wandered forward, into the tiny combination kitchen-living room of the camper. His hostess stood in front of a small stove, humming to herself as she worked. Hazel fit perfectly in the camper’s cluttered quarters. A thin little old lady, a few inches over five feet tall, with wrinkled skin and stringy gray hair, she looked like she had stepped right out of Hansel and Gretel.
The witch was busily stirring a mysterious concoction in a huge pot. Small, unidentifiable black objects floated in a bubbling white glop the consistency of oatmeal. Warily, Jack approached the old woman.
“Morning,” she said, not turning. Her voice was surprisingly mellow for one so old. “Simon stopped in an hour ago to see if you were awake. He went out for the Sunday papers. Want some breakfast?”
Jack licked his lips, not sure how to answer. He was hungry, but Hazel was a witch. Swallowing his apprehension, he nodded. “Sure. What do you have?”
“How about some of this witch’s brew, dearie?” she asked. “I eat some every day. It’s honey nut oatmeal, with raisins thrown in for flavor.”
She chuckled. “Caught you by surprise, didn’t I? You thought maybe it was stewed lizard with toad tongues? I may be a witch, son, but I enjoy my creature comforts. Grab a couple of bowls from the cupboard, and let’s eat.”
Jack devoured two bowls of oatmeal along with several slices of cracked wheat bread and a glass of orange juice. “This cereal is delicious,” he declared, pushing himself away from the table. “I can’t eat another bite. Is it an old family recipe?”
“Probably,” said Hazel. “The Quaker family, that is. I buy the ready-made stuff. It tastes a lot better than anything I ever made. Don’t believe any of these folks who long for the ‘good old days.’ Preparing all your own meals from scratch was a pain in the ass. I know. I was there. Give me modern convenience food any time.”
Reaching over to the kitchen counter, Hazel pushed a button on the portable radio. Nothing happened. Grimacing, the witch shook the device, but it refused to make a sound. “Batteries must be dead. I’ll buy some later.”
A large black cat strolled over to the table and rubbed up against Jack’s leg. Without thinking, he bent over and scratched the animal’s neck.
“That feels great,” said the cat. “How about getting the back, too?”
Jack jerked his hand back in shock. Hazel grinned and pulled the animal onto her lap. Immediately, it started licking the remnants of oatmeal from the witch’s dish.
“Sylvester’s my familiar. When I was created, everybody got black cats. Toads and goats and interesting stuff came later. Like everybody here in the trailer camp, he’s magic.”
“So I noticed,” said Jack. He stared at the cat. For a second, the cat stared back, then returned to its cereal.
“How does he form the words?” asked Jack. “I didn’t think cats had the proper vocal cords for human speech.”
“They probably don’t,” said Hazel, “but who cares? Magic functions independent of science, Jack. The rules for one don’t apply for the other. Or, if we follow Arthur C. Clarke’s logic, maybe they’re actually the same and we’re just too damned primitive and ignorant to understand the common factors.”
“You read Clarke?” asked Jack, astonished.
“Of course,” said Hazel. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“I guess so,” said Jack. He winced as the throbbing in his head increased. “You happen to have any aspirin handy?”
“Headache?” asked Hazel.
“A killer,” replied Jack. “A Megan Ambrose special.”
Briefly, he related his experiences with dream communication. Hazel nodded knowingly as he described his problems remembering Merlin’s daughter’s messages.
“A perfect case for recipe number four,” said Sylvester, licking its paws.
“My thoughts exactly,” said Hazel. Rising from her chair, she bustled into the bedroom. She returned carrying one of the beakers Jack had noticed when he awoke.
Pouring a small amount of a vile yellow liquid into a cup, the witch handed it to Jack. “Drink this,” she commanded. “It’ll cure your headache in a flash.”
“What’s it made from?” Jack asked, staring at the fluid.
“You don’t want to know,” said Hazel. “Drink.”
Jack drank. The potion tasted terrible, but he forced himself to swallow every drop. Instantly, an invisible wave of fire engulfed his forehead. He blinked and it was gone. Along with his headache.
“Incredible,” he declared. “You could make millions selling bottles of that stuff.”
The witch smiled knowingly and recorked the beaker. “You mind your own business and save the world, Jack, and I’ll mind mine. The mass market isn’t ready yet for witch’s brew.”
“Hazel worked as a pharmacist once upon a time,” said Sylvester, hopping from the table to the floor. “Until they fired her.”
“Why?” asked Jack. “Practicing without a license?”
“Nonsense,” said the witch. “My credentials were perfect. Supernaturals have a talent for forging documents and manufacturing backgrounds. It’s a survival skill necessary to live hundreds of years among mankind. We’ve learned to blend in, not make waves.
“I slipped and stayed with the same company too long. During a cross-check of employee records, they discovered that according to their files, I was eighty years old. Damned do-gooders forced me to retire. They wanted me to enjoy my golden years.”