Her expression grew serious. “Try your best. The correct answers are very important.”
A shiver of apprehension passed down Jack’s back. Something in Megan’s tone of voice implied that a lot more than a job offer depended on his replies.
“Define a prime number.”
“A number that’s divisible only by itself and one,” replied Jack.
“Explain to me the fundamental theorem of calculus.”
They spent the next twenty minutes reviewing the high points of college mathematics. Jack answered all of the questions easily. He had taught most of the material during his graduate assistant days.
Megan listened to his explanations without comment. She rarely consulted her notes and easily followed everything he said. For a receptionist, she knew more mathematics than most of his students. Jack suspected there was more to Megan Ambrose than met the eye.
“A perfect score,” she announced cheerfully as he finished describing Cantor’s Proof. “Which doesn’t surprise me considering your two degrees in mathematics. Let’s proceed to the hard part.”
Jack blinked. He never mentioned anything about his college studies to Megan. Yet, she seemed to know about them. He again wondered why the girl seemed so familiar.
“Who are the Nazgul?”
“The Black Riders with crowns but no faces,” answered Jack automatically, “from The Lord of the Rings.”
Nodding in agreement, Megan flashed Jack a quick smile. She appeared genuinely pleased that he knew the correct answer.
“In the novel Three Hearts and Three Lions, why did the chicken cross the road?”
Frowning, Jack tried to remember the Poul Anderson novel. It had been years since he read it. It took him a minute to recall the correct answer. The next query concerned the use of magic in The Incomplete Enchanter. And so it went, with the second half of the quiz proving to be much more challenging than the first.
They buzzed through two dozen questions in little more than an hour. Jack prided himself on his exceptional memory, but several times he was forced to admit that the details of a particular story had escaped him. Megan shook her head with each missed answer, but otherwise made no comment.
In the end, Jack calculated he had answered twenty of the twenty-four questions correctly. Running down the list, Megan confirmed the count.
“An excellent score,” she said, grinning. “Though we expected no less from anyone snared by the advertisement.”
Pushing her chair away from the desk, she rose to her feet and turned to the inner office door. “Let me pass these results on to Father. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you right away.”
Megan disappeared into the other room, carrying the papers with her. Leaning back in his chair, Jack puzzled over her choice of words. “Snared” implied some sort of trap. While “Father” needed no explanation, the casual remark caught Jack by surprise. He should have connected Megan’s name with that on the door. Trying to escape his own family business, he had stumbled into another.
“Father will see you now,” announced Megan, reappearing from the other room. As Jack walked past her, she reached out and gave him a light squeeze on his forearm, quickening his pulse. “Good luck,” she whispered.
The inner office was as sparsely furnished as the reception area. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the far wall, offering a breathtaking view of downtown Chicago. Dozens of framed and signed photographs of famous people covered the other three walls. In one corner, a huge rubber tree stretched to the ceiling. There were no rows of file cabinets, banks of phones, or any of a hundred other things Jack associated with a major business. He couldn’t help wondering what type of investments Ambrose Ltd. handled.
A large ebony desk, devoid of clutter, dominated the room. Behind it, in a huge, black leather and wood chair, sat the only other occupant of the room, a slender, elderly man dressed in a pin-stripe business suit. The harshness of his lean features and weather-browned skin was offset by his twinkling brown eyes. His well-groomed long mane of silver hair matched his sharply pointed snow-white beard.
“Make yourself comfortable, Jack,” said the man, casually waving to a chair in front of his desk. “We have a lot to discuss.” He patted the test papers. “You impressed Megan with your knowledge, and I can see why. I think you’re the man we need.”
Jack grinned. Today was his lucky day. Gone were his nightmares of returning to New Jersey and the import-export empire. Chicago was his hometown now.
He sobered almost instantly. There had been no mention of salary. Or exactly what position he was being offered.
“How does a thousand dollars a week sound?” said the bearded man, as if reading Jack’s mind.
“A thousand a week?” repeated Jack, stunned. His mouth was suddenly dry as the desert. “For doing what, Mr. Ambrose?”
Jack suspected drug dealing—though performing Mafia-style executions ran a close second. A hundred other possibilities, most of them illegal, stampeded through his mind, while he waited for the bearded man’s answer. Seeking to escape his family business, he had stumbled onto something equally threatening. None of his guesses prepared him for what Ambrose said next.
“The forces of darkness and everlasting night are rising in our city. Civilization is terribly threatened. Humanity needs a champion to battle them. You’re that man, Jack.”
The old man paused, a faint smile crossing his lips. “No reason for you to use the Ambrose alias. I prefer my real name. Call me Merlin.”
“Merlin?” asked Jack, still reeling over the bearded man’s initial remarks. “Like the famous magician of King Arthur’s court?”
The bearded man laughed. “Like him? You misunderstand, Jack. I am him. I am the legendary Merlin the Magician.”
2
“Uh, sure,” said Jack, standing. Beads of sweat trickled down his back. The old man was crazy. The sooner Jack got out of the office, the better. “Sure you are. If you don’t mind, it’s time for me to leave. I just remembered that I’m late for another appointment.”
Jack headed for the door. Behind him, he heard the lunatic who thought of himself as Merlin chuckle. “Come back and sit down, Jack,” the man said quietly.
In the middle of a step, Jack froze. His brain shouted “Continue!” but his body refused to obey. Horrified, Jack found himself pivoting about, turning away from the door. Moving stiffly, like an automaton, he swung around and marched back to his chair. Unable to do a thing, he found himself back in the seat, facing the bearded man.
“Do you still doubt my identity?” asked his tormentor.
“All I know is that you’re nuts,” said Jack evenly, surprised to discover he had regained control of his arms and legs. He suspected, however, that a mad dash for the entrance was hopeless. “Anybody can use a mind-controlling drug. Nothing supernatural about that.”
“And you inhaled it as a fine mist in the air upon entering the room,” said the old man, shaking his head in mock dismay. “Amazing the advances made in chemical warfare these past few years.”
Smiling gently, he stretched out his hand. “Perhaps this will change your opinion,” he said. Softly, he muttered a few words that Jack couldn’t hear. Bright lights flashed, and out of nowhere, a McDonald’s cheeseburger—or at least so the wrapper proclaimed—rested on the man’s palm.
“Hungry?” asked the magician, tossing the sandwich to Jack. “Go ahead. Take a bite, then explain that away.”
Jack drew in a deep breath. If he was hallucinating, this dream was astonishingly realistic. With a shrug, he wolfed down the hamburger. It was still hot. His belief in magic increased with each mouthful.