ROBERT WEINBERG
TWICE WINNER OF THE
WORLD FANTASY AWARD
"Marvelous!"—Philip Jose Farmer
"This novel is reminiscent of the supernatural and
fantastic adventure stories of. . . Dennis Wheatley
and ... A. Merritt!"—The Science Fiction Chronicle
"I liked everything about this book, including the
title!"—Robert Bloch
"I haven't had this much fun since I beat my pet
hamster to death with a chair leg! A rootin-tootin
booger of a book! Fresh as a spring daisy, but mean
and nasty as a rattlesnake bite!"—Joe Lansdale

AUCTION
ROBERT WEINBERG
LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITY

To Phyllis
A LEISURE BOOK®
August 1990
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001
Copyright © 1988 by Robert Weinberg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publish-
er, except where permitted by law.
The name "Leisure Books"and the stylized "L" with design are
trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.

THE
AUCTION

Chapter One
The pain hit Jake Lancaster in a wave that
swept across his chest. It burned deep within
him, a sharp, intense shock unlike anything he
had ever experienced.
Terribly scared, he stood motionless in the
center of the kitchen. He had felt finer all day.
Supper had been at Levine's Deli on the cor-
ner. None of his usual cronies were about, so
he had come home early. As always, his first
stop had been the kitchen. Mrs. Davidson, his
housekeeper, had turned on the lights and left
the mail on the kitchen table before going
home for the day. Jake was a creature of habit.
Checking the mail was the first thing he did
when he got home, even before he removed his
1

Robert Weinberg
coat. He had just lifted the letters from the
table when the attack started.
Now he staggered to a kitchen chair. The
burning within him grew worse. It couldn't be
a heart attack, he thought.; his heart was in fine
condition. He had just gone through a com-
plete physical last month and been pronounced
in exceptional health for a man his age. There
was nothing wrong with him, yet the pain was
increasing. His neck and shoulders were on fire
and the heat was spreading up his neck to his
head. Suddenly, he knew what was coming.
"No, not again," he begged, but already it was
too late. With one hand clutching desperately
at the letters, the other at the top of the kitchen
table, he was swept up by the dark force of a
premonition.
The fury of the vision roared in his mind. It
lasted only a bare instant, but that was long
enough. Jake bit his lip hard, tasted salt. He
tried to sort out the incredible melange of
images that assaulted his senses.
Time and space condensed, as the present
and the future swirled together and combined
into something that held a trace of both. Jake
felt nothing and yet felt everything. Then the
future engulfed him in a powerful embrace.
Incredible, devastating pain swept across his
body again. Jake screamed, his bones cracking
and breaking in a dozen places, blood spurting
from a dozen wounds, agony searing through
2

DEVIL S AUCTION
his mind as flesh and muscle ripped and tore.
He felt huge teeth clamped onto his neck. Even
as he screamed, loud and terrible cries rang in
his ears. Jake recognized his own voice, echo-
ing back to him from the future.
Whimpering, he fell from the chair to the
floor. He knew without thinking that death
claimed him with that final scream—a violent,
terrible death.
The vision departed as swiftly at it arrived.
Jake's eyes cleared. The kitchen looked no
different; his body felt unharmed. The premo-
nition had lasted only a few seconds.
For the third time in his life he knew what
the future promised. As with his previous vi-
sions, this one warned of approaching death. In
the other two instances, though, he had experi-
enced the death of others.
At sixty-seven, death no longer had any fear
for Jake Lancaster. A short, slightly overweight
man with a thick thatch of white hair and
bright blue eyes, he had accepted the inevitabil-
ity of his passing long ago. Even a master of the
black arts did not control mortality. Magic
might prolong life a few years, but it could
never defeat old age. Age brought a certain
wisdom. His wife had died six years before, and
many of his close friends had passed to the
great beyond. He worked in a dangerous field;
only a few magicians ever survived to their
sixties, since no one retired from the black arts.
3

Robert Weinberg
At times, when he felt very lonely and his work
overwhelmed him, Jake wondered if perhaps
death might not be a welcome rest. But not
tonight. Not after that vision of his end. To-
night, Jake Lancaster wanted very much to live.
He stared at the letters he still held. Death's
messenger was in this sheaf of mail. The touch
of one had been the trigger which fired the
psychic gun.
He forced himself to his feet. For the first he
realized his lip was bleeding. Depositing the
mail on the kitchen table, he went over to the
sink and got a drink of cold water. He rinsed
his mouth out several times to get rid of the
lingering taste, then washed his hands and
splashed a little water on his face. Feeling
somewhat better, he returned to his chair. Now
he was ready for the worst.
Quickly he sorted through the letters. Two
bills, a flyer from a record club, an advertise-
ment sent to 'Occupant,' an aerogram from
Conrad Stein in England, and an ornate, hand
addressed letter with no return address.
Jake dropped everything but the letter. He
just stared at it for a moment, then ripped open
the fancy envelope. A card fell out. Except for
the dates, the card was exactly the same as the
one he had seen in his friend Vassily Roma-
nov's study thirty years ago. He had been smart
that time and had not gotten involved. Roma-
nov should have given the invitation away, but
4

DEVIL S AUCTION
hadn't been able to resist the temptation it
represented. Unfortunately, he had not been
powerful enough to hold it.
Jake remembered his friend's funeral quite
well. There had been several that month, all the
result of the mad scramble for possession of
that invitation. Now the cycle was starting
again. Jake's murder would be only one of
many. Death was an integral part of the Devil's
Auction.
Closing his eyes, Jake let the feel of his house
filter into his mind. Was his adversary already
about? From room to room his sixth sense
explored, carefully searching for anything un-
usual. His mental probings encountered noth-
ing out of the ordinary. Whatever stalked him
was not here yet. He had a little time. He was
not sure exactly how long, so he had to act as if
every moment were his last.
Rising from the table, he returned to the
front hallway and locked and bolted his door—
not that such precautions would stop his at-
tackers. It was habit, and habit settled his
nerves. He had lived in this house for over forty
years and followed the same routines nearly
every day. His wife and daughter, and now his
housekeeper, humored him in this one quirk.
Magic was ritual and ceremony, and doing
things by habit strengthened his magical abili-
ties. The more he could do by habit, the better.
It left his mind free for the more difficult tasks.
5

Robert Weinberg
Needless to say, this was not something he
could ever tell Mrs. Davidson. Like most peo-
ple, she thought black magic and sorcery were
the stuff of horror novels and movies. She had
no idea the nice old man whose home she kept
clean was actually a powerful warlock. Mrs.
Davidson was a pleasant if somewhat simple-
minded woman, and Jake was glad she
wouldn't be back till Monday morning, four
days from now. At least she wouldn't be in-
volved in whatever happened. Let her live in
peace in her ignorance of the darkness all
around us, Jake prayed as he stood by the front
door.
He kept the deadly invitation with him as he
hung up his coat and hat. More habit. He risked
a brief look outside through the front door's
peephole. Nothing. It was dark already, though
it was only a little after seven. Night came fast
in Chicago in October. Night, when the powers
of darkness were at their greatest. At best, he
had an hour. Probably less.
There were no false hopes to which Jake
Lancaster might cling. He was too old and too
much of a realist to fool himself. His life was
forfeit. Twice before premonitions had touched
him. In both instances, he had known death
would strike someone he loved. He had tried to
change the future, but in both cases his efforts
came to naught. A true vision was not a
glimpse of what might happen; it revealed what
6

DEVIL S AUCTION
had actually occurred in the future. A premoni-
tion never lied due to the nature of its creation:
violent death always releases a burst of psychic
power. Unable to travel beyond its origin point,
the scream of mental agony escapes across
energy links into the past. It occurred often
enough, Jake knew, but few individuals ever
sensed the terrible cries.
Jake possessed that power. When his father
lay dying, more than fifty years ago, he had felt
such a calling. He remembered vividly the
gut-wrenching pain in his chest while he sat in
class. He had rushed home from school to find
his father in the midst of the heart attack that
had taken his life. That was the first time he felt
the helpless frustration of knowing what the
future brought. As he held the dying man in his
arms, unable to do anything but pray, he'd
cursed his own fate.
Six years ago, he had suffered the same
frustration a second time. While sitting at the
desk in his study, he experienced a sudden flare
of intense heat as terrified screams echoed
through his mind. The warning was again a
grim joke of the gods. Jake had immediately
called the airport, but ii was too late. His wife's
flight had taken off over an hour ago. Jake's
frantic urgings prompted the terminal to radio
the pilot, but the message went unanswered.
They later learned that a bomb had been in the
luggage compartment, planted there by a dis-
7

Robert Weinberg
gruntled ex-employee. It exploded only a few
moments after Jake's call.
That phone call had brought Jake under
close scrutiny by the police investigating the
bombing. Fortunately, all of the evidence
pointed in other directions. With no motive or
opportunity, Jake was an unlikely suspect. Still,
it had been a trying period until the true culprit
had confessed.
Friends in high places made sure that all
traces of the investigation into Jake's business
were quietly lost or misfiled; the story of his
premonition never made it to the papers and he
sank back into the obscurity he desired. There
was no way to stop the vivid nightmares that
lasted for many months afterwards, though.
While other practitioners of the Black Arts
actively strived to master such psychic flashes,
Jake felt his two experiences seeing the future
were more than enough.
Now he had just experienced his third pre-
monition. He knew, without any doubt, that it
presaged his own end. Just because he'd re-
ceived an invitation to a sinister auction that
only a select few could attend, someone was
going to kill him. He had no doubts that the
invitation was the cause of the coming attack: it
was necessary for admission to the auction,
and only a few were ever sent out. After that,
the law of survival took over: it was the same
thing that had happened to Romanov so many
8

DEVIL S AUCTION
years before. The auctioneer didn't care if the
holder of the invitation was the person to
whom it was originally mailed. Possession of
the card was all important, since only the most
powerful practitioners of the black arts were
welcome and the strong kept theirs. Those who
did not receive one, if they were ruthless and
deadly enough, killed to obtain it. Romanov
had deluded himself into thinking he was one
of the strong ones. That mistake had cost him
his life.
There was no time to curse uncaring fate.
Too much remained to be done. He swiftly
climbed the stairs to the second floor, footsteps
echoing through the huge old house. Finally he
arrived at the study where he relaxed in the
evening.
From his desk he took a large manila enve-
lope. He thrust the invitation into that. He was
determined that his killers would not have it.
His eyes made a quick circuit of the room. Not
very many good hiding places if someone was
dedicated in his search.
Finally, in desperation, Jake scribbled a few
lines on the outside of the envelope and pasted
on a few stamps. He quickly brought it down-
stairs to the front closet. The mailbox opened
into a box by the coats. He stuck the envelope
up into the container so that it rested just below
the mail slot. His postman would find it there
tomorrow when he delivered the mail. It was
9

Robert Weinberg
the one place his attacker would never think to
look.
Breathing heavily, Jake made his way back to
the study. A cold, numbing sensation was
creeping through his body. Jake had practiced
the black arts for too many years not to recog-
nize the signs: the cold came from a psychic
attack. He could combat the malignant ener-
gies being directed against him, but not from
this room. Before he went upstairs, though, he
had one last thing to do.
Palms sweating, he picked up the phone and
dialed, keeping a careful watch on the corners
of the study. Strange entities could sometimes
materialize in the darkness. It was unlikely that
his enemy would resort to such manifestations,
but an attack could take many forms. He
listened intently, but there were no sounds in
the house. All was still, as though waiting for
something to happen.
The phone rang and rang. Finally, on the
sixth ring, a machine answered.
"Hello." It was his daughter Valerie's voice,
deep and husky, but with that odd self-
conscious sound of someone talking into a
microphone with no one else around. "Valerie
Lancaster is not able to answer the phone at
present. If you have a message to leave, please
hold on until you hear the beep. The recorder
is voice activated and you can leave as long a
message as needed. Please leave your number
10

DEVIL S AUCTION
if you want me to return your call. If you are
phoning about business, please contact my
office during business hours. In any case,
thanks for calling."
"Valerie, this is your father." Jake paused for
an instant, hoping that she would come on the
line. He knew she used the answering machine
to monitor her calls. Tonight, however, there
was no click indicating that she was home; he
was only talking to the machine. She was
probably out of town on a modeling assign-
ment, he figured. Sucking in a few deep
breaths, he forced himself to think things out.
He had hoped to have a few last words with his
daughter. Now, he felt very much alone. The
tape machine made things more difficult, since
any message he left might be heard by others.
Anyone with power could easily trace his call.
His message had to be clear and concise, but
reveal nothing to any unwanted listeners.
He knew his daughter better than she ever
realized. Valerie was very much like him. All
his life he watched her and saw his own youth-
ful mistakes. He knew Valerie would demand
justice after his death—justice that law could
never administer. Blood for blood still held
true in magical circles, and Valerie had all the
necessary talent in the dark arts, if not the
training, to catch the rhurderer. Now he'd
make sure she knew why he'd been killed. He
had told her the story of Vassily Romanov and
11

Robert Weinberg
the Devil's Auction years ago. He hoped she
still remembered it.
"I've just received a very interesting invita-
tion to an auction. From Vassily Romanov.
Remember, I told you about the rare curio
auction he participated in thirty years ago?
Another is going to take place later this month,
on Halloween, at his estate north of Chicago. I
have a feeling that I won't be able to make it. I
suspect a gatecrasher might take my place.
Wish I knew his identity, but I don't have a
clue. If you decide you want to attend, remem-
ber you need an invitation to be admitted. Do
me a favor and ask Professor Warner from the
University to accompany you. He's been a good
friend the past few years. You should meet him.
You might need a hand. Good-bye, my dear.
Remember that despite our differences, I love
you very much. . . ."
The phone went dead. Jake punched the
dial-tone button, but there was no sound. Ei-
ther the cable had been cut or dark powers had
been used. Overhead, the lights flickered. An-
noyed, Jake waved a hand and muttered a few
words under his breath. The electricity stabi-
lized. The phone remained dead, though; the
line must be down. Calling the police, for what
little help they could provide, was out. He
debated leaving some other communication
for his daughter and then decided against it.
Any other message would be seen by his ene-
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DEVIL S AUCTION
my, not by Valerie. He had done all he could.
Rising from his chair, he sighed and looked
around the study one last time. It had been a
good place to work.
As the coldness within him grew stronger, he
knew there was no winning this fight. Still, he
had never been one to give up. Tonight would
be no different. He would not surrender, could
not surrender. If he was to die, let him die
fighting. Muttering to himself, he climbed the
rear stairway to the third floor.
A heavy-duty combination-lock guarded the
only door. Jake had never bothered memoriz-
ing its code. A very selective, personalized spell
twirled the tumblers and popped the lock
open. Gripping the doorknob, Jake strained to
pull the heavy door open: the seemingly frail
wood concealed a solid steel core. The entire
third story of his house had, in fact, been
reinforced with steel plating years ago, floors
and ceiling included. There were no windows.
The one huge room was effectively a sealed
fortress which only Jake could enter. As he
stepped into the chamber and pulled the door
closed behind him, the tumblers clicked as the
door locked automatically.
A quick glance assured him that nothing was
amiss in his sanctum. Floodlights illuminated
every inch of the room, and there were no
patches of darkness lurking in the corners. The
dust coating the long shelves filled with esoter-
13

Robert Weinberg
ic volumes of occult lore lay undisturbed. Most
important, though, his wand and other tools of
the trade still sat safe in their glass case. He
breathed a bit easier, seeing them undisturbed.
The coldness within him had begun to sap
his strength. If he let it continue much longer,
he would be easy prey for whatever horror was
approaching.
He crossed to the full-length closet at the far
end of the room and removed a long black
robe, which was inscribed with arcane symbols
and words of power, from the single hook.
When he slipped it on over his street clothing,
the warm material clung to his pot belly like a
second skin. At once he felt more confident,
more self-assured; performing the basic rituals
of magic always restored his mental balance.
Flexing his fingers, he went to the case
holding his staff of power. He picked up the
hazel shaft, capped with steel at both ends, as
though it were made of solid gold. A great deal
of effort had gone into making that wand, and
it was his most powerful magical instrument.
Clutching it in his left hand, he took a piece
of thick white chalk from one of the book-
shelves with his right. He felt slightly more
confident as he knelt on the floor.
With a steady hand, he drew a huge circle,
ten feet in diameter, going clockwise from east
to south to west to north. It was not a perfect
figure, but pretty good for one drawn freehand.
14

DEVIL S AUCTION
Finished, he put the chalk in a back pocket and
raised his wand.
He touched his forehead and began to recite
the invocation of power. "I dedicate this circle
of power to the Lord High God, Tetragramma-
ton, Creator of the Universe and all that exists."
He touched his solar plexus with the wand, his
symbolic sword. "He is the Ruler of the King-
dom." Next, a tap of the wand against his right
shoulder. "He is the Master of all the Powers."
Now, a touch to his left shoulder, completing
the occult cross which represented the four
elements. "May his Truth and Glory endure
Forever and Aye." *
Jake could feel the strength start to flow back
into his body. Through the occult chant, he
proclaimed his mastery of the four elements,
the cardinal points of the universe. He clasped
his right and left hands together, pointing his
magic hazelwood wand upward. "Let Him rule
forever and ever for all the ages of the ages.
Amen."
As the last words of the formula were com-
pleted, Jake felt the familiar rush of psychic
energy. Confidence and some of his old arro-
gance returned as power coursed through his
veins once more. He might only have a few
minutes left, but he would go down fighting.
His magical powers were strong now. The
circle was nearly complete.
In his mind's eye he envisioned his marker
IS

Robert Weinberg
not as a simple hazel wand but as a great
cross-handled sword like those used by the
Crusaders. His voice rang with authority as he
proclaimed, "In the Name of the High God,
Tetragrammaton, Creator of the Universe, I
take in these hands the Sword of Power for
defense against all evil." No longer did he think
of himself as an old man whose most athletic
endeavor was climbing the multitude of stair-
ways in his huge house. Instead, he imagined
himself a young knight of Christendom, eager
for battle: a strong, lean face, burned dark by
the desert sun; a massive, muscular body,
supported by legs like oak trees. He was
sheathed in steel armor, the chain mail of the
righteous. A fiery red cross was emblazoned on
his chest. He was a Crusader of blood and iron.
Now he faced the east. He raised his wand
high over his head. "May the mighty archangel,
Raphael, protect me from all evil approaching
from the east." He turned to the south. "May
the mighty archangel, Michael, protect me
from all evil approaching from the south."
Then to the west, this time naming Gabriel, and
finally to the north calling upon Uriel.
The first line of his defenses complete, Jake
tucked his magic wand into his belt. He knelt
on the floor again with his chalk. The spells of
protection were overly dramatic, he felt, but
they served their purpose. They were powerful
16

DEVIL S AUCTION
counter-charms against psychic attack. And, in
going through the recital of the invocations, he
always felt a renewal of purpose. Like all of
ritual magic, the performance of the actual
ceremony was a part of the final result.
Jake began to inscribe a large triangle inside
the circle. Just as he finished, he stopped for a
second and looked around. The room looked
the same; nothing had changed. Yet, something
had impinged on his consciousness.
A cold chill tightened the muscles across his
back as he realized what was wrong. It was in
the house. His killer was downstairs.
This sanctum was soundproof, so he
couldn't hear anything, yet he could sense
some dread creature violating his living quar-
ters. His mouth went dry and the muscles in his
chest grew tight. Whatever it was, the thing
wasn't human. He could sense its essence. It
was evil, and filled with a dark, ugly hunger.
His body flashed hot and cold. Sweat seemed
to ooze out of every pore.
Hurriedly, he drew a second triangle, cross-
ing but reversed from the first, forming the
six-sided star known as the Seal of Solomon.
His fingers trembled as he inscribed his secret
name in the top of the six triangles formed by
the crossed lines. In each of the other five he
wrote one syllable of the great name of power,
Tetragrammaton. His heart pounded fiercely.
17

Robert Weinberg
The veins above his eyes throbbed. Memory of
the terrible pain he would soon suffer haunted
his every thought.
Stiffly, he rose to his feet. He was scared,
terribly scared. He had done all that he could
do. These safeguards were the best he could
manage in the time he had. The worst part was
knowing they were useless. The premonition
had shown what would come. Nothing could
change the face of reality.
Pulling out his magic wand, he gripped it
tightly with both hands. Again he imagined it
the double edged sword of a Crusader. He had
done great and powerful things with this wand,
and no one had ever defeated him while he
held it. Clasping it gave him some measure of
courage. He was destined to die. Let it be with
honor.
He drew in one deep breath after another,
forcing his racing heart to slow down. He could
sense the being below moving from room to
room. It was searching for him. Finally it found
the stairs leading up to this chamber. He could
sense it climbing the steps, foot by foot, closer
and closer.
His every breath became an effort. He could
not banish the pain from his mind. There was
no controlling his fear now.
The lock on the door rattled, gently at first,
then louder and louder. Heavy blows against
the metal echoed in the room as something
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DEVIL S AUCTION
smashed into it out in the hallway.
In his inner sanctum, the air vibrated with
the force of the attack. Jake knew that the lock
would not open to any other person, but what-
ever hunted him was not trying to open it by
normal or supernatural means. The creature
was trying to smash its way in. That alone
confirmed his worst fears. This was no magi-
cian, it was some terrible, elemental sending.
There could be no reasoning with such a
monster. Either his circle of protection and his
magic wand would protect him, or it would
not. For a brief instant, Jake wondered if per-
haps the premonition had been brought about
by the powerful psychic surge of the monster's
death. Then, regretfully, he abandoned that
hope. The premonition had been much too
specific. The pain belonged to him.
The reinforced steel door began to buckle.
Jake's eyes widened in astonishment at the
sheer brute force of the attack. The wood of the
portal began to crack. Already the steel be-
neath it showed through. Desperately, he began
to chant the invocation of power from the
Grimoire ofHonorius, one of the most powerful
of all books of black magic.
"Behold the Lion who is the Victor of the
Tribe of Judah, the Root of David." The steel of
the door screeched as it started ripping from
the hinges. "I will open the Book and the seven
Seals thereof." The lights flickered; somone
19

Robert Weinberg
was using magic against him and there was
nothing he could do. All of his mental energy
was locked on the words of power. It took all
the concentration he could muster just to keep
his voice steady. "I have the power to crush
dragons, scorpions, and all mine enemies be-
neath my feet." The constant pounding on the
door was like a chorus of drums that echoed
his every word. The room felt insufferably
warm. Sweat dripped into his eyes, soaked his
clothing. Still, the words tumbled out of his
mouth. "Nothing shall harm me, by Eloy,
Elohim, Elohe . . ."
The light bulbs flashed and exploded, plung-
ing the room into total and absolute darkness.
Startled, Jake hesitated for an instant. With a
crash, the door to his sanctum gave way. The
hallway outside was dimly lit. His attacker
stood fully outlined in the entrance. The thing
paused there, motionless for a moment, as if
caught by surprise. It filled the doorway, nearly
seven feet tall. A shaggy mat of tangled hair
covered its entire body. Huge muscles rippled
through its arms and chest. Yellow eyes blazed
at Jake. Powerful hands, hands that had
knocked the steel door right off its hinges,
clenched in giant fists as the creature growled
low in its throat.
Jake pointed his magic wand at the beast. He
had to focus all of the energy in his body in one
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DEVIL S AUCTION
last attack. He had gambled and lost; his magic
circle would do him no good against this
abomination. It was a thing of darkness, but
born of Earth, not some other plane of exis-
tence. For once, a gun would have served him
better than his magic wand. Still, there were
spells he could use—heat and cold could stop
this beast.
He raced through the necessary spell. Only a
few more seconds. As if sensing Jake's purpose,
the creature snarled. Its muscles tensed as it
gathered in on itself for the attack. Jake raised
his wand high. He needed only a few
instants—	14
Something small and hissing came bouncing
into the room, thrown from behind the mon-
ster. Looking down, Jake recognized a tear gas
canister. As fumes spewed out, he mentally
cursed his own stupidity. He had completely
forgotten the beast's master.
The tear gas started him coughing violently.
He fell back, unable to maintain his balance. A
psychic attack he could have defeated, but his
old body was too vulnerable on the physical
plane. His unknown enemy had planned well.
The first thrust, using magic, had set him up for
the counterthrust using purely physical means.
He had been caught by surprise.
Eyes tearing, Jake blundered about, desper-
ately trying to regain his footing. He could
21

Robert Weinberg
sense the monster's charge, but couldn't spot it
in the darkness. A fit of coughing racked his
body.
"Kill him," Jake heard a voice command. He
recognized the speaker. It didn't matter. His
doom was upon him.
In the darkness, the creature's jaws clamped
on his left shoulder with savage fury, sinking
deep into his flesh. He screamed as sharp claws
ripped across his back. The thing pulled him
close. He felt bones crack. Blood gushed from
his mouth and nostrils. The wand dropped
from his useless fingers as darkness closed
upon him. His last thoughts were of the
screams of psychic energy spiralling back in
time as a useless warning to his earlier self. The
premonition had come full circle.
22

Chapter Two
Alex Warner was edgy. For the third time that
afternoon he reread the newspaper clipping on
his desk. It had come yesterday in the mail, in
an envelope with no return address and a post
mark from Chicago. Was it mere coincidence
that he had received the clipping the day before
Jake Lancaster's daughter was coming to visit?
He was not a strong believer in coincidence.
Paranoid, his ex-wife had accused. At times,
Alex had to agree with that assessment. Not this
time. Jake's death was proof of that.
The clipping was an account of Jake Lan-
caster's murder. The body had been found by
the police late on Friday, after a friend had
grown worried when Jake had failed to show
23

Robert Weinberg
up for dinner. There was not much to the
article other than a pretty grisly description of
his friend's body. The old bookseller had been
savagely mutilated by some unknown animal,
according to the writeup.
The account was not what bothered Alex. He
had read it when it had first appeared a week
ago. By the time it ran, he had already been
questioned several times at length by the po-
lice. A solid alibi, confirmed by several dozen
people at a faculty party, had saved him from
any real hassle. The police had no leads at all
and were anxious to find a suspect.
Alex licked his lips as he reread the clipping
in front of him. The mysterious sender had
underlined in red ink the description of Jake's
body. There was no written message, but the
implied threat was clear enough. Alex won-
dered exactly what was going on. He was not
looking for trouble, but he never liked to be
pushed around.
Thirty-seven years old, Alex Warner was an
enigma to most of his acquaintances. Dark
black hair and gaunt features went well with
black eyes that seemed to peer suspiciously at
everything. A little over six feet tall, he had the
lean, muscular body of a professional athlete.
Nevertheless, he did not participate in any
interacative sports at the university. He refused
all offers to play racquetball or tennis or even
join the faculty volleyball team, but it wasn't
24

DEVIL S AUCTION
from lack of competitive spirit. Alex was a
ruthless bridge player and had won nearly
every duplicate bridge tournament sponsored
by the University in the last ten years. He played
with a calm control and deadly intensity that
frightened even his partner, Sam Lewis. It was
Sam, a colleague in the History Department,
who had dubbed Alex "The Master Assassin,"
the first time he had seen Alex play bridge. The
nickname had become a standard joke on
campus. Only Alex and a few close friends
knew how accurate that nickname really was.
A knock at his office door broke his reverie.
Hastily, Alex got to his feet and looked around
the office. He had spent most of the morning
straightening up, but it still looked cluttered:
books and papers everywhere, a few bridge
trophies used as bookends, a couple of old
photos hung on the wall as well as his diplo-
mas. Sheila had sarcastically labelled it a typi-
cal professor's hideaway.
Alex hurried across the room and opened
the door. The woman outside had her hand
raised to knock again. They stared at each
other for a second. She seemed startled, as
though surprised by something, and Alex won-
dered if he were more unkempt than usual. Her
look of surprise vanished as suddenly as it had
appeared. Blue eyes locked onto his and held.
The two of them stood motionless for several
instants.
25

Robert Weinberg
Finally, the young woman dropped her arm,
smiling at him as she did so. "Sorry. I wasn't
sure if anyone was here."
"I'm probably the only one in the building
today," said Alex, his mind reeling in near
shock. It was impossible for him to believe that
this was Jake Lancaster's daughter. "Saturday
is a day of rest even for the faculty. The students
always have something better to do. And, now
that the football team has a winning record,
they have another excuse to keep away."
"I'm sorry." She actually did sound apolo-
getic. "I hate imposing on you like this, but I
did want to talk to you so much."
"Uh, sure. No problem." Already, he was
sweating. The old Alex Warner/beautiful wom-
an syndrome strikes again, he cried silently in
despair. Be cool. Stay relaxed. "Won't you have
a seat. Sorry for the mess, but it's mid-terms."
That wasn't much of an explanation, he real-
ized, but it was the best he could do.
After seating the woman so that she faced his
desk, Alex hurried around to his own chair. To
his astonishment, he felt incredibly aroused.
He had been sexually inactive ever since his
divorce. Beautiful women usually interested
him, but this was insane, his body was going
berserk. Safely seated, he stared at Jake Lan-
caster's daughter.
It was difficult to believe that she was related
to his old friend. He had known Jake for nearly
26

DEVIL S AUCTION
six years and had fond memories of the grand-
fatherly-looking old man with shocking white
hair. Given his red cheeks and bushy eyebrows,
Jake could have easily passed for a large elf.
Valerie Lancaster definitely did not resemble
her father. She was tall. At the door, their eyes
had been on the same level. That, in itself, was a
novelty. Even subtracting the inches added by
her clunky but fashionable heeled shoes, she
had to be five nine or ten. While her figure
could not be described as full-bodied, she
definitely was quite female, and her black,
low-cut dress emphasized every attractive
curve. Willowy was the first word that came to
Alex's mind. She was the most attractive wom-
an he had ever encountered. He could not
define exactly what it was that captivated him
so—all of her features just worked together
perfectly. It was almost like magic.
As a vague suspicion flitted through his
thoughts, his eyes kept drifting back to her
stunning legs, sheathed in black nylons. After
years of seeing every woman he knew clad in
bluejeans, it was a novelty to see real flesh
again. He vaguely remembered Jake once tell-
ing him that his daughter worked as a profes-
sional model. She definitely fit the traditional
image of one. Tall and slender, with hair so
blonde that it seemed the very color of sunlight,
and the brightest, most attractive blue eyes he
had ever seen. Eyes the color of the ocean, deep
27

Robert Weinberg
and mysterious. Eyes that you could lose your-
self in. He felt lost in them already. Her lips,
half open in a bemused smile, revealed stun-
ning white teeth. High, slender cheekbones
gave her face an almost elfin look. Even with a
bare minimum of makeup, she radiated
warmth and sensuality.
"Hey," said Valerie, the sound of her voice,
deep and husky and filled with amusement,
breaking into Alex's thoughts. "You still
there?"
"Sorry." The blood rushed to Alex's head
and he knew he was blushing. He always did
when he was embarrassed. At least he was still
able to speak. Sometimes, when flustered, he
became tongue-tied. "You weren't exactly what
I was expecting."
Immediately, he worried that she might be
insulted. Damn. He wasn't well-versed in deal-
ing with beautiful women. He had never won
an argument with his ex-wife, and she was
nowhere near Valerie's league.
Fortunately, Valerie didn't seem upset. She
began to laugh. It was a smooth, attractive
chuckle that captivated him even more. Men-
tally, he tried to collar his rising desire. He was
too old to be acting like this. Life was filled with
too many temptations already, like worldly
female students.
More important, thoughts of sex were in
terrible taste. Jake's daughter was in mourn-
28

DEVIL S AUCTION
ing, probably still in shock. And all he could
think about was getting his hands on her. He
better be careful before he made an absolute
fool of himself. Still, his mind argued in return,
she was a knockout.
"You thought I'd be short and dumpy, with
prematurely white hair, I gather?" Her eyes
twinkled as she spoke. "Sort of my father but
younger . . . and a woman."
Alex opened his mouth but nothing came
out. Tongue-tied. "A woman," he managed to
choke out, and then wished he hadn't. His face
felt like it was on fire. He wondered if there was
any blood left in the rest x)f his body. It all had
to be rushing to his face—and his groin. He
cleared his throat and tried to get his body
under control. "I have to admit that you've
caught me off guard. Most of the women I
encounter are less . . . attractive." He groped
for words, trying not to make things worse.
Everything he said sounded foolish. "I mean,
not many good-looking students take courses
in Medieval Theology or the Witch Cult in
Europe. I usually get radical feminists who feel
dresses are manipulative." She smiled at that
line and he felt a little more relaxed. Concen-
trate on something else, Alex mentally com-
manded himself. Without trying to be too
obvious, he fixed his eyes on his Doctoral
Diploma displayed on the wall behind Valerie's
left shoulder. That helped a little. "Jake didn't
29

Robert Weinberg
have any pictures of you around, and my taste
in magazines is pretty esoteric—mostly history
journals. I rarely get to see Cosmopolitan or
Ladies Home Journal."
"Don't look at the swimsuit ads, either?"
Valerie's smile broadened. It was totally capti-
vating. "I've done more than my share of them.
Not to mention some layouts in the men's
magazines. The more sophisticated ones, of
course." She grinned at him. Challenging him.
Alex kept his eyes fastened on the diploma.
Pleasant as this all was, Alex knew it was
time to change the subject. He owed that much
to his murdered friend. There were things he
wanted to know, but at the same time he had to
be careful. Some things could not be said in
haste. Jake had entrusted him with many confi-
dences; he could not reveal them without being
sure he was doing the right thing. "I was
shocked when I learned of Jake's death," he
said. "Hard to believe. Absolutely horrible. I
had lunch with him on Thursday. Police said I
was one of the last people to see him alive."
"I know. He spent most of the day at the
University Library doing research, had dinner
at his usual time and place, then went home.
Where the killer struck." As she spoke,
Valerie's voice grew softer and softer. Her face
was still beautiful, but her features had hard-
ened now. Alex recognized the look: Jake got
that way when something had him angry. On
30

DEVIL S AUCTION
Jake it had always wanted to make Alex laugh.
It made the old scholar look like a bulldog.
Valerie's expression was much more threaten-
ing.
"Right. His killer. From our conversation on
the phone this morning I take it you feel
something more than robbery was the motive
for Jake's murder."
"I know it." There was ice in Valerie's voice.
"I suspect you know it, too. Listen, Alex Warn-
er, my father told me to see you for some
reason. He trusted you. The old geezer had his
faults, but he was nobody's fool. Let's cut the
crap. I need your help. No ordinary thief could
kill my father. The police didn't have a clue, so
they came up with the robbery story. It didn't
fit the facts but it sounded a lot better than
them admitting they had their fingers up their
noses. You and I both know they'll never come
up with the real killer. Someone else has to do
it."
Alex was staring at Valerie now, the diploma
forgotten. "So you intend to find him?"
"You bet your ass." She leaned forward,
resting her forearms on his desk, and revealing
an astonishing amount of cleavage. "Venge-
ance is mine."
"I shall repay," completed Alex. His voice
remained calm but inside he was starting to
wonder about Valerie's sanity. She had evi-
dently been under quite a bit of strain. He did
31

Robert Weinberg
not like the direction their conversation was
taking. "Most people forget that Mickey
Spilane wasn't the first to make that remark. I
doubt if God meant it to become a justification
for murder."
"Murder, Hell." Valerie's eyes flashed bright-
ly. Her cheeks glowed red with passion. Her
voice grated harshly with barely repressed an-
ger. "It'll be justice. Did you see what Dad
looked like? Did you? I had to identify his body,
and the papers didn't tell the half of it. Damn it
to Hell. He was no saint, but he was my father.
And, even if he wasn't, no one should die like
that."
Valerie gulped several times, then dragged
her upper teeth across her lower lip. Her voice
grew calm though her face was still flushed.
"The cops can't explain the wounds. They say
the burglar must have had a dog with him. A
dog." Valerie shuddered violently. "You find
me a dog that can crush a man's ribs, claw out
his eyes, and bite nearly through his neck.
Damn it. Even the morgue attendant couldn't
swallow a line like that—he told the cops they
were crazy. I kept my mouth shut and played
the dumb cute model, the poor bereaved
daughter." Her eyes bored into his. "Are you
with me?"
Alex remained silent. He didn't know what to
say. Valerie's argument made sense, but he still
had his doubts; she might be a very good
32

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actress. There was still that newspaper clipping
on the blotter in front of him. Had she sent it?
Already, he had that hunch about the lust that
still gripped his body. She could be playing a
much deeper game than showed on the sur-
face.
His eyes involuntarily focused on Valerie's
half revealed breasts. She was showing quite a
bit of skin. Was his guess right? Did she have
some of the Power? Paranoia strikes deep, he
hummed to himself, remembering the lyric of
his favorite rock song. He wasn't willing to
commit himself just yet.
Valerie's blue eyes filled with tears. She
brushed them away and muffled a sob. Alex
remained silent. This was like playing cards
only the stakes were different. Bid and bluff.
Let your opponent make the mistakes. He had
learned his lessons the hard way.
Valerie frowned for a minute and then
straightened up in her chair. Her eye makeup
was nearly gone and her face looked terrible.
She had a hurt and disappointed look. Alex had
seen that expression many times before on his
ex-wife's face. It could mean a lot. Or nothing.
"I can see that I made a mistake coming
here. I thought you wanted to help."
Before Alex could reply, the intercom on his
desk buzzed. "That's odd," he said, actually
pleased by the interruption. Give her a chance
to think a little. "Damn thing hasn't worked all
33

Robert Weinberg
week. Guess they finally got someone to fix it
while I was in class the other morning." Alex
depressed a button. "Professor Warner here."
The^e was no sound on the other end of the
line. Alex held the button down for a few
seconds, but the connection remained silent.
"Ha. So much for repairs. There must still be a
few bugs in the system they didn't get." He
released the switch and looked back at Valerie.
She was starting to rise from her chair. Time to
make a decision, he thought. He decided to
trust his feelings.
"Listen," he said. "Wait a minute. Don't
leave. Let's talk things out a bit. Look at it from
my side. I mean, I was pretty close to your
father, probably the best friend he had these
past few years. I want justice too. But tracking
down his killer? I'm no detective. Are you?
Tough talk is cheap. Action is another story.
Where would you start?"
"Well, perhaps I was a little hasty," replied
Valerie, still standing. She did not seem to be in
any rush to leave. "Maybe I did come on a little
strong."
The intercom buzzed again. Alex ignored it.
"A little strong?" He got up from his chair and
walked around the desk. Up close Valerie was
still the most desirable woman he had ever
imagined. He had to clasp his hands together to
keep them from reaching for her. His mind felt
fuzzy. Hard to think straight. Either she was
34

DEVIL S AUCTION
using the Power or he was losing his mind. "I'm
willing to help. But let's approach this problem
logically."
Again the intercom buzzed. This time it was a
long, insistent hum that did not stop. "What the
hell is going on?" Alex demanded angrily.
Returning behind his desk, he jabbed the but-
ton. "Hello, hello."
Some thing answered. The voice was barely a
whisper, yet it penetrated every inch of the
cluttered office. It was a vile, inhuman sound
unlike anything Alex had ever heard before.
"The Auction," said the voice. The words
came slowly, as if the speaker was pronouncing
a benediction or a prayer. "The Devil's Auc-
tion."
Alex was so surprised he released the con-
necting switch. The voice was cut off before it
could continue. Immediately, the intercom be-
gan buzzing.
"Don't answer it," said Valerie. He wasn't
sure he understood what was going on. The
girl's voice was choked with fear. In a second,
she was at his side, grabbing hold of his wrists.
Her hands were cold and clammy. Incredible
tension had the veins popped out on her fore-
head. Terrified eyes looked into his. He had
never seen fear so clearly defined in a person's
expression. "Nothing human is on the other
end of that line. Don't answer. It's the sound of
death. The speaker is my father's killer."
35

Robert Weinberg
"Then shouldn't we hear what he has to
say?" asked Alex. Pulling a hand free, he flipped
the switch back on. "This is Professor Warner.
Who are you? What do you want?"
"The Invitation." The same whispering voice
answered. "It is useless to you. You have noth-
ing for the Auction. Give me the Invitation and
I will let you live."
Valerie's hands tightened as the voice made
the last statement, but Alex wouldn't release
the switch. He had to know more. It was an
eerie sensation, having a conversation with a
murderer who had to be in the same building.
"Am I to understand that you admit killing Jake
Lancaster? And that you are threatening me as
well if I don't give you some sort of Invitation?"
"Fool." The voice was louder now, angry. "I
will crack your bones for their marrow. Your
blood will fill my cup. Give me that invitation
or learn the true meaning of pain."
Valerie had the right idea, Alex suddenly
decided. Bravery in the face of the unknown
could be awfully stupid. The person on the
other end of the line was obviously a psycho-
path. Those were not the statements of a sane
person. He released the switch. For a second
there was silence. Then, to his astonishment,
the voice continued. The circuit was still open.
"You cannot banish me so easily." If any-
thing, the killer's voice was louder than before.
Alex stared at the intercom. What the hell was
36

DEVIL S AUCTION
going on? The switch was off; the connection
was broken. The voice grew so loud that it
shook the room, his trophies rattling on their
shelf, his pencils dancing on the desk. Valerie
trembled with every word. "The Invitation must
be mine."
Valerie had backed away from the desk. She
was biting her knuckles to keep from scream-
ing, eyes huge against pale white features,
attention fixed on the intercom. She was still
shaking.
Alex tried to reassure her though he felt no
such confidence himself. "Stay calm," he said,
bending beneath the desk. "Must have rigged
up a toggle switch inside the box. I'll break the
connection ..." But, he saw, the wire that
connected the intercom to the system hung
loose. It couldn't possibly work.
He straightened up slowly. This was getting
very odd.
"Who are you?" He was frightened, but he
was more angry than afraid. "Who the hell are
you?"
"The Invitation." The words crashed like
thunder in the small office. The windows rat-
tled. One of his trophies tipped over. Alex's ears
ached from the sound. "I must have it. My
teeth will rip the flesh from your bones. I will
squeeze your living heart in my hands. Give
me what I want or suffer eternal pain. I must
have the Invitation to the Devil's Auction!"
37

Robert Weinberg
"You can have it in Hell." That was Valerie,
her face still white but her eyes flashing in
anger. With a savage yank, she pulled the
intercom off of the desk. Alex tried to grab her
arms, but she slammed the intercom down on
the floor. The black plastic box shattered. "In
Hell," Valerie repeated, stomping one foot
hard on the casing. Her thick heel smashed
down again and again. The inner works of the
intercom flew across the room. The strange
voice had been effectively silenced.
Her eyes still blazing, Valerie swung around
and jabbed a finger at Alex's chest. "Now do
you believe me? You heard it. What can the
police do to a thing like that? Or do you still
think some petty thief killed my father?"
Alex was equally angry. The voice had shak-
en him more than he cared to admit. For an
instant, he let his fear and anger dictate his
actions. With a quick jerk, he pushed Valerie
back in her chair. "Sit down and shut up."
Valerie did exactly that. She huddled in the
armchair, rubbing her eyes. Carefully avoiding
her stare, Alex paced back and forth the length
of his office. He was annoyed with himself. It
was the first time he had lost control since the
War. Even with Sheila, he had never acted this
way. There was still that fuzzy feeling inside
him. He was not as sharp as he should be; his
level of concentration was off. Already he was
starting to feel guilty for manhandling her. He
38

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had always prided himself on being a true
gentleman, the last cavalier in a cynical world.
Alex risked a quick look at her and immediately
wished he hadn't. She was smiling at him
again. He felt his resolve turning to jelly.
"Three questions. I'll ask them. You'll an-
swer them." He rushed through the statement.
He had to get it out before he calmed down.
Another minute and he would have been lost.
"Then, and only then, will we discuss whether I
give you any help. Got that?"
"Got it, chief." Valerie's voice was subdued
but Alex could detect a faint note of mockery in
it. For being so frightened only a few minutes
before, the girl had made a remarkable recov-
ery.
"First and foremost. Do you have the Power?"
"The Power?"
"Yes, the Power. Don't get cute with me. You
know exactly what I mean. You couldn't be
Jake Lancaster's daughter and not know about
the Power. The truth, now. Lie to me and you
can fight—" Alex pointed to the remains of the
intercom scattered on the floor. "—the owner
of that voice on your own."
Valerie's body shook as if chilled. It was a
very nice shake. Alex forced himself to think of
other things. "Well," he said, "I'm still wait-
ing."
"Okay. I give up. You win. My deepest and
darkest secret is out in the open. You obviously
39

Robert Weinberg
know the answer already or you wouldn't both-
er to ask. It's hard to for me to admit it. Yes, I
possess the Power. Would be a freak if I didn't,
considering that both my parents were master
mages. I don't practice, but I am gifted. The
blood of witches and warlocks flows in my
veins."
"Not practicing?" Alex laughed harshly. It
was time to get a few things straightened out.
He had no idea why Valerie was lying to him,
but it had to stop. For the first time since she
had walked into the office, his mind felt clear.
It was as if he had emerged from a deep fog.
This farce had gone on long enough.
He was around the desk in seconds. Years of
inaction had not slowed him down. This time
he was in complete control of his emotions. He
knew exactly what he was doing: he had
learned how to effectively frighten someone
during his years in Viet Nam. It was something
you don't forget.
Grabbing the arms of her chair with both
hands, he thrust his face only inches from hers.
She cringed.
"Not practicing." Alex hardly recognized the
sound of his own voice. It was part of a time
long buried. "Then why has my body been in a
state of constant excitement ever since you
walked into this office?" Valerie's eyes blinked
furiously as he continued, "I'm a normal,
reasonably healthy male animal. During my
40

DEVIL S AUCTION
life, sex has occupied my mind quite a bit. But
never all the time. Lately, since my divorce, not
very often at all. Today, I can't look at you for
more than a few seconds without getting
aroused. No one is that good-looking. Black
magic is the only answer. Admit it. I'm sick of
being played for a fool. What are you doing to
me? And more important, why?"
Valerie made choking noises in her throat.
Alex backed away, the intensity of the moment
gone as suddenly as it had begun. This wasn't
Viet Nam any more. He couldn't believe his
own actions. No matter what the cause, he had
no right to act this way? All through his divorce
he had remained in complete control of his
temper, hadn't raised his voice once, had kept
all the rage tightly locked inside himself. Now,
with a near stranger, he had gone berserk.
He was so angry with himself that it took a
few seconds for him to realize what sounds he
was actually hearing. Alex squinted at Valerie.
So much for his macho threats. What worked
in Viet Nam obviously no longer did much on
the home front The minx was having a hard
time holding back laughter.
Alex growled in frustration. He threw his
arms up in the air, then broke out laughing
himself. It was the easiest way to admit defeat.
Valerie collapsed into gales of laughter.
"I was beginning to wonder if maybe you
were gay or something," she managed to get
41

Robert Weinberg
out. Tears were running down her cheeks as
she continued to chuckle. "I didn't want to
believe it, but you were starting to worry me.
God, you have unbelievable self-control. Most
men would have been chasing me around the
office after five minutes."
"Going through a rather messy divorce
helps," answered Alex, somewhat mollified.
Ever alert, he had immediately fastened on to
the one line she said that had real meaning.
She had hoped not. To a solitary, quiet man,
there was a lot of promise in that line. "I'm glad
I quieted your fears. Now, do me a favor and
remove the damn spell? It's difficult to main-
tain a serious conversation with all of my
attention focused on your body. And explain to
me why you felt it necessary to cast it in the first
place."
"It's not that easy to explain. First things first.
Come here."
Alex moved closer, cautiously. Valerie stood
up. "Kiss me;" she commanded.
He didn't need a second invitation. Her lips
were warm and half open. The embrace lasted
a long time. Valerie made no effort to break
away. Her arms encircled his neck and held
him close. It felt good to kiss a woman again.
The tension drained out of his body. The fuzzi-
ness in his mind was back, but this time not so
intense. It was hardly noticeable except for a
feeling of euphoria, and much of that could be
42

DEVIL S AUCTION
attributed to the warm, desirable woman in his
arms. For one of the few times since his di-
vorce, it felt very good to be alive.
Finally, they broke apart. Alex staggered
back and leaned on his desk. There were no
fireworks but he was a little dizzy. "Wow."
Valerie chuckled. It was a deep, sexy sound
that sent shivers of pleasure darting down
Alex's spine. "Nice to be appreciated. Take a
look at me now."
She was still beautiful, but in some unidenti-
fiable way she looked different. A little plainer.
Not as desirable. He could look at her directly
now without feeling any primal stirring. A vital
spark was gone. "A kiss destroys the effect?"
"Not forever, but for a pretty long time.
Thank God for small favors. If nothing worked,
I'd have to live in a nunnery. Do you know the
hassles I put up with just walking down the
street? Can't ever get into an elevator. I'm lucky
that kissing has become a standard form of
greeting in the entertainment field."
"You mean . . ."
Valerie nodded. "Now you understand. This
isn't the East Coast social scene. There was no
way I could come in and immediately give you
a kiss. Face it—we didn't trust each other.
Neither of us was sure what my father had
revealed in conversation. So, I decided to wait
and see what would happen. That wasn't a lie
before; I don't practice sorcery. The glamour
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Robert Weinberg
has been with me for years. I have no control
over it. Actually, it's the reason I left home."
Brushing her hair back in some semblance
of order, Valerie seemed a different person.
The fear in her was gone. She seemed perfectly
at ease, more so than Alex, who was still
remembering a passionate kiss. All anger be-
tween the two of them was gone.
Her voice relaxed, Valerie continued. "I
never wanted to be a magician. Dad married
late in life, and I was born when he was forty.
He was set on me following the family tradi-
tion. I don't know how much my father told
you, but there have been sorcerers in his line
for hundreds of years. Usually wizards, because
the Power is strongest in males, but there were
more than a few witches. We fought about it all
the time. Mother usually sided with me in most
arguments, but she stood by Dad in that one.
Bad enough that I didn't want to practice
magic. Worse was that I wanted to be a fashion
model.
"Mom and Dad were pretty radical thinkers.
Dad posed as a rare bookdealer. He liked books
and it gave him something to do when he
wasn't involved in the black arts, and it let him
work at home without anyone wondering
about it. He could also travel, supposedly
searching for rarities. It was a pretty good
cover and explained lots of strange things about
him. He needed that because he was pretty
44

DEVIL S AUCTION
odd. He got involved in all sorts of causes, both
on the right and the left. Dad was pretty liberal,
very non-sexist. The thought of his only child
earning her living by her good looks instead of
her brains drove him bonkers."
"So you tried to combine both professions?"
"Pretty sharp. You guessed it. I studied with
him for a couple of years. Did a lot of research
and learned some of the basic rules of the
trade. Then, while looking up some informa-
tion for Dad, I came across my big find. I
discovered the spell for "The Glamour" in the
Grimoire of Honorius. It sounded great. A for-
mula that made the user irresistible to the
opposite sex. To a nineteen-year-old who
wanted to be a model but needed a big break, it
was a temptation hard to resist. I always had a
hard time with temptation." Valerie grinned at
him and Alex smiled back. She was flirting now
and he loved it. This was real magic. He was
still enamored with her, but now it was a
natural, normal attraction.
"I should have asked before I tried it. Should
have, but didn't. Don't forget, I was still pretty
rebellious. The Power doesn't give you maturi-
ty. That has to be learned. Well, I learned my
lesson pretty quick. Until then, no one sus-
pected how powerful Valerie Lancaster really
was. The spell worked. Oh, how it worked.
Honorius hadn't bothered to mention that
once cast, it was irreversible."
45

Robert Weinberg
"Even Jake . . ."
"My father was a strong wizard. One of the
best. He tried, but the spell was there to stay. I
inherited the Power from two very powerful
magicians. My gift was greater than either of
theirs. Years later, I came to realize that was
one of the reasons Dad was so disappointed
with me. He was positive that if I applied myself
I could easily outdistance both of them. He was
probably right. I didn't do things by halves.
When the spell was struck, it remained. Despite
all efforts to remove it."
"And you became irresistible," Alex said.
"I was irresistible all right. But the attraction
was purely physical—it worked on the most
base instincts. Life became a nightmare. I
couldn't walk down the street without being
propositioned. Had to learn self-defense pretty
fast, but I learned to adjust. Swore off magic,
though. My one experiment was enough. I left
home soon after, moved to New York, and
became a model like I planned. Dad never
entirely forgave me for abandoning the black
arts. After a while, though, I think he under-
stood. It was more a question of identity than
revolt against parental authority. I had to be
me, not an extension of him. After Mom died,
we grew a little closer. And now he's gone."
She smiled at Alex, a touch of loneliness in her
face. "Hard to believe I'll never see him again.
Life is terribly unfair sometimes. Never did get
46

DEVIL S AUCTION
to say how much I really did love him.
"You wanted the truth, Alex. Well, you've got
it. The whole bizarre story. What else do you
want to know?"
"That can wait till later—not that the other
questions matter as much. I know all I have to.
That voice on the intercom was enough to
convince me, although now you don't seem
very disturbed about it."
"I'm not. Threats like that I can handle. Got
me going for a minute, but I've been under a lot
of strain lately. Should have known better.
Nothing to worry about." Valerie dazzled him
with another smile. "Truthfully."
That was all he wanted to hear. If she wasn't
scared, then there was no reason for him to
worry. He didn't think to question this sudden
reversal of his usual paranoia. He was more
concerned about what he wanted to say next.
Suddenly he felt nervous and self-conscious.
The fear of rejection had raised its ugly head.
Spell or not, she was still unbelievably
beautiful . . . and he was just a middle-aged
college professor. Not exactly a romantic two-
some.
"Did you have, uh, any plans for dinner?" he
asked.
"Not really." Valerie's smile was going full
force now. "Is that an invitation?"
Inwardly, Alex exalted. He tried the best he
could to keep his voice calm. "Sure is. I'm
47

Robert Weinberg
starving. There's a nice Italian restaurant right
off campus—nothing fancy, but the food is
great."
"Best offer I've had all day."
The phone rang. They both looked at it.
"You expecting a call?" asked Valerie, her
voice trembling.
"No one knows I'm here," said Alex, rising to
his feet. "Come on. Let's go."
The phone continued to ring and ring and
ring as they hurried out of the office. In his
mind, Alex heard the bell long after they had
left the building.
48

Chapter Three
The eyes of every man in Mama Mia's Italian
Heaven were on the two of them as they walked
through the dining room. For the first time,
Alex realized what Valerie had to endure every
day of her life. It was as if she was wearing a
shrieking siren around her neck. Pretending
not to notice, they followed the hostess to a
booth in the back of the restaurant. Several
male patrons smiled suggestively at Valerie.
One slightly drunk college student whistled.
Valerie ignored him, and Alex followed her
lead. He didn't want to embarrass her. In other
circumstances, Alex would have reacted more
forcibly. He had to remind himself he was a
gentleman.
49

Robert Weinberg
The silence was uncanny. Not a word was
spoken the entire time they weaved their way
between tables. Even the women were quiet,
shocked into silence by the intruder in their
midst. Alex wondered if Valerie had many
female friends. He tended to think not. She was
too much of a threat. While the spell would
leave them unmoved, its effects were obvious.
Realizing that Jake Lancaster's daughter was
probably very much alone in the world, he
thought her unusual behavior during the past
few hours made a lot more sense. Valerie's
affliction made her a loner, suspicious of every-
one she met.
The booth was a private one, set off in a back
corner of Mama Mia's. Alex always asked for it
when he ate at the restaurant. During his short
and explosive married life, he and Sheila had
often dined here. It was quiet and cozy and
away from the prying eyes of other patrons.
Now that Valerie was no longer in view, con-
versation resumed at its usual low roar. The
hostess lit the solitary candle in the center of
the table and, with a slightly puzzled expres-
sion, gave them their menus and left.
"One of your students?" asked Valerie, using
her head as a pointer.
"Sharon? How did you guess? She works
here on the weekends."
"The look she gave you. I don't know if you
50

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realize it, but your reputation as a ladies' man
has just taken a huge leap forward." Valerie
sounded slightly bitter. Not at him in particu-
lar, but at the world in general. "I'm always a
catalyst. Everyone will be curious to know
what attracted me to you. Word will be all over
campus by tomorrow. Wait till the questions
start. Friends, colleagues, even people you nev-
er met. And then the propositions from the
girls. The obvious ones at first, wanting to
know what secret you possess. Then, later from
ones you would never suspect. No, don't pro-
test." Valerie was smiling, but there was little
humor in her expression. "I've seen it happen
before. Not in the same surroundings, but in
similar circumstances. You don't know. I do."
"The spell is that strong?"
"Did you forget the effect it had on you? And
I can assure you from years of coping with the
glamour that your willpower was exceptional.
Most men would have been pawing at me in
minutes. If you thought walking through that
crowd was bad, you should hear what I have to
put up with when I go out for dinner alone."
More than bitterness, there was grim resigna-
tion in Valerie's voice. "A week, maybe less.
Then you'll start getting the phone calls. More
women than you can handle."
"They'll be wasting their time. I'm with the
one lady who matters," said Alex.
51

Robert Weinberg
He caught her by surprise with that line. She
looked at him strangely. Timidly, one hand
reached out and touched him lightly on the
cheek. "Very nice, sir," she said, in a much
different tone. "Very, very nice. Truly gallant."
"I meant it," replied Alex. He did. Valerie
was someone special. There was a strange
chemistry between them, much more than just
physical attraction. Somehow, she just felt
right. He had never experienced the sensation
before. They sat there for a moment, the world
forgotten. "You have the bluest eyes I've ever
seen," said Alex, dreamily. "Ocean blue."
"Magic blue." Valerie blushed. "That's how
Dad described them. Bright blue for sorcery."
The arrival of their waitress cut off further
discussion. At Valerie's insistence, Alex or-
dered for the both of them. He didn't bother
looking at the menu. "Antipasto salad for two.
Baked lasagna. A bottle of the house red. And
let Makoto Tsuiki know that I'm here. If he can
make it out of the kitchen, there's someone
here I want him to meet."
Valerie's eyebrows arched in curiosity.
"Makoto Tsuiki? Japanese?"
"Third-generation American, actually," said
Alex. "His grandparents came to Chicago from
Tokyo in the '20s. His family has been in the
restaurant business ever since. The Tsuikis own
six places in the city. Mak runs this one. He's
52

DEVIL'S AUCTION
always here on Saturday night to supervise the
kitchen. Among other things, he's a terrific
chef. He's popular enough with his employees
that they're actually glad to see him."
"There's no Mama Mia?"
"Not unless she's Japanese. Don't worry.
You'll swear that Mak was born in Italy after
you taste the lasagna. I've been after his secret
for years, but he's your typical inscrutable
Oriental born and raised in the Midwest." Alex
smiled. "Fu Manchu would be proud of him. It
has to be in the spices, but Mak won't divulge
an ingredient. Probably some ancient family
recipe."
"No doubt," Valerie said.
"Ah, rescued." Alex broke off his chatter as
their waitress approached. "Here's the wine.
And bread. The two necessities of life."
Their waitress opened the wine bottle and
departed. No fancy service, here. Alex poured a
small amount and took a sip, deciding it would
do. He filled Valerie's glass and then his own. It
was nice to share a bottle of wine with attract-
ive company. Despite the strange happenings of
the day, he felt good. Exceptional. The best he
had felt in years, since before the trouble began
with Sheila. Smiling, he raised his glass.
"A toast." He hesitated for an instant. Unbid-
den, a favorite snatch of verse emerged from
his subconscious. It fit the mood he was in
S3

Robert Weinberg
perfectly. "Ah, my beloved, fill the Cup that
clears Today of past Regrets and future Fears."
"The Rubaiyat. I loved it when I was in high
school." Valerie sipped her wine, peering over
the rim of her glass at him. "Before this goes
any further, I have to warn you of something."
Alex's spirits plummeted. There was a cold
knot in his gut. He knew she was too good to be
true; his emotions had betrayed him again. At
least, he had not made much of a fool of
himself. He should have known better. Women
like her were not for college professors. "Warn
me of something?"
"You are an insecure one," said Valerie. Alex
had not realized how poorly he was masking
his feelings. "Your ex-wife must have been a
real gem."
Alex nodded glumly. "My lawyer nicknamed
her 'The Dragon Lady'. Remember? From the
comic, Terry and the Pirates'?"
"Got me. You're older than I am. Anyway,
wipe the doom and gloom off your face. All I
was going to say was that wine makes me dizzy.
And very amorous." Her right hand made
funny little patterns on his hand holding the
wine glass. "Especially when it comes to vul-
nerable but gallant gentlemen."
Alex shook his head to clear the cobwebs. If
he went through many more personality shifts,
he'd turn schizophrenic.
The arrival of the lasagna provided a wel-
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come break. He needed a little time to come
back down from the clouds.
Hannah Stine waited in the darkness in the
back yard of the Lancaster woman's home. It
had not been hard to learn the address, just a
couple of phone calls to the right people.
Hannah had parked the Mistress's car a few
blocks away and walked to the right street. It
was a quiet neighborhood. People minded
their own business here. In the gathering dusk,
no one questioned a solitary stroller, especially
one as plain as she. In the darkness, it was easy
for her to make her way behind the row of
townhouses. Her inner, sharper senses identi-
fied the right unit. No one was inside. That was
to be expected. Lancaster's daughter was still
having dinner with that college professor. The
ruse this afternoon had made the fool over-
confident. She would not be expecting an
attack tonight. It was as her Mistress had
planned. All was going well. Hannah would
wait. Just like she had waited for the father, so
would she wait for the child. She was patient.
Very patient.
Alex and Valerie chatted happily through
dinner, with Valerie doing most of the talking.
Alex enjoyed listening. Since he lectured all
week long, it was nice to be quiet and let
someone else ramble on. Between funny stor-
55

Robert Weinberg
ies of her job in New York, Valerie made quick
work of her dinner. She cleared her plate and
devoured most of the bread as well as several
glasses of wine.
"Dessert?" asked Alex. "The cannoli here are
made in Heaven. Or Hell, depending on wheth-
er you're on a diet or not."
"Bite your tongue, knave," said Valerie, wip-
ing the last bit of sauce off her plate with the
remnants of a piece of bread. "Diets are for
work. I'm on an extended leave-of-absence and
I'll eat what I want. Bring on your sinful
pleasures."
"Coffee first. Then some straight talk. Then,
and only then, dessert."
Valerie stuck her tongue out at him. "You
drive a hard bargain. How about dessert first,
then talk."
"No way. I'm stuffed. Let the food digest for a
while."
"I'll make it worthwhile," said Valerie with a
grin and a wink. She leaned forward. Her dress
bunched up around her breasts, revealing quite
a bit of skin. Valerie glanced down and back up
at Alex. "Change your mind?"
Alex raised a hand to his face. Closing his
eyes, he placed his thumb and index finger on
his eyelids.
"What are you doing?" asked Valerie.
"Pushing my eyeballs back into their sockets.
No fair. You have me at a disadvantage, but the
56

DEVIL S AUCTION
answer is still no. Coffee first. Talk second.
Dessert last."
"Beast."
Their waitress brought the coffee. Alex told
her to return with dessert in fifteen minutes.
"Not an eternity," he said to Valerie after the
student had departed. "You can do it."
"I guess I'll have to." Valerie's expression
grew serious. "Fooling time is over. What do
you want to know?"
"Everything. What's the Devil's Auction? Can
you explain this business with the voice over
the intercom? How does all this tie in with
Jake's murder? And where do I fit into the
whole picture?"
"That's more than fifteen minutes' worth of
talking."
"I couldn't agree more. Luckily I've got no
plans tonight. Like the wise Chinese philoso-
pher once said, The longest journey begins
with the first step.' You want my help? You got
it. But I still want some explanations before I
stick my head in a noose."
Valerie settled back in her chair. Her hair
swirled about her head in golden waves as she
made herself comfortable. "One condition.
You want answers. Well, so do I. You haven't
exactly been a wellspring of information. You
know a lot about me already, but I don't know
a thing about you. I'll talk, but you have to
respond in kind."
57

Robert Weinberg
"Sounds fair. I have nothing to hide."
"Everyone has something to hide," replied
Valerie, giving a snort of laughter. "Everyone.
Where do you want me to begin?"
"The voice on the intercom. I got the impres-
sion it affected you a lot more than me."
"That's because it did. You weren't the target.
In Grimoires it was called the Voice of Death.
Was pretty popular in the Middle Ages. Crowley
devoted an entire chapter of his Magick in
Theory and Practice to it."
Alex nodded, trying to concentrate. Wine
and a beautiful woman made serious thought
difficult. "I've got it now. Eliphas Levi wrote
about it as well. In a magical duel, the sound of
a magician's voice can be enough to kill his
enemies."
"Right. But it only affects other magicians.
Translate that into those with the Power. Like
me. Whoever was on the line was trying to kill
me. The sound was sufficiently distorted by the
intercom to take most of the kick out of the
spell. I doubt if it would have worked even in
person. Like most of the things Crowley de-
scribed, he never offered any hard evidence. I
suspect all the spell did was get the target
extremely agitated. Exactly the way you saw me
react."
"But how did our mystery man get the
intercom to work in the first place."
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DEVIL S AUCTION
"Mental projection. A good trick, but noth-
ing that most second-rate sorcerers can't ac-
complish. Dad used to tease me with it all the
time when I was a kid. Talk to me on the phone
while he was riding on the El. Stunts like that.
When I smashed the intercom box, it destroyed
the link. Our unknown enemy had to search for
something else to use. Took him quite a while
to latch onto the phone. That's a clue in itself. A
master magician would have had the phone
ringing in seconds. Jake's killer is definitely not
in that class. Just as well. We'd have a hell of a
fight if we had to battle a master mage."
"Hey, back up for a second. Jake and I were
pretty good friends. I'd guess I was probably as
close to him as anyone, even you. He wasn't
one to brag, but over the course of years I got
the impression he was a pretty heavy hitter.
Now you tell me he was killed by someone not
very powerful. That doesn't make much
sense."
Valerie took a swallow of coffee and then
shook her head. "You're equating apples and
oranges. I've no doubts that Dad was a more
powerful sorcerer than his killer. There were
only a few magicians in the country of his
stature. That's not the point. Dad wasn't killed
by magic. He was gassed and then attacked by
some beast. Police showed me a tear-gas canis-
ter. It was another angle they couldn't under-
59

Robert Weinberg
stand. Why would anyone use gas during a
home break-in?"
"To throw your father off balance so that he
couldn't use magic to defend himself. Very
slick."
"It all fits," said Valerie. "Not that it does us
much good. There are probably over a hundred
sorcerers and black magicians practicing in the
United States these days. Any one of them could
be the killer." She drew in a deep breath,
causing her breasts to jiggle and sending his
hormones into culture shock. "We don't lack
for suspects."
"Jake had friends in high places. Couldn't
they help?"
"Why? He's dead. Except for those with the
Power and a few normal people who have
learned the truth, no one believes in the forces
of black magic. Ever since the Witchcraft Trials
of the Middle Ages, sorcerers have worked
trying to eradicate all knowledge of their exis-
tence. By and large, they've finally succeeded.
Go tell a policeman that Jake Lancaster was
killed by a rival magician and we'll see who
they lock up. Jake was popular when he was
alive, but nobody is going to rock the boat now
that he's dead. Besides, for all you know, one of
Jake's friends could have been his killer."
"So we're on our own."
"You said it. My turn to ask a question?"
60

DEVIL S AUCTION
"Fair enough. What do you want to know?"
Their waitress had left the pot on the table.
Alex freshened both their cups.
"How did you meet Dad?"
"No mystery in that. He audited one of my
courses. It was in September, a little more than
six years ago. My book on the Witch Cult in
Europe had been published by the University a
few months earlier, so the Chairman of the
History Department thought it would be a good
idea to offer a course on the subject. I disa-
greed, but it was listed anyway. So much for
academic freedom. Nine people took it, one
more than the minimum class size require-
ment, and they were all radical feminists look-
ing for deeper meanings than I was willing to
attribute to medieval witchcraft. They saw
women's liberation as a motivating force
throughout history. We fought all semester.
Hell, did we argue.
"Your father was the only male in the class.
He got permission from the Chairman to audit
the course. He never said a word the entire
semester, and didn't take notes either. But he
was attentive, which is more than I can say for
my students. One night, near the end of our
session, there was a particularly bitter fight. I
was accused of everything from being a male
chauvinist pig to an enemy of working women.
After my judge and jury left, your father came
61

Robert Weinberg
up to me and suggested we go out for a bite to
eat. I was in no mood for food, but he insisted it
would help calm my nerves.
"We came here—sat in this same booth, in
fact. Funny. Now that I think of it, that was
probably the first time I sat back here. Whatev-
er, I'm wandering."
"Don't be silly. I enjoy listening."
"Where have you been all my life? I never
had one of my students ever say that. Anyway,
getting back to that night. We came here and
ordered a late dinner. I don't remember what.
What I do recall, like it was yesterday, was your
father insisting that we not get any wine with
our meal. We had a pitcher of water instead."
"I know what's coming next," said Valerie,
grinning. "Dad did it every chance he got. One
of his favorite tricks."
"He was a sneaky devil." Alex shook his head
from side to side. "Caught me completely by
surprise. Jake had a subtle sense of humor. We
talked about the class for a few minutes, then,
somehow the topic focused in on real magic.
That old devil had a way of twisting a conversa-
tion so that it always ended where he wanted.
He was curious as to whether I believed that
the witchcraft I described in my book really
worked. Or did I think the practitioners were
merely self-deluded lunatics? He got me to
admit that I was pretty much of a skeptic. It
was pretty difficult for me to accept a bunch of
62

DEVIL S AUCTION
women in the 16th century flying around on
broomsticks and casting spells on people they
didn't like. Jake got me quoting all the major
authorities on mass delusions and self-
hypnosis.
"Then, I took a drink. The spicy Italian
peppers and the intense conversation had me
dried out. You can imagine my reaction when
the water in the pitcher turned out to be fine
white wine."
Valerie giggled. "He was a pistol all right. He
loved that spell. It was one of the first ones he
mastered. Did he ever tell you how he used to
go to a different church1 every Sunday to prac-
tice? According to Dad, he sat in the back row
and during the Mass would change the wine
from red to white. Didn't stop until he got
married and Mom made him give up his
pranks."
"She was Catholic?"
"Nope. Unitarian. She was afraid that sooner
or later someone would realize the transforma-
tion only took place when a certain Jake Lan-
caster was on hand. Mom was positive they'd
burn him as a witch."
It was pitch black now. Hannah's sixth sense
told her that they had finished their meal. Soon
her prey would be leaving the restaurant. She
could sense a growing rapport between the two
of them, an emotional bond forming. All the
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Robert Weinberg
better. It would make her task all the easier.
Both of them had to die. Caught in the throes of
passion, they would be easy prey. The professor
she would kill immediately. A friend of the old
man, he was unimportant to her plans. Lan-
caster's daughter would live a little longer only
because she knew the location of the Invita-
tion. Hannah would make her tell where it was.
Only then would she let the girl die. That had
been a mistake her Mistress had made with the
father. They both had assumed the old man
would not be able to hide the card. Somehow
he had tricked them. The daughter possessed it
now, but not for long. Hannah waited patiently
in the darkness. It would be time to act soon
enough.
"Your dessert, I believe?"
They had been so caught up in each other
that Alex had not noticed anyone approaching.
The sound of another person's voice caught
him completely by surprise. He swung around
in the booth to face the speaker.
Five feet seven, one hundred and forty
pounds stripped. Yellow skin that perfectly
complimented jet black hair. Bright eyes that
sparkled with good humor. Wearing a white
apron embossed with a picture of Opus the
Penguin holding a soup ladle. With Jake Lan-
caster gone, this man was his closest friend in
the world.
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"Can it be?" Alex said. "Mama Mia in the
flesh?"
"Had to come over and say hello. Especially
after Sharon told me you had brought in the
foxiest woman ever to grace this humble estab-
lishment." Makoto Tsuiki bowed his head re-
spectfully. "I see that for a change the young
lady spoke the truth." His friend placed the
plate of Italian pastries in front of Valerie.
"Please accept this small offering as a token of
appreciation for your gracing my humble eat-
ing emporium with your presence. May I join
you for a moment?"
Alex couldn't believe it. This was a first for
Tsuiki. Never once during all the times he had
brought Sheila with him to the restaurant had
Mak ever spent more than a few instants at
their table; a quick hello had always been it. His
extended conversations with Alex had always
been when he had come with Jake or on his
own to Mama Mia's. Alex could feel a slight
tinge of jealousy rising within him. He had
forgotten Valerie's spell. For some odd reason,
he had thought Makoto would be immune to it.
So much for theories.
"Valerie Lancaster, Makoto Tsuiki," said
Alex, trying not to sound annoyed. "Valerie's
father was Jake Lancaster."
"Aha. I thought I noticed the resemblance. I
was grieved to hear of your father's death. A
terrible tragedy. We were friends for many
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Robert Weinberg
years." Makoto put an arm around Alex's
shoulders. "We both tried our best to take care
of Alexander."
Alex turned his head slightly and glanced at
his friend. Mak wasn't trying to be funny;
sarcasm had never been part of his character.
Sucking in a deep breath, Alex decided he
should have known better. There was no way
he could be angry with Mak very long. He owed
him too much from the years gone by—his life,
for one thing. And, recently, since the divorce,
Makoto had helped him through some pretty
hard times.
"Did you?" asked Valerie. She had a funny
look on her face, and Alex wondered if he was
missing something.
"Sometimes yes, sometimes no," Mak said.
Alex did not always listen to the wise advice of
his friends."
"Yeah," said Alex, breaking in. "There was
Sheila, for example. Both you and Jake tried to
warn me about her."
"The Dragon Lady." Makoto loved that nick-
name. "But, stop. It is not polite to talk poorly
about another woman when in the company of
one so beautiful."
The topic turned to their dinner. Valerie
raved about the food. Mak told a few funny
stories about problems raised being Japanese
while owning an Italian restaurant. Alex re-
laxed, at peace with the world. Finally, Makoto
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rose to his feet. "I've intruded long enough.
Please, enjoy the pastries." He bowed again to
Valerie. "A great pleasure meeting you. I only
wish your return had been in more pleasant
circumstances. I trust you will take good care
of our friend." Valerie smiled and nodded.
Makoto turned back to Alex. "You are in good
hands. I will rest peacefully tonight. Monday
afternoon at the dojo?"
"For sure. It'll take me a week to work off all
the lasagna I ate tonight. Sometimes I think
you cook this stuff just to slow me down."
"You are a slug already, foreign devil," said
Makoto, with a laugh. "No excuses can save
you."
With those words, his friend departed. Alex
turned back to a somewhat bemused looking
Valerie. "What was that all about?" she asked.
"Mak and I train at the same dojo. We
practice together. He's an eyelash faster than
me and won't let me forget it. I blame it on his
cooking. He claims no westerner can ever best
a Japanese in the martial arts."
"Dojo? Judo?"
"Karate. I got interested in it in Viet Nam—
that was where I met Mak. We were the only
Chicago boys in our Unit, and we grew pretty
friendly there. He saved my life. A couple of
times."
"And you did nothing for him?"
"Well, there were a few instances when I
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Robert Weinberg
repaid the favor. Let's drop the subject. The
War isn't one of my favorite topics of conversa-
tion."
"Fine with me. Did you notice, by the way,
that your friend wasn't affected by the glam-
our?"
"He wasn't?" Alex snorted. "You don't know
him. That was definitely not normal behavior
for Makoto Tsuiki."
"Nevertheless, I know my own powers. He
wasn't affected. And I don't think it had any-
thing to do with lack of sexual prowess. His
mind was . . . different. I could feel it. His
mind was at peace."
"Perhaps I know what you mean after all.
Tranquility. Mak is a follower of Shinto. He's
been involved in it most of his life. He tried to
get me to study it more than once, but it never
took. I'm too hyper. In any case, a true Shinto
master becomes one with all of nature, at
peace with all things. Tao."
Valerie nodded. "He's a good friend. You're
lucky to have him. Not many people have
someone who cares."
"I guess so; I never gave it much thought
before. Mak really took a shine to you, though.
He despised Sheila—tried hard to talk me out
of marrying her. So did your father, for that
matter."
"Jake was always meddling in other people's
lives," said Valerie. She didn't elaborate and
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Alex let the statement rest. Valerie was proba-
bly thinking how her father had pushed her
into the world of black magic, he thought. It
was time to change the mood.
"Had enough? Why don't we get going? My
car is in the campus lot. I'll drive you home."
"Sounds fine to me. Not to Jake's place
though; the police have that sealed. No one was
sure when they'd be through. I own a town-
house on the North Shore, anyway, for when
I'm in the city."
Alex left a five dollar bill for the waitress.
"Mak keeps my bills on a tab. I pay him once a
month and deduct it as a business expense on
my taxes. For research."
A new crowd of customers had replaced
those who had been in the front room when
they had arrived. The result was the same: total
silence as they made their way to the front, all
eyes glued to Valerie. Alex was willing to swear
that no one even breathed. By the time they
exited, he was holding his own.
He said, "You eat out very often?"
"Hardly ever."
"I'm not surprised. Is it always like that?"
"Worse sometimes. Depends on where I go.
And with whom."
Valerie looped her arm gently around his as
they walked. She seemed to know instinctively
what pleased him the most.
The air was cool and crisp. The wind
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Robert Weinberg
whipped through Valerie's hair, forming a
blonde halo around her face. Her ankle-length
black coat with long slits up the sides hugged
her body. She was the most beautiful woman
Alex had ever met, both physically and mental-
ly. And she was with him.
They drove up Lake Shore Drive heading
north. Alex put a Glenn Miller tape on the
cassette player. At least he had one thing to
thank his ex-wife for. She loved 1940s big-band
music and he had been a willing convert. The
soft strains of "In the Mood" filled the car as
they made their way uptown. Valerie was quiet,
huddling up close next to him. There was no
need to talk. The events of earlier in the day
seemed very far distant.
Valerie's townhouse was located off the La
Salle street exit of the Drive, on a quiet side
street a few blocks from the Park. The large
brick condominium was attached to two
others. Each unit had its own separate drive-
way. There was even a built-in garage on the
lower level of the building, resting beneath the
living room. Alex was no expert on real estate
values, but he knew Chicago neighborhoods
pretty well. Location meant a great deal in this
city, and this townhouse cost more money than
he would earn in all of his years as a Professor.
And Valerie had implied she only used this
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place when she was visiting the city. Alex
pulled his car into the driveway. "Door to door
service."
"How about coming in for a drink?" Valerie
showed no evidence of abandoning her posi-
tion snuggled up close to him. "We still have
lots to talk about."
"Uh, maybe tomorrow. I've got a lot of work
to finish. It's been a wonderful evening, but I'd
better be going."
"Going? Alex, what's bothering you? Did I
say something wrong?" She moved off of his
shoulder and swung around to look directly at
him. "Please, tell me." *
He was torn between telling her the truth
and making up some excuse. She actually
seemed pretty upset. The outside lights on the
garage reflected off what had to be—tears in
her eyes. There was no way he could lie to this
woman. She deserved the truth.
"I'm sorry," he said. "You've been fine.
Wonderful, actually. I've had a terrific time.
You can't imagine how much I've enjoyed
being with you. That's what scares me. I like
you too much."
Valerie raised both her hands so that one
touched each of his cheeks. Holding his head
gently, she moved forward and kissed him. It
was a long kiss, but not the passionate embrace
of that afternoon. Instead, it was gentle and
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Robert Weinberg
delicate, a loving kiss. "Once burned, twice
cautious," whispered Valerie, when she drew
back from him. "Alex, life goes on. You can't be
afraid of what might happen between us, what
is happening. I'm not your ex-wife and you
aren't the same person who married her. We
are who we are. Can't we leave it at that for
now?"
"I guess so. I have to admit, I really wasn't
that anxious to leave. Still, all your money . . ."
"Can't buy me happiness." Valerie rested a
hand on his. "Or respect. Or friendship. Or
love. The money I make from modeling is very
nice, Alex. I won't dispute that. But I live alone.
When I'm not working, I spend most of my
time by myself. You can fault me for many
things, but please, don't let the money I make
put you off. I deserve better than that."
"You're right." He was feeling guilty now,
almost wallowing in self-pity. He had been
pretty casual about the way he was treating
Valerie. It was not the way a gentleman acted,
and he had always prided himself on acting like
a gentleman. "I've been pretty dumb. Did you
say something about a drink?"
"You bet. And Alex," Valerie's hand was still
on his, "I don't think you've been acting dumb.
Just very, very human."
They got out of the car. Holding hands, they
climbed the steps leading to the door. Valerie
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turned her key in the lock, but before she could
push the door open, Alex stepped forward.
"I don't mean to be an alarmist, but how
about letting me go first? That voice over the
intercom made some serious threats. And
Jake's death was no joke. The two of us have
been acting pretty casual about this. I mean,
there is a killer on the loose, and according to
the voice, you're next on the list."
Valerie shook her head. "I can't imagine our
mysterious enemy trying anything tonight. Dad
was caught by surprise. That won't happen
with me. Anyway, it's okay inside. Remember, I
may have been a novice sorceress, but I was
raised in a family of magicians. Parents have
always worried about their kids and strangers.
One of the first things I learned as a child was
how to sense the feel of my home. I'm quite
sure there's no danger inside. Come on in.
Nothing to be afraid of. Other," and she
grinned at him, "than a predatory female."
"I'll take my chances."
Hannah smiled. They had arrived. It was
early yet; let them get comfortable. Relax.
Perhaps even indulge in the pleasures of the
flesh. She would know when the moment had
come, when all their defenses were down and
they were helpless. Then, and only then, would
she strike. Hannah flexed her fingers instinc-
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Robert Weinberg
tively. To feel her claws rip human flesh, her
fangs dig deep into living tissue. To rend and
claw and tear. That was the true pleasure that
no sexual experience could match. She was
patient. Soon. Her time was coming. Very soon
now.
74

Chapter Four
Valerie followed Alex into the townhouse. She
flung her coat on a chair in the front foyer and
he did the same. The next instant she was gone,
moving from room to room, turning on lights
everywhere. He followed at a more leisurely
pace, looking around and trying to get a feel for
the house. The place had the empty look of a
model home.
"I always like lots of illumination," Valerie
called from the rear of the townhouse. "Makes
a house feel so much more lived in. You want
something to drink?"
He found her in the kitchen, pouring herself
a glass of fruit juice from a large plastic pitcher.
"A soda pop would be nice," he said. "The
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Robert Weinberg
wine and the company has me a little dizzy."
"There's an open bottle of Diet Pop on the
kitchen counter, if you want. Otherwise, I have
some big two-liter plastic bottles of Coke in the
'fridge door."
"Coke, please. I don't care for the taste of
anything with the word Diet on it."
"Me neither." Valerie wrinkled up her nose.
"But it's all I drink when I'm working. I'm on
an extended leave-of-absence for now, but I still
can't have dinners like the one tonight very
often. Otherwise I'll be modeling hefty bags
instead of swimsuits."
"Never," said Alex, with emphasis, and he
meant it. In the bright lights of the room,
Valerie looked better than ever. The harsh
illumination betrayed no hidden flaws. She was
tall and slender, almost angular. She moved
with an economy of motion that Alex found
extremely graceful.
Idly, he looked around the kitchen. It was
bright and shiny and, he suspected, not used
very much. As Valerie pulled some ice cube
trays from the freezer, he spotted a host of
low-calorie TV dinners wedged in the frozen
food shelves. Two chairs rested at the breakfast
bar, with one of them wedged underneath the
overhang. It looked like it had been that way for
a long time. A heavy wood door broke the
length of the back wall.
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"Where does that door go?"
"Oh, into the jungle." Valerie giggled as she
poured him a glass of soda pop. "To my back-
yard, actually. Mr. Peterson, my neighbor, was
supposed to take care of it but he was away
most of the summer. Never realized how wild a
yard could get if no one took care of it. The
people on the other side, the Marantzes, are
gone most of the time and use a service. Wish
they had let me know how bad my yard had
gotten. Next spring I'll have to hire a bunch of
natives with machetes to cut down the
growth."
Alex walked over arid inspected the door. It
was solidly built, made of heavy wood, with
crossed beams reinforcing the bottom half.
There was a narrow glass panel, 3 inches by 8
inches across, at eye level. The door was made
for keeping out intruders, but only a cheap
boltlock held it shut. As added protection, there
was a thin sliding chainlock as well. Alex knew
how little safety that guaranteed. He peered
through the glass panel into the yard. It was too
dark to see anything, and there was no back
light. He didn't like the arrangement one bit.
Grabbing one of the unused kitchen chairs, he
carried it over to the rear entrance.
"Ever go out this way?"
"No." Valerie was emptying a bag of potato
chips into a wicker basket. She didn't pay any
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Robert Weinberg
attention to what he was doing until a chair leg
scraped on the floor.
"Alex, what's going on?"
Without answering, he shoved the top of the
chair under the knob of the door. One push
and it was wedged tight, its back legs resting
solidly on the kitchen tiles.
"I'm not crazy." He took the Coke from
Valerie's hand and smiled at her astonished
expression. "Just paranoid." Then he got seri-
ous. "Listen, Valerie. Your father was killed a
little more than a week ago. The police think
otherwise, but you and I both know it was done
for a reason. I'm not sure what. That voice
today said something about an Invitation.
Hopefully you'll explain that to me now. In any
case, those threats on the intercom were real. I
don't care how powerful your magical senses
are, and whether or not you think the killer
won't strike again because you're ready for
him. You can't use logic when dealing with
murderers. They work by different rules than
you or I.
"You admitted this afternoon that Jake was
easy prey for a direct physical attack. He was in
that fortress of his on the third floor of his
house, and that didn't save him. What chance
would you have in this place? Your front door
has a nice sturdy deadbolt. This door is com-
pletely unprotected. Since you don't use it,
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DEVIL S AUCTION
leave this chair here. It's something at least. If
someone tried to break in, it would give you a
few extra seconds. That could be the difference
between life and death."
"I won't argue with you," said Valerie as she
walked past him carrying his drink and the
basket of chips. "Though I think you are a little
nuts. Come on into the living room. It's a lot
more comfortable there."
The living room sat directly above the garage
and looked down on the driveway. The furni-
ture, like everything else in the house, ap-
peared virtually new. Alex wondered how
much time Valerie spent here. Obviously, not
very much. A huge console TV and stereo
system covered one wall of the room, and a
bright blue couch faced it on the opposite wall;
a matching loveseat stood in front of a huge
picture window. Curtains kept the room iso-
lated from the street. The coffee table and
several expensive-looking end tables provided a
touch of wood. Each small table held a delicate
crystal lamp. To Alex, it looked terribly sterile:
another indication of the emptiness in Valerie's
life.
They sprawled on the huge couch that domi-
nated the room. "Not exactly the height of
sophistication." Valerie held up her glass of
juice and smiled. "Fruit juice, Coca-Cola, and
potato chips."
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Robert Weinberg
"You asked me in for a drink. This suits me
fine." Alex gulped down half the glass of pop. "I
can use the caffeine. Can we get back to our
game of question and answer?"
"If you insist." She kicked off her heels and
stretched her arms high over her head. The
motion did extraordinary things to her dress
and set Alex's pulse racing. "You want to know
about the Devil's Auction."
It took Alex a minute before he could reply.
Putting his glass down, he clasped his hands
together and counted to ten. His heart was still
pounding, but he was now capable of logical
thought. Valerie was teasing him. It was pretty
obvious by now even to someone as thick as he
was. Her every motion was calculated to drive
him wild. Alex had to admit that she was doing
a great job. The rest of the evening was going to
be interesting.
"Ever since the incident with the intercom
this afternoon," he said, "I've been trying to
remember where I heard that expression. I
must have encountered it somewhere in my
studies. Tell me what you know about it. Maybe
something you say will strike the right note."
"Well, I hope you're not going to be disap-
pointed. I don't know much. Wouldn't have
remembered it at all if Dad hadn't clued me in
with his phone call."
"Phone call? What phone call?"
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"Sorry. Never got around to telling you. I
didn't say a thing to the police about it, so it's
between you and me."
"Of course. Now what are you talking
about?"
"The night he died, Dad called me. I was off
on assignment in Canada and my answering
machine recorded the message. When the po-
lice found Dad's body on Friday, they tried to
contact me but I was staying with friends in
Toronto and hadn't left a number with my
agency. I didn't learn of Dad's death until
Saturday morning when I returned to my
apartment in New York. Fortunately, before I
flew to Chicago I checked the answering ma-
chine.
"I can only guess what had happened. Some-
how, Dad knew he was going to be killed. I
have no idea how. He was the sorcerer, not me.
Why does it matter anyway? He knew. His call
was meant as a warning to me. And provided a
motive: the Invitation to the Devil's Auction."
"You still haven't told me what that means."
"Let me tell it my way, okay? It's the only way
we'll be able to make some sense out of this
mess. Believe me, we don't have much to go on.
Dad's message was short and to the point. I
think he was afraid someone else might hear it
and didn't want to say too much."
"Not too surprising," said Alex. "Almost
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Robert Weinberg
anyone can get messages from an answering
machine these days with a whistle and some
determination."
"I can't remember his exact words. I wrote
them down somewhere if you need to know.
The gist of what he said was that he had
received an invitation to attend a rare curio
auction in upstate Illinois. He was quite certain
he wasn't going to make it. Dad made sure that
I understood that to attend the auction you had
to have an invitation. The event was going to be
held there on Halloween at an estate owned by
Vassily Romanov."
"Great. We can trace . . ."
"Not so fast, handsome. It's a little more
difficult than that. Vassily Romanov was one of
Dad's closest friends. He had studied with him
in Europe when he was a teenager. Dad told
me lots of Romanov stories when I was a kid.
The guy was not a great magician, but he did
things with a style and flair that I think Dad
envied."
Alex frowned. He had a bad feeling that he
knew where Valerie was leading. "Do I get the
distinct impression that Romanov is no longer
with us?"
"Give the man a cigar. Vassily Romanov died
thirty years ago."
It was time for the change, Hannah Stine
decided. This present form was doing her little
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good. She had forgotten the Lancaster girl's
accursed aura. At a distance it was not a
problem, but close up it filled the psychic
sphere with static. The wave of sensuality she
exuded was so powerful it completely blocked
off all of Hannah's psychic probes, leaving her
with no way to tell what was going on inside the
house. Still, they had been in there for quite a
while and the professor showed no signs of
leaving.
Hannah was no fool. She had served her
Mistress for too many years not to know what
was probably taking place. Disgusting, revolt-
ing joinings. The very" thought of sex made
Hannah feel ill. It was unclean. When her
Mistress took a lover, life was unbearable.
Happily, such occurrences usually ended in a
quarrel. Hannah was always given the job of
ending the discarded lover's worthless life. She
suspected that a great deal of the excitement
her Mistress derived from such sexual cou-
plings was the knowledge that soon her lover
would be screaming in pain when Hannah
toyed with him. Often, her Mistress had her
torture the victim for hours. Sweat formed on
Hannah's brow as she remembered the last
satisfying entertainment. Even with his guts
ripped open, he had lasted for such a long time.
Much better than killing old Lancaster. That
had been done in a rush—no telling what the
old man would have done if given the time.
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Robert Weinberg
Lancaster's daughter would make up for the
loss. Hannah would make the girl last a long
time. A very long time.
Suddenly anxious to begin, she removed her
clothes. There were no labels or identifying
tags inside them in case she did not have a
chance to recover the garments. Her Mistress
made sure she was very careful. Hannah
smiled. They made a very good team. Beauty
and the beast. She raised her eyes up and
concentrated on the full moon. Barely moving
her lips, Hannah pronounced the word of
power.
The Change began.
"Maybe I'm dense, but I seem to have missed
a turn somewhere. Why did Jake refer to
Romanov if the man died before you were
born."
"Aha." Valerie pointed a finger at him in
melodramatic fashion. "That is the question. I
asked myself the same thing a dozen times on
the flight out here. It took me a while to
remember, but then it hit me. Years ago, Dad
told me the story of Romanov's death. It was in
a fight with another magician. They were bat-
tling for possession—"
"—of an invitation to The Devil's Auction,"
Alex finished. "So this isn't the first time it's
been held."
"Not according to Dad. Last time was on
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Halloween, which, according to Dad's call, is
when it is to take place again. He also told me
that only a small number of invitations are sent
out and you can't attend without one."
Alex was fascinated. He was positive that he
had read about a similar auction in one of the
books in his library, but he could not place the
right one. The title was lurking in the depths of
his memory. He hoped that a little more infor-
mation would provide the necessary clue.
"What's auctioned off at this big affair? And
who runs the show?"
"Two good questions, my dear. I wish I knew
the answers. All Dad had were theories."
"Theories. What kind of theories?"
"I don't remember them very well, Alex.
Remember, I was told this story years ago, long
before I moved out. I've forgotten most of what
Dad said. On the other hand, I gave both
questions a lot of thought during this past
week. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to
make some good guesses. You want to try a
theory or two on your own? Just based on what
I've told you."
"Hmm. I think I see what you mean. Play
detective using the clues we already have.
Sounds simple enough. For one thing, basic
logic dictates that whatever is auctioned off at
this event is pretty valuable—considering at
least two men have been killed by other magi-
cians wanting their invitations."
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Robert Weinberg
"According to Dad, when Romanov was
killed there were a lot more than murders in
the scramble."
"Strengthens our line of reasoning. The actu-
al object or objects being auctioned off aren't
important to us. For all we know, no one knows
what they are. In fact, I'm willing to bet none of
those attending have any idea what is up for
auction."
"That's a pretty big assumption."
"In the back of my head there are bells
ringing. I can't pin the story down yet, but I
know I've heard it before, or seen it someplace.
In one of the books in my library there's a
description of this auction, or one very similar.
And I remember distinctly that no one knew
what the valuable object being offered for sale
actually was. There were rumors and stories, of
course, and afterwards, no one admitted ever
attending the auction. Nor was there any con-
firmation of what was sold. Or who got it. Such
secrecy in magical circles points to some pretty
potent stuff, since the commentaries on magic
seldom leave much out. So, I think we can
assume this object must be of great value to
sorcerers. Otherwise, why all the killing?"
"I came up with pretty much the same
answer. If we follow that line of reasoning, that
leads us to one possible conclusion: It has to be
a magical talisman of great power."
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Alex rubbed his chin with one hand. "A
talisman? A magic charm?"
"More, Alex, much more. You're an expert
on the history of magical practices. You must
know about objects of power."
"Of course. It's just hard for me to accept
that Jake was killed by someone who wanted
an invitation to an auction where some ring or
necklace is going to be offered for sale."
"It has to be the reason nonetheless, Alex.
Don't mock. You know that most magic in-
volves two things. The will and the way is the
first thing anyone trying to become a true
magician learns. Only a few people possess the
certain psychic gifts, what we call the Power, to
perform real magic. That is the will. Anyone
can try to use magic but the spell will work
only for those with the Power.
"Theoretically, a true sorcerer should be
able to do anything he wants merely by concen-
trating. Dad once suggested that Jesus Christ
was not divine but instead the greatest of all
sorcerers. Using will alone, Christ was able to
perform miracles. Mom wouldn't speak to him
for a week until he apologized. It's a fascinating
thought. In any case, all of the sorcerers living
today need aids to help them in their magical
pursuits, paths that help them achieve the level
of concentration or mental readiness, certain
words that are necessary for them to focus
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Robert Weinberg
their will in special directions. It is a very
important part of the black arts. The Way. Thus
you have spells, rituals, ceremonies, and yes—
even talismans and charms. Many such objects
have absorbed their own measure of power
from long years of contact with powerful magi-
cians. Certain talismans can retain both the
will and the way from their users. Think of
them as gigantic batteries, filled with psychic
energy. These magic talismans are passed
down from generation to generation. It's a
give-and-take situation. A magician uses it for
greater powers, and in doing so, imparts some
of his magic into the talisman for a future user.
Obviously, the older the talisman, assuming it
has been used again and again, the greater its
power. A knowledgeable adept can tap into that
power and perform great acts of sorcery."
"And men will kill for these talismans?"
"Read the paper. Men kill for lots of things.
Money, love, hate, you name it. A powerful
talisman, an ancient symbol of power, for
example, might enable a magician to raise the
dead or control the weather. Didn't you ever
read that occult book about the Spear of Desti-
ny? The one supposedly used to kill Christ?
Imagine the power such an object would pos-
sess. Or the Shroud of Turin." Valerie's voice
had a strange ring to it. "Imagine. Do you
wonder that legends grow up about such
things?"
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"Okay, I'm convinced. I know all the myths,
too. I always considered them mere fabrica-
tions. Since sorcery exists in the world, I guess
that implies magic talismans as well. Just give
me a little time to adjust to the fact.
"Let's back up a bit, though. We're pretty
well set so far. The auction was last held thirty
years ago, and is going to be held again next
week. Some mystical talisman or talismans
may be offered for bid. You can only attend
with an invitation, and invitations are hard to
come by." Alex shook his head. "Great stuff.
For every question we answer, five more are
raised."
"Well, don't start yet," said Valerie, sliding
over on the couch. "Time for a kiss and Coke
break."
"A what?"
"Here, let me demonstrate."
Valerie's demonstration had him gasping for
breath after a few minutes. Her fingers twirled
across the back of his neck as they embraced,
setting his hair on end. Alex could feel the
warmth of her body pressed tight up against his
side. Valerie definitely had other things on her
mind.
"Want some more Coke?" she whispered
softly in his ear, running her tongue across his
ear lobe immediately afterward. "I need anoth-
er glass of juice."
"Whatever you say." Alex loosened his collar.
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Robert Weinberg
Sweat trickled down his neck and across his
chest. "Sure is hot in here."
Valerie laughed, a deep, low chuckle that
sent shivers all over his body. She gathered
their glasses and rose from the couch. "It'll get
a lot hotter later, sweetie." She ran her tongue
slowly over her upper lip. "A lot hotter."
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Chapter Five
The pain ripped through her as it always did. It
was part of the Change. Her Mistress had tried
to explain the metamorphosis to her once but
the words had made little sense. Hannah did
not care; she needed no clarification of the
alteration that overwhelmed her.
Somehow, by uttering a Word of Power, her
body transformed from that of a mere human
into a creature of the night. She became a thing
that could kill.
Now she stood motionless in the moonlight.
Her muscles stretched and grew as the Change
moved down her back and into her lower body.
It felt as though her muscles were pulling
apart. Bones cracked as they shifted beneath
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her skin. A terrible itching swept through her.
Thick, coarse hair covered her arms and legs.
Huge teeth expanded in her jaws.
Then the Change was complete and Hannah
Stine existed no longer. A huge beast stood in
her place.
Her senses were much greater now. The
smell of her prey filled her nostrils. They were
close, very close. She could almost taste the hot
blood in her mouth. No longer could she
maintain the patient watch she had kept all
evening. In this form, patience did not exist.
Thought led to immediate action. With a silent
growl, she leapt onto the wooden back porch of
the Lancaster woman's home. The two humans
waited inside. Only a thin piece of wood stood
between her and them. No lock could hold her
out.
She did not hesitate. Her massive body
smashed into the porch door.
Valerie started for the kitchen, swaying her
hips in an exaggerated motion. It was more
silly than sexy, but it set the mood. Serious talk
was past. There was a time for being a gentle-
man, and then there were other times. This was
one of those exceptions. Valerie left no doubts
about her intentions for the rest of the evening.
Alex scrambled off the sofa. With a wild
giggle, Valerie dashed into the kitchen. He was
quick to follow.
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He caught her by the counter, where she was
putting the glasses down. Reaching from be-
hind her, he encircled her with his arms.
Without hesitation, she swung around and
pressed up tight against him. They kissed pas-
sionately. His body pushed hard against her,
pinning her to the refrigerator door. Alex could
feel the heat burning within her. Valerie's arms
were locked around his neck, holding his face
tight against hers. His hands slipped down
across her back, pulling her forward and even
tighter.
With a loud crash, the outside door shud-
dered violently. The heavy wood panels shook,
as something huge slammed against them
again and again. The chair beneath the door-
knob screeched against the' tile floor but held.
Paranoia had triumphed. Outside, something
howled in anger.
Alex pushed Valerie away. He had to clear
his head fast. It was hard to think with his brain
numbed by passion. Savagely, he bit his tongue.
The pain snapped him into full awareness.
Automatic defense mechanisms buried deep in
his subconscious took over. It was that night in
Viet Nam all over again. Escape commanded
his mind, and his body reacted.
The door vibrated again as the thing outside
smashed into it. The wood would not hold
another assault. Alex pulled his car keys from
his pocket and thrust them into Valerie's
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hands. He half lifted, half pushed her to the
living room doorway. "The car. Get the car
going."
"I can't leave you here, Alex!" She was
trembling but otherwise in complete control.
"Get going. I know what I'm doing." He
shoved her again. "Go!" Valerie hesitated only
for a second, then turned and ran.
Alex whirled around and ripped open the
drawer in the kitchen counter. He cursed when
he saw that all it held was a fork and a smooth
edged knife. He had hoped for a steak knife at
least.
Behind him, the back door crashed to the
floor with a hail of wood chips. There was a
plastic bottle half full of Coke on the counter.
Alex grabbed that. In deadly combat, anything
could be a weapon. He turned to confront their
attacker.
The monster stood in the rear doorway, its
blazing yellow eyes narrowed from the bright
lights of the kitchen. Poor vision, Alex noted. It
had a gaping mouth filled with huge teeth, a
muscular body covered with dark hair, and
gigantic hands ending in clawed fingers. It
seemed sexless. He recognized it almost imme-
diately. He had seen pictures of such things in
many books of magic: it was a servant of the
darkest forces ... a werewolf.
The creature swung its head around and
spotted him. It growled, the sound rising from
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deep in its chest. Its body seemed to expand as
it drew in its breath. It was going to attack.
Keep the enemy off guard, his mind warned. His
one hope was that a human mind resided in the
beast's body. He doubted it really possessed
any great fighting skills beyond its own animal
strength.
Frantically, Alex put one hand over the top of
the Coke bottle. He shook it hard. Then, before
the werewolf could react, he released his hand
and let the soda pop spray the thing in the face,
splashing it in the eyes and nose.
It was a lucky shot, catching the monster
completely off guard. It roared in anger. The
carbonated soda pop had to sting. For a second,
the creature's hands were rubbing its eyes
violently.
Alex ran to the kitchen breakfast-bar. He
pulled out the other chair. With a flip of the
wrist, he flung it into the werewolf's legs. The
chair connected with a solid thunk, knocking
the creature back.
It roared again. Blood dripped from two
gashes in its flesh. The monster was strong, but
it was vulnerable. It could feel pain. He had a
chance.
Alex scrambled into the living room, know-
ing the werewolf would follow in a second. He
needed a weapon. The front door of the town-
house stood open. It tempted him for a second,
but his fighting instincts warned him away. He
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dared not show the monster his back. When
Valerie signalled, he would flee. Until then, he
had to fight.
With a bestial roar, the werewolf entered the
living room. From the way the thing acted, Alex
suspected it had never encountered resistance
before, had never actually fought anyone. It
was a killer—it had to be the thing that had
murdered Jake Lancaster and perhaps many
others—but its every action betrayed the fact
that it wasn't a fighter. Grimly, Alex stared at
the powerful muscles rippling in its chest and
arms. There was no way he could hold off the
werewolf in a fair fight, but he had no intention
of fighting fair. A fierce joy filled him. Time to
strike back.
"Here I am, baby," he called softly.
Immediately, the creature's head swung
around, looking for him. It reacted the same
way it had in the kitchen, as Alex had suspected
it would. The sofa pillow he launched right
after speaking caught the monster full in the
snout. The fabric bag did no damage, but it
further enraged the monster. Keep the enemy
angry and confused was another Viet Nam
lesson.
The werewolf leapt forward, claws slashing
down. The cushions on the sofa exploded in a
flurry of feathers.
But Alex was already somewhere else. He
had started moving as soon as he had launched
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the pillow. Circling to his left, he grabbed up a
small leaded-glass lamp. As the werewolf lifted
its head to find him, Alex sent the lamp flying at
the monster's body.
This time it reacted faster. One arm swept
out and knocked the lamp away in mid-air. Alex
cursed as the werewolf came rushing right at
him. For a second, gaping teeth flashed as
yellow claws ripped the air.
Alex dropped to the floor. The beast crashed
over him. He grabbed the creature by both
ankles and heaved with all his strength. The
monster slammed hard into the wall, but it was
not out. Almost before Alex moved, the crea-
ture chased after him.
Then the werewolf howled in triumph. In-
stinctively, Alex leapt to the side and down,
rolling away, his body curled in a tight ball.
The monster rushed past, blundering into
the huge TV set. It hit its legs in nearly the same
spot that had been damaged by the chair.
Roaring in pain, it doubled up for a second.
Alex grabbed hold of a heavy ottoman with
both hands and shoved it at the creature. The
chair struck the werewolf hard in the legs,
trapping it against the TV.
From outside came the loud honking of his
car horn. Perfect timing, Alex thought, another
lucky break. It was like Viet Nam all over again.
He rushed for the door.
The monster's howls of rage filled the room.
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At the front door, Alex risked a quick look back.
The werewolf had not attempted to move the
chair. Instead, it was ripping the ottoman to
kindling. In seconds, it would be free. Alex kept
going. He slammed the door shut behind him,
then took the outside steps two at a time.
Valerie was revving up his car's motor at full
blast. There was no time to switch positions, so
Alex swung up and over the hood. The passen-
ger door was unlocked. Pulling it open, he
flung himself inside. "Lock your door and get
this thing moving. That werewolf—"
He didn't have time to finish the sentence.
The picture window above and in front of the
driveway shattered as the monster came charg-
ing through. It landed on all fours only a few
feet in front of them. Valerie threw the car in
reverse. With the motor already engaged, the
auto shot backward like a bullet.
They careened into the street, tires leaving a
track of rubber in the driveway. Only Valerie's
quick spinning of the steering wheel saved
them from crashing into the cars parked across
from the townhouse. Her foot slammed down
hard on the brake, bringing them to a sudden
stop. Alex grabbed the door handle as he went
tumbling forward. Even then, he hit the dash-
board hard enough to knock the breath from
his lungs.
Valerie yanked hard on the gear shaft, slam-
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ming the car into drive. She kept her foot hard
on the brake. The auto shook as she gunned the
motor, tires whining in protest. Face taut,
Valerie peered through the front window.
"Come on. Come on."
As if in answer, the werewolf came barreling
down the driveway. Arms outstretched, the
creature charged the car. Valerie flipped on the
headlights. They caught the werewolf full on,
blinding it for an instant. The beast stumbled
back, arms held high to shield its eyes. Valerie
released her foot from the brake. Like a wild
animal, the car leapt forward, straight at the
monster.
The werewolf's incredible reflexes thwarted
Valerie's plans. With a perfectly-timed lunge, it
leapt onto the hood of their car. Powerful
fingers grabbed onto the windshield wipers'
slot, digging into the steel. Alex could see the
monster's cord-like muscles stand out in bold
relief as it began to pull itself forward. Its jaws
gaped open like the mouth of Hell.
Valerie pressed the gas pedal to the floor and
they roared down the narrow street. The were-
wolf pulled itself closer and closer to the front
window. It was hanging on now with only one
hand. The other was drawn back, fingers curled
into a giant fist.
"Brake!" shouted Alex. "Brake, brake!"
Valerie braked. At the speed they were going,
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the car couldn't stop. Instead, it skidded sharp-
ly, lurching from side to side, shuddering and
shaking.
Despite its terrible strength, the werewolf
went flying off the hood. It bounced to the
pavement, landed in a roll, and was on its feet
in a second.
By then, they were fifty feet further down the
road. Valerie needed no further coaching. Her
foot slammed back down on the gas pedal and
once more the car built up speed. She kept her
eyes on the road ahead. Behind them, the
werewolf was left standing alone in the middle
of the street.
Alex released the breath he had been hold-
ing. He had not exhaled, it seemed, since he
first got into the car. They had discovered the
identity of Jake's murderer, he realized, and
escaped without falling victim to the same fate.
"Head south on the Drive. We'll be safe in my
apartment for the night. No way that creature
could get up to my floor without being noticed.
There are too many people about all the time.
And, the powers-that-be don't allow wolves in
campus apartment buildings. At least, not that
kind of wolf."
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Chapter Six

Hannah stopped the car at the gates of the
estate. She did not relish facing her Mistress.
The Countess was not gracious in defeat. Her
temper was terrible to behold when con-
fronted with any disappointment. Hannah had
never been thwarted before; this was the first
time her quarry had escaped. The news would
not sit well with her Mistress, she knew. There
was too little time left to make new plans. The
mysterious auction was only a few days away,
and without an Invitation, they could not at-
tend.
The sweat trickled down Hannah's back as
she remembered how her Mistress had ranted
and raved for hours when they had been unable
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to find the card at Lancaster's house. The
Countess had beaten her unmercifully because
she had killed the old man before they could
question him. It did Hannah little good to
remind her Mistress that she was the one who
had ordered the magician's death. What would
the Countess do when Hannah told her of this
latest failure?
It did not matter much. Hannah had no
other place to go: this was her home and here
she belonged. There was little use in stalling.
Whatever fate awaited her, it was destiny.
Grimly, she got out of the car and unlocked
the gates that were the only break in the
nine-foot-high wall that surrounded the vast
estate. As she swung open the huge metal
doors, iron grated on iron with a harsh, scrap-
ing sound. Hannah stood waiting in the en-
trance way. It did not take long for the noise to
bring the hounds.
The two beasts came charging out of the
bushes. Monstrous dogs with yellow fangs,
their eyes blazed in the darkness. Each of the
two weighed nearly a hundred pounds. Wolf-
hounds, the Mistress called them, but Hannah
knew better. They were Hellhounds. The beast
within her recognized the terrible souls impris-
oned in animal bodies. Long ago the Countess
had raised these things up from the
Netherworld. They had animal form, but Han-
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nah knew their true natiire by their terrible,
cold, blood-red eyes, eyes without pupils. At
night, those eyes burned like coals in the
darkness.
She remembered the beasts from her earliest
childhood. They were the only part of her
youth she still recalled with absolute clarity.
Red eyes staring at her from just beyond the
windows of the mansion. The hounds had
always known when she was awake. They pa-
trolled the patios outside her room. Whenever
Hannah looked out, they were there, staring in
at her. Glowing red eyes and huge fangs,
pressed up against the glass. The beasts hun-
gered for her flesh. Instead of frightening Han-
nah, that bloodlust had fueled her own
obsessive hatred of the Hellhounds. That anger
had only grown over the years.
Unchanging and eternal, the dogs still pa-
trolled the grounds at night with ruthless effi-
ciency. Not once had there ever been a
complaint about them to the town police. That
was because the hounds were too intelligent
for mere beasts. Reckless teenagers or school-
boys on a dare, the Hellhounds merely cor-
nered, then barked until Hannah or the
Mistress came to rescue them. The thoroughly
frightened children were then sent home with
a stern lecture on trespassing. After being
confronted with several hundred pounds of
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bestial fury, none of the younger generation
ever made a second attempt to cross the
grounds.
Nor did any other, less welcome visitors.
However, the fate of solitary tramps or an
occasional thief was entirely different. More
than once Hannah had watched from an up-
stairs window as the two dogs, Gog and Magog,
streaked silently across the front drive, jaws
open in some silent howl of triumph. The
hounds never barked when hunting. They
knew better than to alert their prey. For all of
their size, the two ran like the wind, their red
eyes burning with a light like the very fires of
Hell. Usually, a few minutes after they disap-
peared into the brush, a brief scream of mortal
agony would indicate their hunt had again
been successful. When the dogs returned to
their kennel in the morning after a hunt, their
jaws would be caked red with human blood.
Hannah sometimes looked for their victims the
day after, but she had never succeeded in
finding any trace of a body. What they did with
the remains Hannah never discovered.
The two hounds came to a quick halt when
they saw who waited for them. They stood at
the side of the dirt roadway, their mouths open,
their teeth shining in the headlights of her car.
Those unchanging red eyes followed her every
move. Silently, the Hellhounds clenched and
unclenched their teeth. They seemed to in-
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stinctively know the action put Hannah on
edge.
It was quite clear to Hannah why the dogs
hated her. Even when she was a child, they had
sensed the difference within her. The beasts
feared the wolf-form that dwelt within her. An
ancient, racial hatred existed between their
kind and those born of the beast. The Hell-
hounds lusted for her blood. They would kill
her in an instant if their Mistress permitted
that. But the Countess had always kept the
Hounds at bay. Still, Hannah knew that only
the absolute obedience to the will of their
Mistress stopped the Hellhounds from attack-
ing her. It was a frightening thought.
She spat at them in annoyance. Someday
there would be an accounting. Not tonight,
though. They sat guarding the entrance way as
Hannah turned back to the car. She drove the
auto onto the estate grounds, then locked the
gate behind her. No one would dare follow her
with such monsters keeping watch. Hannah
wondered if tonight the Mistress might unleash
the Hellhounds against her. More than once
the Countess had threatened to do just that.
She enjoyed making her servant squirm. Han-
nah knew that even in wolf form she stood little
chance against the evil pair. Shivering again,
she steered the car up the winding road to the
mansion a quarter mile beyond. A solitary
yellow light in the Library window told her that
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the Mistress awaited her arrival impatiently.
Hannah looked for a second in the rear view
mirror. She could see the blazing red eyes of
the Hellhounds reflecting back at her. It was
not a reassuring sight.
There were no cops around. Larry had been
checking for the past fifteen minutes. The drive
was clean. As he crouched down a little lower
beneath the huge garbage bin where he had
been hiding for the past hour, he reviewed his
plan. It never hurt to be too careful: he didn't
want to end up in jail for a hundred bucks.
On the street, his friends called him "Mr.
Mind" because he always planned out every job
to the smallest detail. Larry liked the nick-
name. It fit him perfectly. He did use his mind.
He was one of the few dudes in the neighbor-
hood who did. Kept him in change and off the
police blotter. Which was more than most of
his friends could say.
Fourteen years old, Larry Kennelly had been
involved in illegal activities for nearly half his
life. He started by running numbers on the
southwest side when he was eight, graduating
into petty thievery within a year. He had never
known his real father. His mother hit the bottle
quite a bit and Larry was left pretty much to
himself. A short, underweight child, he pos-
sessed a natural speed and athletic ability that
served him well in his criminal activities. Like
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the job tonight, though Larry had to admit he
wasn't even sure if what he was doing was
illegal. It didn't matter much. All that mattered
was the money.
Squinting in the pale light of the full moon,
Larry stared at the half of the hundred-dollar
bill that he had been given a few hours earlier.
"Half now," the old man had told him, "and the
other half when the job is done." Larry shiv-
ered thinking about the strange little man. His
eyes fastened on you and stayed there without
blinking. The old geezer reminded Larry of the
snakes he had once seen in the zoo. Spooky, the
way he had known Larry's name without ask-
ing. The old man sure didn't dress like he was
rich, but he kept a C-note crumpled up in his
back pocket. Only crazy guys ripped a bill in
half like it wasn't worth a thing.
So here he was, on the extension of Lake
Shore Drive leading to Meigs Field, checking
out the action, waiting for the right moment.
He tightened the knots in the laces of his
sneakers. His gloves were on just right. Black
shoe polish all over his exposed skin, blending
in with the black pants and sweatshirt he wore.
No one would ever notice him.
He looked up at the statue not twenty feet
away. Why the Hell anyone wanted to tape a
piece of old paper to the forehead of a big piece
of crap like that he had no idea—and he didn't
care. If the old man was willing to pay a
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hundred bucks to have it done, Larry would do
it. He'd done a lot worse for a lot less.
A cloud covered the moon. Larry leapt for-
ward, darting across the street. He was up the
concrete base of the statue in seconds. He
scrambled higher, grabbing hold of the one leg
of the horse lifted off the platform. He pulled
hard, levering himself onto the actual base of
the statue.
Pausing, he checked the street quickly. The
moon still lay behind the clouds. There was no
motion anywhere. A few cars roared by on
Lake Shore Drive, but that was hundreds of feet
away. With his features darkened, no one
would see him. It was safe to continue.
He climbed up onto the statue, straddling
the horse directly in front of the mounted man.
The metal was cold and the damp breeze
blowing off the lake made it wet and slippery,
but Larry knew what he was doing. He had
studied the figure for a long time. The rider had
one arm extended holding a sword as if leading
a charge, and Larry rested one hand on that
arm while planting his foot on the saddle. With
his teeth, he pulled the glove off his free hand.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a
bottle of rubber cement with which to attach
the paper to the statue's forehead. He quickly
inched his way forward. Not even a minute had
passed and already he was almost finished.
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Next came the piece of wrinkled paper the
old man had given him. It was around five
inches long and an inch high: not much to look
at. There were some funny looking symbols
drawn on it, but Larry had never seen them
before and they didn't make any difference. If
the old man had wanted a beer sign hung from
the statue's arm, he would have done it. He
wasn't paid to ask questions.
Regular tape wouldn't work on the metal
statue. But rubber cement worked fine. Larry
had made sure of that earlier in the day. The
old man had not specified how he was to get
the paper to stay fast, only that it had to be on
the figure's forehead.
Larry dabbed a wide patch across the metal,
slapped on the parchment, and rubbed it down
for a few seconds to make sure it wasn't going
to move. Then, back into his pocket went the
bottle of rubber cement. Without a wasted
motion, he grabbed the statue's extended arm,
swung out over the grass, and dropped to the
ground, his legs only bending slightly to absorb
the impact of the fall. The whole operation had
taken little more than two minutes.
He ran back to the garbage dumpster. The
moon was still behind the clouds. No police
were about; the park was quiet. He squinted at
the statue. The white paper was hard to see
unless you knew it was there, pasted right on
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the forehead of 'Casimir Pulaski,' whoever that
might have been.
He smirked in self-satisfaction. Another per-
fect job. Now all he had to do was find the old
geezer for the rest of his money.
"I have it right here," a voice said from right
beside him.
Larry spun around, startled. He would have
sworn there was no one there a minute ago.
Had the old man been there the whole time he
had been on the statue? How did he know what
he was thinking?
The wizened little man held out the half of
the C-note. "Go ahead, take it. You earned it."
Larry reached for the bill eagerly. Damn
right, he had earned it. Did a good job. No
reason to be spooked over some crazy old man.
So what if he didn't make any noise when
walking? He had just caught him by surprise.
That was all.
"A smart man," said the old guy, making it
perfectly clear who he meant by that remark,
"would not talk about his work tonight. Not
even if he read something in the paper or saw
something on TV that made him want to brag a
little. Isn't that so, Mr. Mind?"
Larry nodded his agreement. Then he turned
and ran into the shadows, heading for home. It
wasn't until he was out of the park that he
realized the old man had called him by his
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nickname. Damn, that dude was weird. No
question about it. Wouldn't hurt to keep his lip
zipped. Wouldn't be a bad idea at all.
Hannah shivered in fear. Her Mistress was
very quiet. Too quiet. She had listened to
Hannah's account of the failed attack without
once interrupting. The Countess's eyes had
remained locked onto hers the entire time like
a snake eying its prey. Hannah would have
preferred the Mistress to scream and shout like
she sometimes did when her will was thwarted.
Rage she could live with. She did not mind the
beatings or the pain that the Mistress dealt out
so efficiently. Such was a servant's lot. Mistakes
were paid for and then forgiven. It was these
silent times that worried Hannah much more.
For all of her own bestial powers, Hannah was
terribly frightened of her Lady. The monster
within her was purely animal in nature. It
hungered for human flesh and life—that was
the nature of the beast. Not so with her Mis-
tress. There were depths of depravity within the
sorceress that made Hannah's bloodlust seem
like child's play. To the Lady, torture and pain
were arts that were raised to the highest levels.
Hannah felt cold as she waited in silence.
"Your failure is noted," the Countess Marie
Lamont said finally, after nearly twenty min-
utes of thought. She waved one slender hand,
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dismissing the incident. "The mistake was
mine, not yours. You are blameless, my ser-
vant."
Hannah nodded slowly, wondering what her
Mistress meant. It was not her place to speak. A
wrong word, a foolish gesture, and she still
could bring on the anger she knew lurked
beneath that calm exterior. Still, she remained
attentive. The Countess would explain when
she was ready. She always did. Then it would be
Hannah's job to listen and obey.
"Yes. I see it now. My plan was a good one.
We had to wait until today, could not attack the
girl until the police left her alone. Trying to
scare the professor with that clipping was a
waste of time . . . not that it mattered. The
main thrust of our scheme was unharmed.
Using the Voice made the girl overconfident. I
knew she could manage that without any prob-
lem. It caused her to underestimate us. Then,
after enough time to lull her suspicions, attack-
ing her in her own home should have worked.
But it didn't. Even with them totally unpre-
pared for your assault." The Countess frowned
in annoyance. "They did not suspect anything?
You caught them completely by surprise?"
"I thought I did, My Lady. They were em-
bracing in the kitchen. I could see them
through the window. I could sense their pas-
sion. They had no idea I was outside. No idea at
all."
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"Why are you hesitating, Hannah? Tell me."
"The back door. It was a thin one. I should
have smashed it in an instant. But the professor
had reinforced it with a chair. That was what
gave the girl time to flee. They were not aware
of me. I am sure of that. But the door was
barricaded. An unlucky coincidence that saved
them."
"And through that luck they escaped." The
Countess frowned. "I seem to have made a
serious tactical error, one that will be difficult
to correct. I underestimated my opponents. I
knew the girl, being Lancaster's daughter, had
the Power. I never suspected that her compan-
ion possessed the gift as well."
Hannah growled deep in her throat. She
couldn't help it. The beast within her stirred
angrily. "The professor? He was lucky, nothing
more than that. No magic in his fighting. When
I meet him again, I will tear his guts out."
The Countess laughed, a harsh, high pitched
barking that was anything but ladylike. "Per-
haps, my fine servant, perhaps. But you would
be wise to remember that there is no such
thing as luck. Coincidence, yes. But luck the
way most people think of it does not exist. It is
another strong manifestation of the Power.
Uncontrolled, but dangerous.
"No human should be able to stand up to you
in your beast form. Your powers are that of ten.
Yet, this professor not only battled you to a
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standstill, but he escaped as well. Merely lucky,
you claim. I know better. To me, it indicates
that he has the gift. A very strong measure of
the Power, I suspect. I should have checked
into his background. What else could have led
Lancaster and that accursed Tsuiki to him?
This miscalculation may cost us dearly."
"The Invitation?" asked Hannah, and then
she wished she hadn't. Her Mistress was ob-
sessed with the Devil's Auction, and now her
one possible chance to attend seemed further
away than ever.
"I will have that Invitation," said the Count-
ess, measuring each word distinctly. "We still
have three days. I will not be left out!"
Hannah wondered what was so important
about the Invitation. The Countess had never
said why she had to attend the Auction, nor was
it Hannah's place to ask. Still, rarely had the
Mistress been so set on something as she was in
this pursuit of the Invitation. The attack on old
Lancaster had been an act of sheer despera-
tion. Normally, the Countess would never have
challenged a magician of such power. That they
had succeeded had not fooled even Hannah.
The old man had hardly struggled. It was as
though he were resigned to dying. Even then, if
they had delayed a few seconds more he would
have killed them both.
Now they pursued the daughter. Hannah did
not like this scheme. If an attack failed, aban-
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don the quarry—that was her way of thinking.
She was cautious. Usually, that was the way the
Countess also worked.
Hannah was not used to fighting. Usually her
victims fled before her. The professor had not
been afraid; she had sensed that from the first
second of their encounter. In some way, he
seemed to rejoice in their combat. He was a
breed apart. He was dangerous.
Her fingers flexed in almost subconscious
fury. The man had hurt her. Her knees still
ached. All the more reason to abandon the
chase.
Hannah knew she was not invulnerable.
Great strength would not stop a bullet. Or even
a well-placed knife. A vague feeling of uneasi-
ness haunted her. Things were not as they
seemed; this man could be her doom.
Her Mistress rose from the ornate chair that
dominated the sitting room. Restlessly, the
Countess paced back and forth, her head down,
eyes focused on the carpet, hands locked be-
hind her back.
Hannah stared at her Mistress with dull eyes.
She had seen her Lady do this a thousand
times. The Countess was planning a new trap.
The front doorbell rang. The Countess raised
her head in astonishment. No one came to
their estate except when asked, and Hannah
knew no one was expected tonight.
A brief tremble shook the Countess's body.
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Robert Weinberg
She licked her lips. "Gog and Magog," she
asked, her voice low and worried, "they were
there this evening when you came back?"
"Of course."
"Can you sense them now?"
Hannah started to protest then thought bet-
ter of it. The Countess knew how much she
hated the Hellhounds; mental contact with
them repulsed her. Tonight was not a good
time to argue. And, she had to admit, the
Hounds might be needed.
Hannah reached out with the sixth sense that
resided deep within her. The beast buried in
her soul searched and searched but came up
with nothing. The Hellhounds were nowhere to
be found.
"They do not respond, Mistress. I cannot
sense them. And," Hannah continued, know-
ing what the next question would be before it
was asked, "I cannot sense anything about the
one at the door. Whoever rang the bell is a total
blank."
"Can the dead return?" asked the Countess.
She seemed to shrink, draw in on herself, and
the blood drained from her face, leaving her
cheeks pale white. She looked at Hannah and
smiled faintly. "Now is your chance to make up
for your failure earlier this evening. Go. Answer
the door. See who it is ... or what it is."
* * *
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Sid Levine kept one eye fastened on his
side-view mirror as he directed his truck off
1-55 onto Lake Shore Drive. Only cars were
allowed on the Drive, and he'd get a ticket for
sure if there were any cops about. That wasn't
usually the case after midnight, but you could
never be too sure.
He opened the throttle on the truck. Getting
a ticket didn't worry him much. He'd collected
plenty of them and had never paid one yet. The
way Chicago worked, it would take years before
the cops caught up with him. Unlike most big
cities, the patrol cars here didn't maintain a
computer network with Headquarters. Long
before they got the equipment, he planned to
move to another location. His main concern
was that if he was pulled over, he'd be late for
the job. That weird old bird had given him half
the money in advance, and Sid wanted the rest.
He grinned at the thought. Half, all right, he
decided, patting his coat pocket to reassure
himself the bills were still there. Crazy. Ripping
five one-hundred-dollar bills in two and giving
him half. Other half when the job was done.
Old guy had a few rocks loose upstairs. But the
money was green and that was all that Sid
cared about.
The turnoff for the Observatory and Meigs
Field came up in only a few minutes. Not a cop
in sight anywhere. Sid nosed the truck down
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Robert Weinberg
the drive and slowed it to a crawl. The old man
had said he would be waiting by the statue of
Casimir Pulaski. There was the green hunk
and, sure as Hell, there was the little guy
standing right at the base.
He was a weird old character, all dried up
and wrinkled; he couldn't weigh more than a
hundred pounds. But he was tough. Sid shook
his head in annoyance as he stopped the truck
in the street right past the statue. He didn't like
to admit being scared of anyone, but somehow
that old man frightened him. Couldn't put his
finger on exactly what it was. Maybe it was the
funny way he seemed to just pop out of no-
where. Or the polite way he talked. Maybe it
was the way he focused those unblinking eyes
on you. The old man hadn't done anything
special, but Sid was convinced. A stick of
dynamite didn't have to explode to prove they
were dangerous. The old man was the same
way, primed and ready to blow. Sid was real
polite in dealing with him.
"You have the map?" the old man asked Sid a
few minutes later, when they both stood be-
hind the truck. The back doors of the van stood
open, revealing an empty interior.
"Got it memorized. Nothing to it. It'll take
me a few hours to get there once we get out of
the city."
The old man nodded sagely. "I have the rest
of your money with me. You will be paid once
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we make our delivery. Are you ready to leave?"
"Tank's full of gas. You need a hand back
here?"
"Thank you, no. Wait for me in the cab."
Sid moved forward.
"One more thing," continued the old man.
"You would be wise to keep your eyes off that
which does not concern you. Quite wise."
"Sure," answered Sid. "Sure."
He was not sure at all. When he took the job,
Sid had figured the old man was smuggling
something across the border into Wisconsin.
Now, thinking about it, that idea didn't make
much sense. Not for the amount of money. And
why meet here? Maybe something flown in to
Meigs field? Sid climbed into the cab shaking
his head. The money was good, but he wished
he knew what was going on.
Metal grated on metal, as if two slabs of steel
were pulling apart from each other. Sid re-
sisted the temptation to look outside. He was
quite positive that he didn't want to know what
was happening. He had never heard a sound
exactly like that before. It stopped after only a
few seconds. Nothing happened for a minute
or so, then his truck groaned in protest. Some-
how, something heavy was being loaded into
the back.
Sid kept his eyes fixed on the Observatory at
the end of the road. He knew better than to ask
questions. Curious people in his business
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ended up dead. That damned old guy was a
crook all right. Or a nut. Either way, Sid knew
what he was doing: stealing the statue. It had
been done before. Last year in Grant Park,
somebody had taken two statues in one night.
Maybe this was the same gang. The old man
was probably fronting the job. What the Hell
they needed statues for he had no idea. Maybe
the gang provided them to millionaires who
wanted unique lawn decorations. He only
briefly wondered how they moved the figures.
Who cared? Sid relaxed. Everything made
sense now.
"I believe you have been looking for one of
these," said Makoto Tsuiki. The sorcerer held
up a gray square of paper.
Hannah could not believe her eyes. From the
description pounded into her by The Mistress,
that could only be an Invitation to the Devil's
Auction. How had that accursed Tsuiki ob-
tained such a card? And why had he brought it
here tonight, to the home of his greatest en-
emy?
Evidently, the Countess was wondering the
same thing. Her eyes focused on her enemy for
the first time since he had entered the room.
She had studiously avoided staring at the Ori-
ental ever since Hannah had announced from
the hallway who it was at the door. Years ago,
when in a talkative mood, the Countess had
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DEVIL S AUCTION
confided to Hannah that Tsuiki was possibly
the most powerful sorcerer in the Midwest, if
not the entire country. She hated him, but
dared not confront him. Now he was sitting
here, relaxed, in her innermost sanctum. And
Hannah knew that the Countess was afraid to
do anything. She could sense the hatred smol-
dering within her Mistress. But that hatred was
nothing compared to the overwhelming fear
that held the Countess motionless in its grip.
Despite that fear, the Countess's eyes were
riveted on the Invitation in Tsuiki's grip.
"What do you want for it?" The Countess's
voice was a harsh, intense whisper. "Name
your price."
Hannah again wondered what made the auc-
tion so important to her Mistress. What secret
did it hold? It was inconceivable that the
Countess would deal with Tsuiki. And yet, that
was exactly what she was attempting to do.
The Oriental smiled. "I thought so. I was not
sure but I did have my suspicions. Your greed
betrays you, Marie. You," and then Tsuiki
turned for a second and looked at Hannah
standing near the window, "or to be perfectly
correct, your servant, killed my friend, Jacob
Lancaster. Thank you for that confirmation. I
dislike mysteries."
"You still have not answered my question,"
said the Countess, ignoring Tsuiki's comments.
"What do you want for the Invitation?"
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Robert Weinberg
"Want for this?" Tsuiki laughed in the
Countess's face.
Hannah growled deep in her throat. He
mocked them. She did not fear this man even if
he worried her Mistress. He was only flesh and
blood. He could die easily enough. Then she
remembered the missing hounds. Tsuiki had
been waiting for her at the doorway alone, and
unharmed. Even though he projected no aura,
the Hellhounds should have attacked him. The
anger mounting within her died as swiftly as it
had risen.
Tsuiki laid the gray card on the desk. "You
can have this Invitation, Marie. With my com-
pliments. It was sent to me. I am happy to give
it to you. Too bad I did not know you wanted it
so badly. Perhaps, if I had known, Jake would
still be alive today. An unhappy twist of fate.
Karma."
The Countess grabbed the Invitation with
both hands. She pulled it close and studied it
cautiously. "It is the real thing," she finally
whispered, keeping a tight grip on the card.
She seemed to fear that it would suddenly
vanish. "Why are you doing this? You and I
have rarely seen eye to eye. You are not one to
do me favors."
Tsuiki rose from his chair. "Freely given by
me. Freely taken of your own free will by you."
He seemed to be reciting a formula. "Your fate
is your own." The Oriental shook his head
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slowly. "Favors? You think I am doing you a
favor? You know something about these events.
I know full well why you so desperately want to
attend. Have you ever looked into how many
ever return from the auction when the bidding
is complete? The odds do not appeal to me. You
are welcome to take my place. Goodbye,
Countess. I don't think we shall be seeing each
other ever again."
Tsuiki walked to the door of the Library.
Hannah could not restrain herself any longer.
She had to know. "The Hounds? What hap-
pened to them? Why did they not stop you?"
The Oriental glanced at her. "The Hounds?
Evidently, they did not see me," he replied. He
reached into his coat pocket. "Here. I believe
these should explain everything."
Hannah found she could not control her own
body. Her arm moved without volition. She
reached out and took what Tsuiki handed her.
Then, nodding politely to her, the Oriental left.
Her hand was still open. Hannah stared at
the grisly remains in her palm. Now she fully
understood the meaning of Tsuiki's remarks.
There were four bloody hunks of animal
tissue in her palm. They were still glowing.
Four red eyes.
123

Chapter Seven
Valerie stepped through the doorway into the
apartment. She looked around in astonishment
as Alex flashed a wan sort of smile and waved
sheepishly.
"I wasn't expecting visitors," he said.
"I'll say you weren't," she answered, not
trying to sound too critical. No sense getting
him upset, she reasoned to herself, especially
since he saved your life less than an hour ago.
She moved forward into the apartment, closing
the door behind her. "Been doing a little
reading?"
"I've always had a hard time passing up a
good book. Seems to have gotten out of hand
lately."
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"Out of hand?" She laughed. Alex stared at
her for a minute and then started laughing too.
Valerie relaxed. She could sense that he was
still a little intimidated by her. There was
nothing she could do to lessen the tension
between them other than to continue to play up
to him. It was all part of the courting ritual. She
didn't feel that she was really deceiving him—
no worse than any other woman when she was
after a man. She did care for Alex quite a bit
already, and she was pretty sure he was falling
hard for her. He had better. Though he didn't
know it, Mr. Alex Warner's future was already
signed, sealed, and delivered.
There were books everywhere. Huge book-
cases filled the walls from floor to ceiling. All
were crammed with books. There were books
on top of books, squeezed into the shelves so
that there was not a trace of panelling showing.
Paperbacks were stacked in piles so that not
even the spines were visible. And there were
plenty of books not on the shelves. They had
taken over the two small end-tables in the living
room as well as most of the space on the
coffeetable. Stacks of books balanced on the
top of a small TV tucked in one corner; more
paperbacks crowded the long window casing to
the rear of the room. All were in neat stacks,
and Valerie noted that the room seemed pretty
clean. Alex might be obsessive in some re-
spects, but at least he was neat. "Well, at least
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Robert Weinberg
you don't have them on the floor," she said.
"You haven't seen the spare bedroom," said
Alex uncomfortably.
Valerie grinned. She reached out and
pinched him on the cheek. "You're cute, kid.
But I think I'm starting to get a line on why
your ex-wife left."
Alex sprawled onto a sofa that had seen
better days. He pushed a stack of magazines off
the cushions onto the floor and beckoned to
her with his free hand. "You wouldn't dare say
that up close to me," he said, in a mock-
menacing tone.
"You bet your life," she replied, kicking off
her shoes. It felt good to be barefoot again.
Then, measuring with her eye the amount of
space available on the couch, she pounced.
It caught Alex completely by surprise. He
had been waiting for her to sit down. Never
did he suspect she'd jump him. Before he
could react, she had his hands pinned be-
neath him, with her body pressed across him
like a blanket. Their faces were only inches
apart.
"As I said," she stated with a giggle, "I'm
starting to get a line on why your ex-wife left."
"You treat all the men you meet this way?"
Alex asked. He had not moved since she had
launched herself at him. His hands and arms
remained pinned beneath him, though she
knew that he could easily get free if he tried.
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"Not all of them. Just the ones who save my
life."
Alex groaned. "You mean that your life has
been in danger before? What am I getting
myself into?"
Valerie laughed again. A particularly lewd
image crossed her mind as soon as he spoke.
The same thought must have crossed Alex's
mind as well since his eyes widened at her
laughter. His arms came out from under him.
They wrapped around her back, pulling her
tight against him. In this position, there was no
escape. She was not looking to get away.
Jim Calvin was feeling pretty good. It was
four A.M., the highway was clear of cars, and he
was tooling along at seventy without a cop in
sight. He had the fuzz-buster going just in case.
Thank God he had a Dad who knew what to
give for a practical birthday gift. Even though it
was only in the forties outside, Jim had all the
windows open. He had chugged more than a
few brews during the course of the evening and
the cold air had a mildly sobering effect on
him. At nineteen, he was underage in Illinois.
But not in Wisconsin.
It had been a great party. Lots of good-
looking women and lots of beer. Got a few good
phone numbers. If he didn't have to get back to
campus for the Sunday morning frat game,
he'd probably be spending the night with one
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Robert Weinberg
of the Madison honeys instead. And having a lot
better time. He couldn't keep his mind off the
girls he had met. God, they were a horny
bunch. That one girl, Marcie, the blonde, really
seemed hot for his body. He whistled aloud in
appreciation. She was something else. Not too
bright, but her other assets made up for that.
She was first on the list to call next weekend.
Damn. Dumb shit fraternity football league.
Why the Hell they ever scheduled games on a
Sunday morning . . . well, at least this was the
last one of the season. Starting in November, it
would be fun, fun, fun for Jimmy C.
He turned the car radio up loud. Now that he
was back in Illinois, should be able to get some
of the Chicago rock stations at least. Not much
you could get on FM, but WLS on AM had a
signal you could get just about anywhere. Jim-
my had a feeling that you could probably pick
up the radio station on the moon if the air was
clear and you had a big enough antenna.
The pulsating sound of rock filled the car. He
pounded the top of the steering wheel as he
sang along with the Rolling Stones. What a
great night. It was good to be alive.
Quietly, Valerie got up out of bed. Alex
murmured something in his sleep but
otherwise didn't stir. They had adjourned to his
bedroom when things got beyond control on
the living room couch. Their clothes were
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scattered in disarray in both rooms.
Valerie didn't bother looking for anything to
put on. It felt good to be naked. It had been a
long time between lovers; she had forgotten
how wonderful sex could be. A smile crossed
her lips. She felt like a cat who had just
swallowed a canary. Poor, sweet Alex. He didn't
know his future had been determined the
minute she walked into his office. Well, he
could do a lot worse. Valerie let her hands
caress her hips. She had to be a better bargain
than his ex-wife. Sheila sounded like a real
bitch.
Idly, she wondered how her father had man-
aged to break up that marriage. More to the
point, how her Dad had allowed it to take place
in the first place. Tsuiki must know the an-
swers. He always knew. She would get all the
dirt from him sooner or later. He had never
been able to keep anything from her when he
was studying with Dad.
Tiptoeing, so not to wake up Alex, she
crossed the floor and exited to the living room.
She gently closed the connecting door. They
had left the lights on in the front room, too
carried away by passion to worry about the
electric bill.
Valerie drew in a deep breath. She had never
given much thought to settling down before.
Now that she was faced with the immediate
prospect of doing so, the choice didn't seem so
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Robert Weinberg
terrible. Even knowing that it had been
planned didn't faze her.
Jake Lancaster had been a good father except
for one bad habit: he wanted to run everyone's
life. It had driven her crazy the last few years at
home; and more than anythi lg else, her fa-
ther's constant manipulating had finally driven
her to leave. It wasn't that he didn't try to make
her happy. He just never realized she might
want different things out of life than he imag-
ined.
Most other people could do very little to stop
her father's meddling. With the Power at his
command, he usually did what he wanted
without anyone being the wiser. Among his
many talents, Jake Lancaster had been a world-
class chess player. He had a skill for planning
attacks many moves in advance. He applied the
same techniques in his personal relationships.
His only problem had been that she was wise
to all his tricks and equally devious with her
own. The only difference between the two of
them was that she had learned things from the
other half of her family as well. Her Mom had
been the true master of manipulation in the
marriage. She had always let Dad think he was
getting his way by sly trickery. In most cases,
she was actually maneuvering Dad into doing
what she wanted by letting him think it was his
idea. Plot and counterplot. It had always been
part of her life.
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Alex had been completely unaware of her
father's scheming. She intended to leave it that
way. There was a strong suspicious streak in
her future husband, and it would be a major
blow for him to learn that his best friend had
been playing matchmaker behind his back. It
might raise some questions that she'd have a
hard time answering.
The kitchen was small but well stocked. Alex
kept the refrigerator better provided than she
did. Lots of goodies nestled in the various
compartments. Eggs, bacon, and cheese all
appealed to her. They would go perfectly with
the nice loaf of unsliced rye in the breadbox.
She would surprise Alex in the morning with
breakfast in bed. That should put the definitive
touch on their relationship, put a little domes-
tic cheer into a rather passionate relationship.
She was determined that theirs would be a
permanent arrangement. Anything she could
do to further that goal was worth trying. Like
father, like daughter, she concluded cheerfully.
There was a bag of Chips-Ahoy cookies on the
kitchen counter. Grabbing them, she headed
back to the living room.
She settled down on the sofa, her legs curled
up beneath her. It was only five in the morning.
Alex looked good for hours more sleep, and
that was fine with her. She needed time alone
to think. Ever since she had walked into his
office, she had been planning on the go, always
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Robert Weinberg
trying to keep one step ahead of him. It was a
pretty dangerous way to operate, as the attack
at her condo proved. If it weren't for Alex's
luck, that would have been a disaster. She had
gotten him a little too fuzzy, a little too over-
anxious. Now was the time to get her priorities
straight.
For openers, she decided, her modelling days
were over. The job had been getting pretty
boring anyway the last few years. The world of
black magic was a lot more interesting; and
with Alex, things should be quite lively. And she
was sick of dieting all the time. One decision
made, she reasoned with a nod of satisfaction.
The Chips-Ahoy bag was already open. She
approved of Alex's taste in snacks. Munching
happily on the cookies, she continued to sort
out her future.
Jimmy cursed in annoyance. He had to take
a leak. He'd gone to the john before leaving
Madison, but the long ride home was too
much. The steady rhythm of the tires on the
highway had gotten to him. More specifically,
to his bladder. Damn, he was uncomfortable as
Hell. The night didn't seem so friendly now. He
had rolled up the car window an hour ago. It
was cold out there. For a second, Jimmy de-
bated pulling off onto the shoulder and taking a
quick hike into the woods. He immediately
rejected the idea. It would be his luck to have
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DEVIL S AUCTION
the state police cruise by right while he was
relieving himself. It had happened to his frater-
nity brother, Paul Sorenson, last year. Cops had
thought it was a riot. Didn't stop them from
arresting Paul for public indecency. Cost him a
bundle to get the charges dropped.
He kept on driving. There had to be a
restaurant or a gas station somewhere up
ahead. That was the trouble with this part of
the state—the exits were so damned far apart.
He had been driving for a Hell of a long time
without a break. Great scenery. Trees and rocks
all around. Not even any billboards to break the
monotony.
He was going so fast, that he almost missed
the green information sign on the side of the
road. Rest Stop—One Mile. Jimmy hugged his
legs tightly together. Talk about in the nick of
time. Another few minutes and he would've
had a puddle on the floor.
He steered his Chevy onto the ramp and
braked hard. The road curved behind a small
glade of trees that effectively sheltered the
clearing from the highway. Yellow paint lines
outlined a dozen parking spaces in a hundred-
foot stretch. An old pick-up truck sat parked at
the far end of the row. The only light came
from the solitary wood building in the middle
of the clearing. Jimmy spotted a cluster of old
picnic tables scattered about near the cabin.
No one seemed to be about, not even any
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Robert Weinberg
teenagers in a van having fun. Deserted. He
eased his car into a parking spot right in front
of the building. Jimmy suddenly wished he had
not gone to so many mad-slasher movies in the
past few years. It looked awfully dark out there.
"Stupid shit," he said aloud, instinctively
trying to build up his nerve. "Those dumb
flicks were made to scare people. They're not
real life. No loonie birds floating around here
with butcher knives."
He opened the door of his car. It was deathly
silent; nothing moved. "No one around," Jim-
my decided, talking more now to break the
silence than for any other reason. He quickly
entered the restroom.
Everything inside was perfectly normal. Just
to be on the safe side, he bent down and
checked to see if anyone was in any of the stalls
in the men's room. No legs showed. Still
spooked, he popped open the door of each
booth. As he worked, he stood ready to sprint
for the exit. It was crazy, Jimmy knew, but still
he did it. Wasn't going to be the first victim of
some escaped lunatic who killed men while
they were taking a pee. Finally, satisfied he was
alone, Jimmy emptied his bladder. He never
realized before how long it took. There was no
way he could hurry. Especially feeling so nerv-
ous. The whole time he stood urinating, he
watched the door to the bathroom. What he
would do if some nut case burst through the
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door swinging a butcher knife at him Jimmy
had no idea. But he watched anyway.
He left the men's room feeling much better.
Still, he kept an eye out as he left the station. It
wasn't until he reached his car that Jimmy
realized that he locked the door when he left
the auto. He stared unhappily at his keys dan-
gling from the ignition switch. A narrow open-
ing at the top of the window taunted him. He
was locked out.
Several loud screams of rage didn't help him
feel any better. Nor did kicking the side of his
car. Limping slightly, he made his way back to
the rest station. Forgotten now were the lurk-
ing hordes of mad slashers. He was locked out.
How the Hell was he going to get back into the
car? He didn't want to bfeak the window. It
would cost money to get that fixed, and with his
luck, he'd probably cut his hand and bleed to
death.
Anxiously, he looked around the station.
That small opening at the top of the window
might save the day, he thought. If he could find
a hanger or a piece of wire, he could snake it
down and pull up the knob. He'd done it before
when he had locked himself out at school. But
getting a hanger had only taken a few seconds
there. In the restroom here he found nothing
he could possibly use.
Frustrated, he stomped outside. He felt like a
jerk. He could just see himself explaining to his
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Robert Weinberg
fraternity brothers why he was hours late to the
game. Locked the keys in the car when he went
to take a leak. He should have stayed in Madi-
son.
He scrounged around in the parking lot.
Usually there was all sorts of garbage on the
concrete, but not tonight. He swore in annoy-
ance.
Sitting on the hood of his car, dangling his
legs over the front grillwork, he remembered
the old truck at the end of the lot. From here, it
looked empty and abandoned. There might be
something in it he could use to pry open the
window. Wire and junk accumulated in old
wrecks.
He decided to take a look. Anything was
better than spending the night stuck here in the
middle of nowhere. Anything.
The Countess paced back and forth in the
library like a caged animal. Her face was
flushed and both her hands beat a rhythmic
tattoo against her sides. Hannah had never
seen her Mistress so excited before. Even
Tsuiki's slaughter of the two Hellhounds was
forgotten. All the Countess could talk about
was the Invitation.
"The Oriental is a fool," said the Countess.
She laughed harshly. "He thinks to worry me
with rumors and lies. As if it mattered what
happened before. I shall triumph. The secret
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shall be mine. I will have it, Hannah. I will have
it."
Hannah remained quiet. It was rare that her
Mistress ever disclosed anything of impor-
tance. For a change, Hannah wanted to know
exactly what was going on. The Lady was acting
very strangely lately. Hannah was loyal without
question, but she was not a fool. There were
some sacrifices she was not willing to make
without a very good reason. Perhaps she might
learn some of the truth tonight.
"We will need something to offer. I've known
that all along." The Countess was talking half to
herself and half to Hannah. "After all, it is an
auction. Payment has to be made in kind. What
would be worth the most? Hannah, don't just
sit there. Get up. Help me look."
"Look for what, Mistress?"
The Countess came back to earth for the first
time since Tsuiki had left. She stopped in the
middle of the floor and frowned. Her eyes
narrowed. She bit her lower lip with her teeth,
her head held at an odd angle, deep in thought.
It was as though she were torn apart by some
inner conflict. She stood silently for minutes.
Only her head moved, back and forth, as she
mentally raised and discarded one argument
after another. Finally the mental debate came
to an end. The Countess had decided.
"You have labored in the dark too long, my
faithful servant. You deserve the truth. And, if I
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succeed, that success will be yours as well."
Hannah nodded politely. She had known the
Mistress too long to believe any of her prom-
ises. Too often, those wild claims were forgot-
ten once the sought-after prize was claimed.
Hannah was willing to listen but she was not
naive enough to believe any mention of re-
wards.
"You know something of the story already.
An Auction is going to be held on All Hallows
Eve in northern Illinois. Only a half-dozen,
powerful black magicians are invited. There
they bid for a unique prize, offering both
money and magical rarities of their own. I
mean to be the high bidder, no matter what the
cost."
"I don't understand. Who holds this auction?
And why?"
"As to why, I have no idea. No one knows.
They just take place once a generation. Perhaps
he runs them for his own amusement."
"Who does?"
"A powerful sorcerer."
"More powerful than you?" interrupted
Hannah.
"Yes," said the Countess, her voice almost a
hiss of fear. "Perhaps the most powerful magi-
cian in the world today. He calls himself
Ashmedai, after the king of Hebrew demons.
No one knows much about him. He remains in
isolation on his estate, except for rare trips
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abroad to certain mystic ruins. I have tried for
years to meet him, but with no success. His
estate is unapproachable except for the day of
the auction, and only then with an Invitation.
His trips overseas are always made in secret.
All my investigations lead nowhere. All of what
I know about him is based on second- or
third-hand information. But even that is
enough.
"These auctions have been taking place for
nearly a hundred years. This will be the fourth
since 1895. That much I have been able to
learn by searching the records gathered by my
father. They are always held at that same estate
in upstate Illinois. And always by a man named
Ashmedai."
"The same man?" asked Hannah.
"I suspect so, though no one knows for sure.
As I told you, this Ashmedai is a mysterious
figure. The auctioneer could be the same man
each time. Or it could be the descendent of the
original Ashmedai. There could even be a
secret group with all of the members using the
same name for some sinister purpose. Any-
thing is possible. Nowhere in any of the stories
about the four auctions is there a description of
the appearance of the man who conducted the
bidding. In each case, he is a complete un-
known."
"But surely those who attended the
auctions ..."
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Robert Weinberg
The Countess shook her head in annoyance.
"That is what scared off Tsuiki. But I am
positive it is not as he suspects. There has to be
another answer."
Hannah had no idea what her Mistress was
talking about. Her face must have reflected that
puzzlement.
"They were never heard from again." The
Countess almost shouted the answer. "They
vanished from the face of the Earth. Gone.
None of the magicians who attended any of the
three earlier auctions ever returned to their
normal life. The stories of the event were told
by ones who did not actually attend. All their
information was second hand. The fate of the
guests was a mystery.
"That was what Tsuiki feared. It was why he
gave me the Invitation, and why he made sure
that I accepted of my own free will. So that he
could not be held accountable on the psychic
plane for luring me to my doom." The Count-
ess' voice sank to a whisper. "In one of the
accounts of the Auction, the author claimed
that Ashmedai actually was the king of de-
mons, maintaining a way station on Earth. And
that he held these events to recruit new slaves
to serve him for all eternity ... in Hell."
Chocolate chip cookies, Valerie decided as
she bit into her fifth one, were addictive. Two
weeks ago she would have been consumed by
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guilt after eating just one cookie. Tonight, this
binge capped the first day of her independence
from the modeling rat race. Scarfing down
junk food seemed as dynamic a statement as
she could make. She giggled. If sitting nude on
the living room sofa at five in the morning in a
man's apartment eating chocolate chip cookies
wasn't a serious statement about life, nothing
was.
Alex's flat was on the twentieth floor of the
University Apartment Complex for professors
and graduate students. Before sitting down,
Valerie had opened the drawn curtains from
the huge picture window in the living room.
The view of Lake Michigan from this height
was awe-inspiring. Alex had commented on the
beauty of it at dinner. Valerie was glad she had
risen early and caught the last stars shining
down on the water. It was a sight not to be
missed.
This apartment was one of the most desir-
able locations in the entire building. Usually,
such plums were reserved for senior faculty
members. Through an odd set of circum-
stances, he got it without any effort. The day he
applied for housing, this place was being en-
tered on the computer. Alex's name was
matched up with the flat before anyone knew
what was going on. Alex had laughed when he
told her the story. A lucky break he had called
it. Valerie knew different.
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There was no such thing as luck. Not consis-
tent luck. From time to time chance dictated
some fortunate break for a person. Lottery-
ticket winners usually won through
coincidence—by some freak chance, when
they picked the right numbers. One-time hap-
penings were random couplings of fate. But
people who were always lucky were not merely
favorites of chance. Instead, they were uncon-
scious manipulators of the Power. The only
difference between them and the black magi-
cians who practiced in secret throughout the
world was conscious control of the process.
The lucky ones didn't realize that they ar-
ranged the events taking place about them.
Alex Warner had questioned Valerie about her
power. He had no knowledge that his own
psychic gifts were greater than hers.
Valerie had recognized that fact the minute
Alex opened the door to his office that after-
noon. Alex burned with unharnessed psychic
energy, uncontrollable power. Close up, his
psychic aura was overwhelming. But he had no
knowledge or control over his gift. After a few
seconds of initial bewilderment, Valerie had
quickly revised her course of action. Original-
ly, she had come to Alex only to ask for his help
in finding her father's killer. Once she had met
him, she knew he had to be hers. All of her
actions since then had been directed toward
both of those goals.
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It wasn't till the encounter with Makoto
Tsuiki at the restaurant that Valerie realized
how she had been manipulated by her father.
Even from beyond the grave, Dad had the last
laugh. That final telephone call, instructing her
to find Alex, was typical of him. Faced with
death, he was still plotting his daughter's fu-
ture. Dad must have known she was bored with
modelling. He had told her many times that
sooner or later her heritage would be too great.
And he had been right.
If Dad were still alive, she probably would've
been less ready to admit the error of her ways.
With him dead, it was easy to concede the
point. Her modelling career had been the final
rebellion of youthful independence, in a sense,
her growing pains. It was fun, but it was empty
of any real meaning—at least when compared
to practicing sorcery. Magic was in her blood.
She was born and bred to be a sorceress, and
she had reached that conclusion months ago.
She had been planning to return to Chicago to
resume her studies even before her father's
murder. His death had not changed her mind.
Her father, she knew, would have been pleased.
As would be his most prized pupil, Makoto
Tsuiki. Poor Alex. He had no idea of the forces
that were manipulating his life. What seemed
like coincidences to him were anything but
that. Valerie had no doubts that Tsuiki was
Alex's best friend. She had sensed the bond
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between them at dinner. She also had no
doubts that the Oriental had been keeping a
close watch on Alex for years. Whether he was
doing that at the request of her father or for
plans of his own, she did not know, though she
intended to find out. In the unseen world of
black magic, nothing was as it seemed on the
surface.
Valerie felt a small stirring of pride within
her. She had been nimble on her feet today.
The truth had been stretched, bent and broken
on numerous occasions throughout the after-
noon and evening. She hadn't dared tell Alex
that the Voice had been aimed specifically at
her and that it was a much more dangerous
spell than he suspected. If she had, she was
sure their romance would have stopped cold
right then; he would have felt too worried and
guilty to ask her out for dinner. Nor did she
dare reveal that she had known Makoto Tsuiki
for most of her life. Makoto had been her
father's brightest pupil, and he too, came from
a long line of sorcerers. And she definitely did
not want to tell him about the charms she had
been weaving about his subconscious mind,
binding him to her with ties that romance and
sex only strengthened. The spells that had
taken the edge off his suspicious nature. Love
was wonderful but awfully erratic. Valerie did
not believe in leaving anything to chance.
Her eyes swept across the room. It had been
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an exciting day. Abandoning her career, finding
her husband-to-be, and battling a werewolf. It
sounded like the script of a grade-B horror
movie. Tomorrow should be a little less hectic,
though. Alex had already promised her before
drifting off to sleep that they would search for
those references to the Auction in his books on
magic. Valerie shook her head. Considering
the number of books in this place, that should
keep them busy for most of the afternoon.
She stretched her arms high over her head,
feeling the skin across her body tighten with
the movement. A pleasant tingling sensation
crossed her breasts.* Maybe they wouldn't
spend all day looking through books. The more
she thought about it, the more sure she be-
came.
The truck was in pretty bad shape. The closer
Jimmy got, the more confident he grew. There
was nothing to be scared of in this old wreck.
Must have been here for years. Funny that the
highway department or some junkyard hadn't
towed it away. It had to be worth something,
even if just for spare parts. He hoped that it
hadn't been gutted by someone else earlier.
Under the hood there should be some loose
wire he could rip out and use to get his car
door open.
It was awfully quiet around here. Back by his
car, the forest was alive with noises. He had
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Robert Weinberg
spotted an owl and several curious eyes peer-
ing at him from the trees. Not here. Around the
truck the forest was deathly still, the darkness
more threatening. He could barely see where
he was going. The high trees blocked out most
of the starlight. The spotlight in front of the rest
station barely reached this far. Beyond the
truck, it was pitch black.
Twenty feet from the vehicle, a large chunk
of metal rested on the gravel path. Jimmy
approached it cautiously. Suddenly the same
feeling he had had in the men's room returned.
He cleared his throat, swallowed hard. It was as
if he were living out a scene in a mad-slasher
movie. Cautiously, he bent down on one knee
and examined the wreckage. It seemed perfect-
ly harmless, just twisted metal . . . the remains
of a door. A truck door. It was pretty much still
intact; only the hinges were smashed and bent
out of shape.
It took him a few seconds to make the
connection. His eyes darted up and confirmed
his suspicions. The cab of the truck ahead was
missing the door on the driver's side. He
gulped down several deep breaths. It seemed
awfully odd that this door would be on the
ground if that truck had been here for a long
time. Very odd.
He moved closer to the truck, inching one
foot forward a little at a time. He was turned
sideways now, ready to run the other direction
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if anything threatened. His eyes darted from
place to place. His earlier thoughts had been
mistaken. This truck wasn't some old aban-
doned junk. It was a fairly recent model.
Banged up pretty good though. Big dents in the
sides and the body. Very big dents, like it had
been hit with a gigantic hammer. He wondered
what made marks like that.
Now that he stood close to the cab, he noted
that both doors were gone. The front hood
appeared smashed down right onto the motor.
What could batter metal with such force? It
had to take a wrecking ball to make marks like
that.
n
Maybe the truck had been in an accident
earlier, towed here by the police and left until
the owner could make a claim. Jimmy grabbed
hold of the door-frame and pulled himself up to
the cab. The glass was gone from the wind-
shield, but otherwise the inside of the cabin
looked okay. Nothing much was damaged. The
steering wheel was fine, all the dials intact.
Even the keys were still in the ignition.
Jimmy froze. No one left keys in a wreck.
There was something strange going on here.
Quickly, he scrambled out of the cab. He
darted back away from the truck, onto the
roadway. He felt safer here. No one could
creep up on him unawares. He glanced back at
his car. The light by the restrooms called to
him. But, despite the queasy feeling in his gut,
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Robert Weinberg
he couldn't leave yet. He was still locked out of
his car. He was determined to find something
to open that window. Maybe in the back of the
truck?
Caution battled annoyance. Annoyance won.
Jimmy knew he was acting like a jerk. Mad-
slasher movies were exactly that. Movies. They
didn't happen in real life. Homicidal maniacs
didn't wander around the countryside killing
teenagers. That was the stuff of paperbacks and
horror films. In real life, people got killed in
the cities, not out in the middle of the country.
It was the darkness that was getting to him,
he decided, playing Hell with his imagination.
An abandoned truck was not that bizarre. In
daylight it would seem perfectly ordinary. His
theory about an accident was probably the
right one, keys or no keys. They must have been
left by the cops who towed it off the highway. If
he didn't keep looking, he'd be stuck here until
someone stopped. That might not be until
sometime tomorrow. If then.
That last thought got him moving. He could
see himself explaining to his frat brothers how
he had spent the night in a bathroom because
he had been too scared to investigate an aban-
doned truck. He knew how long it would take
for that story to spread all over campus. He'd
be laughed right out of school. Even a madman
with a knife couldn't be any worse than that.
Nervously, he made his way back towards
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the truck. Keeping well clear of the cab, he
circled until he was at the rear of the vehicle.
He stood on the grass, about ten feet back, and
tried to peer inside. The roll-up door was gone
without a trace. As Jimmy's eyes adjusted to the
deeper darkness in the rear of the truck, he
could see that there was hardly anything inside.
Only a large pile of rags pushed up against one
wall. Nothing else. Definitely no mad slashers.
Feeling a bit more confident, he walked
forward. Nothing moved. It was safe. He
grabbed onto the rear floor and pulled himself
up onto the truck. The metal was awfully
sticky. It felt like glue or something had been
spilled all over the floor. It was still tacky, not
completely dry. He got it all over his hands, all
over his pants legs and his shoes. Messy as Hell.
Made walking difficult. Jimmy wiped his hands
on his pants, trying to get them clean. They still
felt sticky. Stuff didn't come off easily.
He'd have to wash off in the bathroom later.
First, he wanted to sort through that pile of
rags. There might be a piece of wire mixed
among them.
In the near-total darkness, it was impossible
to figure out where the sticky stuff came from.
No big drums or containers around. Maybe
they had fallen out during the accident. Jimmy
looked closer. Whatever it was seemed to be on
the inside walls of the truck as well. Dark and
messy. Dripping in little drops, forming small
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Robert Weinberg
pools on the floor. Curiously, he held one hand
up to his nose and sniffed.
Jimmy gagged. It smelled like . . . blood.
Suddenly, he felt violently ill. His stomach
churned and he vomited all over the floor.
Involuntarily, he reached out to the nearby
wall to steady himself. Then he gasped as his
fingers brushed across the sticky, wet surface.
"Blood," he screamed shrilly. "Blood every-
where. Where's it all from?"
It was then that he realized that the jumble of
rags in the corner wasn't a jumble of rags at all.
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Chapter Eight
Alex and Valerie drove back to Valerie's town-
house after breakfast.
"Shouldn't be anything to worry about this
time of the day," said Valerie. "That werewolf is
a creature of the night. It can't function in
daylight. We can just gather up my things and
be back at your place before anyone's the
wiser."
Alex was a little more skeptical. "Assuming
that no one's watching your place. We'll have to
make sure we aren't followed. This is starting to
take on aspects of a spy novel. And what about
the police?"
"What about them? Even if my neighbors
called the cops last night, there isn't much they
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could have done. I'm sure that monster didn't
wait around to answer questions. All the police
would have was a broken glass window and
some major damage to a townhouse. Without a
complaint being filed, they wouldn't have
much to go on. We could talk our way out of it.
Doubt if we'll have to. Knowing what big city
life is like, I'm willing to bet that no one
reported a thing. Place probably looks just the
way we left it."
She had hit upon the truth. The townhouse
was undisturbed. The remains of the smashed
window still covered the driveway. Even
though Valerie assured him that no one was in
the condo, Alex insisted on making a quick
check of all the rooms before he would let her
enter. She had to remain in the locked car with
the motor running. While complaining aloud,
Valerie was secretly pleased with the concern
Alex showed. It felt good to be protected.
Her clothes and belongings were untouched.
Valerie quickly packed several suitcases. "I can
call someone tomorrow to get the window
repaired and have something done about the
wrecked furniture. We can decide what we
want to do with this place later."
"We can decide?" Alex asked with a curious
look.
"We."
Alex remained silent the rest of the time she
packed. Valerie wasn't too worried. When she
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sneaked a look at him a little later, he was
trying too hard to appear unaware of what her
statement implied. But there was a smug look
on his face that he couldn't hide. So much for
not wanting to get emotionally involved.
"One last stop," said Valerie as they de-
scended with her suitcases to the living room.
She walked over to the front coat closet. She
reached into the inner box. It was amazing how
blind some people could be. They evidently
still had not deduced how Jake had outwitted
them. Valerie pulled the envelope out and held
it out to Alex. "The Invitation."
"You kept it in the mailbox?"
"Why not? It worked for Dad. Evidently the
werewolf never considered such a possibility.
Must not be familiar with such arrangements.
If it worked for him, I figured I'd try it too.
Better than a safe."
"Let's get going. I want a closer look at this
thing. And we still have those books to go
through."
"Sounds like an exciting day. Lead on, Mac-
duff."
And Alex added with a grin, "And be he
damned who first cries, 'enough'."
They didn't find the reference to the Devil's
Auction until nearly seven that evening. Actual-
ly, it only took several hours of searching to
find what they wanted. Their plans were side-
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Robert Weinberg
tracked by an innocent little hug that devel-
oped quickly into something much more in-
tense. They finally began serious work when
they were so physically exhausted from more
pleasurable activities that all they could do was
to thumb through page after page of esoteric
books of occult lore.
Huge stacks surrounded both of them. They
were awash in a sea of old musty volumes. Foot
by foot, they built forts of occult knowledge as
they skimmed one book after another. In the
background, the Dorsey Brothers kept the si-
lence at bay.
"Alex," said Valerie, breaking a long silent
spell. "How about some dinner? Is that Italian
place open? We could order a pizza or some-
thing."
Alex didn't answer. Valerie raised her eyes
from Crowley's Magick in Theory and Practice
and looked across the room at her lover. He
had an open book balanced on his lap and was
quickly thumbing through another, thick vol-
ume as if looking for something. Valerie
watched, fascinated, as Alex turned page after
page, scanning each' one quickly. Finally, he
seemed to find the one he wanted. His lips
moved silently as his eyes swept down the page.
She could almost hear the words he was subvo-
calizing. This was the first time he had done
something like this. She was sure he had found
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something. She could sense a subtle building of
tension in the air.
As if sensing her eyes on him, Alex looked up.
He grinned when he saw her. He winked and
nodded cheerfully. Valerie was positive now
that he had found the reference he had remem-
bered. She hoped that whatever he found had
all the facts they needed.
"Did you say something about ordering a
pizza? Sounds great to me. I'm famished. Want
me to call?"
"Alex Warner." Valerie's voice was a notch
louder than before. "You tell me what you
learned from that book in your lap right now.
Food can wait till later."
Standing up and stretching, he laughed hap-
pily. "Not what I heard last night. Wow, women
sure change their tune fast."
"Sex does that," Valerie replied with a grin.
"Now talk."
"Let me order that pizza first. It'll take an
hour to get it delivered. This book isn't going
anywhere. One minute for the phone call."
Valerie didn't bother to argue. While he
dialed, she got up and walked over to where he
had left the two books. The thick volume was
old and dusty and rested on top of the other. It
was still open to the page that Alex had been
studying. Now she understood why he had
been moving his lips as he read. The book was
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Robert Weinberg
in French. He had been translating as he read.
Valerie sighed in annoyance. She couldn't un-
derstand a word of it.
"Want me to tell you what it says?" Alex had
come up behind her silently. It was spooky the
way he could move so quietly—another thing
to ask Makoto Tsuiki about before they left for
the auction, she decided. She was glad they
were on her side. How could a University
Professor in Medieval History fight a werewolf
to a stand-still? Be skilled both in foreign
languages and karate? Somehow she knew that
it all tied in with Alex's subconscious manipu-
lation of the Power. Tsuiki would know the
truth. He always did.
"Sit." Alex gently pushed her to the sofa.
Holding the French book under one arm, he
took to the floor in front of her. "Let me tell this
my way. I'm most comfortable if I'm lecturing.
Ask all the questions you want, though I can't
promise to know all the answers. This isn't the
whole story. But I think it gives us a good place
to start."
"Whatever you say, boss. Lecture away."
"This is not the passage I was searching for. I
found this reference entirely by accident,
which leads to all sorts of interesting conclu-
sions, since I'm positive that I've read about
this auction in another book. My memory
doesn't play tricks on me like that. So, we are
talking about at least two different events in
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history. With the two recent ones, that makes
four we are aware of. Who knows how many
more have been held over a period of hundreds
of years? Our two puzzlers are back with us.
This time the questions are a little different.
What is there that can be offered again and
again for bid? That will always be in demand? I
have a theory on that, which ties in directly
with the other query: who's running these
auctions?
"Whatever, let me tell you what I've discov-
ered. This old thing is The Fourth Book, by
Henry Cornelius. You might know him better
by the name he later adopted, Cornelius Agrip-
pa. He was one of the great occult philosophers
of the sixteenth century, and most students of
black magic consider this his masterpiece. This
edition is nearly a hundred years old. I bought
it while I was in Europe doing research on my
witchcraft paper. I got the French edition
because all of the English translations were
severely abridged. The book hasn't been pub-
lished in any language for over fifty years, but
there's no mystery as to why. It's pretty dull
stuff.
"Agrippa wrote one of the major studies of
occult lore, Occult Philosophy, around 1510;
but it was not published until 1531. That book
details Agrippa's theories of magic and the
occult. Surprisingly enough, he did not believe
that sorcery had anything to do with the devil
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Robert Weinberg
or supernatural beings. Agrippa felt magic was
strictly a physical manifestation of the spirit.
He even states that imagination has a ruling
power over the passions of the soul. In other
words, what you think directly influences the
way you feel. Not bad for the sixteenth century.
But I'm straying off the subject.
"The Fourth Book was published some years
after Agrippa's death. There were some doubts
raised whether Agrippa had actually written it,
but I'm convinced he did. It contains a number
of anecdotes and histories of some of his more
intriguing experiments. I had no intention of
going through the book until I stumbled across
a passage in another volume. It's David
Hoffman's Chronicles of Cartaphilus, the Wan-
dering Jew. There's a brief mention about that
famous character's meeting with Agrippa in
1526. It sounded intriguing enough that I
pulled out the Fourth Book. Agrippa devoted an
entire chapter to the episode."
"But what does that have to do with us?"
"Plenty. At the time, Agrippa was famous
throughout Europe. He and Paracelsus were
considered the two greatest occultists of the
age, not that it helped him very much financial-
ly. From 1524 till 1526, he served as the physi-
cian to the queen mother of France, Louise of
Savoy. Unfortunately, she refused to pay him
for his services and kept him confined to Lyons
without any salary until he finally managed to
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escape to Florence. There he set up an alchem-
ical laboratory. Late that year, Agrippa claimed
to invent a magic mirror. According to the
magician, the glass would show any past event
in the life of the user. It was his greatest
accomplishment. Agrippa, never very wealthy,
figured he finally had something that would
make him rich."
Valerie tapped her fingers impatiently on the
sofa cushions. This was interesting enough, but
she wondered what it had to do with the
Auction. At least, she was getting to observe
Alex in action. He was not a bad teacher. He
got caught up in his subject, that was for sure.
"Now, here comes the relevant part of the
story. On All-Hallows Eve, 1526, a stranger
came to Agrippa's laboratory. He said he
wanted to use the magic mirror. Agrippa re-
fused. He had just written to Charles V in
hopes that the monarch would become his
patron. In the letter, Agrippa mentioned the
magic glass and promised it as a gift to the
king. The stranger insisted. Agrippa refused
again. Finally, the stranger promised the magi-
cian that if the mirror really worked he would
give Agrippa something in trade much more
valuable than the king's patronage. Not exactly
an auction, but close enough. Curious, in spite
of himself, Agrippa agreed."
Now Valerie understood what had caught
Alex's attention. He continued to tell the story.
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"The stranger looked into the mirror. In
most cases, it took hours of concentration to
get the device to work. The user had to focus
all of his will on the event he wanted to see.
Few people could do that without great mental
effort. As Agrippa told it, the glass clouded over
immediately. And stayed that way for minutes.
Usually, it only took a few seconds to find the
scene in time. When it cleared, Agrippa was
horrified to see what was unmistakably the
crucifixion of Christ. Terribly frightened by
what that implied, he fainted.
"When he revived, the mirror and the strang-
er were both gone. Faced with no other expla-
nation, Agrippa decided that he had been
visited by the Wandering Jew. The magic mir-
ror needed special elements that he could no
longer obtain. Thus, its secret was lost forever.
"Agrippa made excuses to Charles V, who
became Agrippa's patron anyway. End of epi-
sode. Or," at least, all that Agrippa wanted to
reveal in the Fourth Book."
"So our mysterious auctioneer is The Wan-
dering Jew?"
"Maybe. I'm not entirely convinced that
Agrippa revealed the whole story. Some of it
doesn't ring true. Along with practicing sor-
cery, Agrippa was an adventurer most of his
life. He had some pretty hair-raising encoun-
ters which have been fully documented. It's
hard for me to believe that he would have
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fainted by a picture in a mirror. And why did he
let the stranger use the mirror in the first
place? I'm convinced there are some elements
of truth in the story, but I wonder how much is
fact and how much fable to enhance Agrippa's
reputation."
The downstairs buzzer sounded, putting an
end to the discussion. "I'll go down to the lobby
and get the pizza," said Alex. "No way I'm
letting anyone into the building without seeing
them. How about opening some soda pop. We
can talk more after dinner."
Alex handled the Invitation as if it would
burst into flame at any instant. Gingerly, he set
it down on the kitchen table.
They had finished the pizza a short while ago.
The only overhead light in the apartment was
located here. It was the logical place to study
the card that had led to Jake's death.
"You are cordially invited to an Auction,"
Alex read carefully, "to be held on All-Hallows
Eve, at my estate in upstate Illinois. An item of
unique interest will be offered to the highest
bidder. Offers in kind. Overnight accommoda-
tions provided for all those in Attendance."
Alex shook his head. "I've seen some pretty
ambiguous documents, but this sure takes the
cake. Whoever is running this affair, he doesn't
believe in giving much away. No name, no
actual address, no mention what actually is
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being auctioned. I like that line, Offers in kind.
He makes the assumption that you know what
is being offered in the sale."
"No," said Valerie, raising the card and
looking at it closely. "Not exactly, Alex. It's like
we discussed at my apartment. Anyone receiv-
ing one of these invitations knows exactly what
the auctioneer means. It is only ambiguous to
someone who is not a master magician. Saves
any embarrassment if the card falls into the
wrong hands."
"Somehow," Alex said slowly, "I have a feel-
ing that these cards are always delivered to the
right people. Don't think that any of them are
delayed or destroyed by the post office."
"I know what you mean. You aren't sensitive.
I am. You were joking just now. I'm not.
Holding this invitation, I can feel a trace of the
Power. An actual trace. Do you realize how very
powerful the one who sent this Invitation is?
That story about the Wandering Jew doesn't
seem so outlandish now that I'm holding this."
Alex got up from his chair and began to pace.
"A two-thousand-year-old witness to the Cruci-
fixion holding auctions every thirty years?
Stealing Agrippa's magic mirror? Trading mag-
ic talismans with sorcerers? It doesn't make
sense."
"Does it have to?" asked Valerie. "We're only
seeing a small part of the total picture. Who
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can understand the motives of a man over
twenty centuries old?"
"Yeah. You have a point there. Maybe he's
bored. This whole thing might be some elabo-
rate game he's dreamed up to entertain him-
self."
"Possibly." Valerie shifted her head, shaking
her blonde hair so that it swirled about her
face. "Though I don't think so. Don't ask me
why; I can't explain it. I just have a feeling that
there's something deeper here than an immor-
tal's game. We're missing something."
He frowned. "Perhaps." Then he wondered
whether they should actually go, considering
how little they knew.
"Well, not to change the subject. . ." Valerie
held up a hand like a stop sign. "The answer is
yes."
"I haven't even asked the question?" Alex
had stopped in his tracks and was staring at her
suspiciously. "Can you read my mind?"
"Nope. But I am sharp. Don't ever think that
just because I'm a model I don't have brains."
"Never. I swear it. You're the smartest sex-
object I've ever met."
"Good enough. I'll settle for that. In any case,
it's been on my mind too. Do we attend the
auction or not? Assuming that my father's killer
doesn't get the Invitation from us, we can
attend. Should we? I say yes."
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"Fine with me." Alex pulled Valerie up from
her chair. He held her at arm's length and
looked her directly in the eyes. "I thought that
would be your answer, but I'm not going to
rant and rave about the danger. You're a big
girl. Even without your Invitation, I suspect
Jake's murderer will still make it there. And
who knows how many other sorcerers."
"All intent on obtaining the talisman of-
fered," continued Valerie. "And not too wor-
ried how they obtain it. Even if that means
killing off all the competition."
"You got it. We'll be at a distinct disadvan-
tage there. You have the Power, but not the
training. I don't even have that. I'm not inter-
ested in being the winning bidder. But it would
be nice to return in one piece. Now that I've
found you, I don't want to lose you so fast."
Valerie pulled Alex close. She hugged him
hard so he couldn't see the tears that had
suddenly formed in her eyes. "Not to worry,
sweetie," she finally managed to say. "Anyone
who can handle a werewolf in a one-on-one
isn't going to be a pushover. And I have a few
tricks up my sleeve. Not a lot, but Dad wouldn't
let his only child go out into the harsh cruel
world without teaching me how to defend
myself, whether or not I wanted to become a
sorceress. We'll manage."
"Good enough. Now to the sixty-four-dollar
question. Maybe we won't win this auction. But
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it would be nice to be able to bid at least."
"Well, we don't have Dad's book collection. If
we did, I think we'd be in good shape. He
assembled one of the finest collection of grim-
oires in the world. I know that for a fact. Oops, I
forgot. You're an expert on stuff like that. Dad
probably told you about his books."
Alex grinned. "We shared a common mania.
An obsessive desire to own every book on
magic that existed. It was a standing joke
between the two of us. Jake had all the rare and
expensive ones. I owned all the rest."
"The cops sealed his house. Sooner or later,
they'll drop the case and let me take posses-
sion. But I doubt if it will be soon enough for
us. I could ask for permission to remove some
books, but that might not be wise. Might raise a
few suspicions among the police, especially if
they discovered how much those things cost.
Let's leave the library as a last resort." She
snapped her fingers. "I do have one thing!
Remember that last phone call from my father
I told you about? Dad said something about
needing a hand. I thought he was talking about
getting help from you, but I should have known
better. He would never use language like that
without a reason. He was referring to the gift
he gave me before I left for New York. For my
protection, he said. Actually, it was a pretty
practical thing. Using it, you never have to
worry about rapists waiting in ambush in your
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Robert Weinberg
apartment or, for that matter, locking yourself
out. Only trouble was its appearance. Kind of
awkward explaining why you were keeping a
mummified hand with a candle held between
its fingers in your purse."
"A glory hand?" Alex said. "That's a real find.
They're a powerful magical tool. There can't be
many in existence, not any more. Only time I
ever saw one was in the permanent exhibit on
witchcraft in the British Museum. It dated
from the eighteenth century. Where did Jake
get one?"
"You got me. Dad always seemed to have a
surprise or two up his sleeve. No pun intended.
When I left for New York, he gave me a jewelry
box. Told me the contents would keep me safe.
I thought it was some magic ring or something.
You can imagine my reaction when I opened it
and saw a severed hand resting on a black satin
cloth. Almost tossed up my cookies."
"He sure didn't make it," said Alex. "Jake
knew what he was doing, but the formula for
creating such things has been lost for hundreds
of years. Only one book ever described all the
steps medieval sorcerers used making a Glory
Hand. According to The Marvelous SecYets of
the Natural and Cabalistic Magic of Little Albert,
you had to cut the hand off a corpse who was
just killed by hanging. After squeezing all the
blood out of it, you pickled it for fifteen days
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using peppercorns, saltpeter, pounded salt,
and something called zimat. Little Albert's se-
cret died with him. No one knew what zimat
was. So no more Hands of Glory. The rest of
the formula was pretty easy. You dry the hand
during the dog-days, when Sirius the Dog Star
rises and sets with the sun, save all the human
fat that came out of it, and mix that to make a
candle, which you wedge between the dead
hand's fingers."
"I know what you do next. Dad gave me a
card with instructions for its use. You light the
candle," said Valerie, "repeating three times
All locks are open. All visitors are still."
"The knock of a dead man opens any lock,"
continued Alex. "The lifelessness of the hand
reaches all in any room through the light of the
candle, striking them as motionless and silent
as the dead."
"Perfect companion for a single girl in Man-
hattan," said Valerie, laughing. "Better than a
can of mace or a tear-gas sprayer. Can't you see
me whipping out this mummified hand and a
pack of matches?"
"You have it with you?"
"No way, Jose. It wasn't exactly what I'd call
a sentimental keepsake. It's in my apartment in
New York, still in its velvet lined-box. Tomor-
row morning, I'll call my office. Candy, my
secretary, has a duplicate set of keys to my
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place. I'll have her send it to us by messenger.
We'll have it by supper time. The Auction isn't
till Tuesday."
"Sounds good. Guess it's my turn."
Valerie squinted at him. "Your turn?"
Alex disappeared into the other room.
Valerie could hear him rummaging about for a
few minutes. A stack of books crashed to the
floor. Another followed. Then, Alex was back,
proudly displaying a large, leather-bound vol-
ume.
"Protective coloration," he said. "Learned it
in Viet Nam. Easiest way to protect something
valuable was to leave it in plain sight. Don't
make any fuss about it and make sure that it
blended in with the scenery."
"So you leave your most valuable books in
the living room bookcase, right next to your
mystery paperbacks."
"You got it. Here. Take a look at this."
The book was the size of an encyclopedia
volume. It was bound in black leather. Even
without opening it, Valerie could see the pages
were thick and untrimmed. It was heavier than
it looked and she had to hold it with both
hands. It gave off an odd, pungent smell that
she couldn't immediately identify. Inhaling
deeply, she ventured a guess. "Graveyard
mold?"
"Mothballs. Previous owner was an oddball
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book collector who lived on the South Side.
Protected all of his rare books from bugs by
packing them in plastic bags filled with moth-
balls. It worked. Not a wormhole to be found.
Got to wear noseplugs if you want to do any
serious reading, though. Here. Put it down on
the table and open it up to any page."
Valerie immediately saw why the book was
so thick. It was not printed but entirely hand-
written. The print was small and cramped,
filling each page right to the margins. The
words were inscribed in black ink, with certain
sections underlined in red. Strangely enough, it
was in English. "What is this thing?"
"Early magicians believed that for a grimoire
to be of real worth, it has to be written in a
magician's own hand, told in his own words,"
said Alex. "Thus the book becomes the sorcer-
er's own magical instrument. That is why there
are so many variations of the most famous
magical textbook, The Key of Solomon. Differ-
ent magicians, translating from a language not
their own, gave you variant texts. When mod-
ern printing was invented, the practice all but
died out. Still, from time to time, I've come
across books done the old way. This has to be
one of the most unusual ever written."
Alex flipped the heavy pages until he came to
the front of the book. "Take a look. You'll never
see another copy of this edition. It's The Secrets
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Robert Weinberg
of the Hanged Man by Justin Geoffrey. His one
attempt at non-fiction. According to the Na-
tional Register, there's a copy at Yale, and
another at Miskatonic University. And this one.
No others are known to exist of the original
thirteen copies Geoffrey had privately bound in
1922. Each one was written in Geoffrey's own
hand and all of them are different. I checked
the other two copies on trips to the East Coast.
The text, while similar, was not exactly the
same. There was a regular hardcover edition
published in 1930 by the Golden Goblin Press,
but that text was severely abridged. It was little
more than a feeble attempt to cash in on
Geoffrey's already fading notoriety."
"I recognized Geoffrey's name," said
Valerie. "I always thought he was a poet, not a
magician. Dad had an autographed copy of his
People of the Monolith. Cost him a mint."
"Fortunately, I didn't have to pay a lot for this
treasure. Never could have afforded it on my
salary. I got it on a lucky break. A guy I knew
before I went into the Army sold it to me for a
song. He told me it was mixed in with a big lot
of books he bought at an estate sale. Thought it
was a horror novel. When he saw it wasn't, he
contacted me. I guess I was born under a lucky
star."
"You ever read it?"
"I tried," answered Alex, making a face. "It's
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filled with the most obtuse meandering imag-
inable. The Hanged Man is the most obscure
figure in the tarot deck. There have been specu-
lations on the true meaning of the card for
hundreds of years. Everyone from Eliphas Levi
to A.E. Waite has written something about it.
No two authors ever agreed on its actual signifi-
cance, and Geoffrey's theories were as clear as
mud. It's not surprising, when you remember
he died in an asylum in 1924, two years after
completing the book. But it doesn't matter if
the thing makes any sense. Lots of books of
magic are so obscure that only a lunatic can
understand them. Reading the Kaballah gives
me a headache after fifteen minutes. The lan-
guage alone is enough to drive me up the wall.
And then, trying to discover the meaning hid-
den behind the words. Jake said the same thing
about the Lemegeton. No one disputes that they
are both extremely important books of magic.
They're just written in a deliberately paradoxi-
cal style.
"The same argument holds true for The
Secrets of the Hanged Man. Geoffrey might have
actually discovered the significance of the
Hanged Man. He spent most of his life investi-
gating the dark corners of the world . . . and
the human mind. It is equally possible that the
book is no more than the ramblings of a
famous madman. Lunacy or not, it was written
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by the most important poet of occult verse
since Poe. If the Wandering Jew is collecting
rarities, he'll want this book."
"What's this mean?" asked Valerie, pointing
to a line written in red ink, just beneath the
title. "This isn't English."
"It's Latin. Comes from the Vulgate transla-
tion of Isaiah. It's a very famous quote. 'Percur-
rimus foedus cum morte et cum inferno fecimus
pactum.'" Alex said each word slowly, letting
them roll off his tongue. " 'We have signed a
treaty with death and with Hell we have made a
pact.'" Alex shuddered and raised his eyes
from the book. "Hopefully, not a prophetic
statement."
After a second, he continued on a lighter
note. "So we have two items. Might not be
enough to be top bidder, but should at least put
us in the running."
Valerie yawned. She stretched high up on
her toes. "Enough for one night. How about
some TV and then to bed."
"You getting sleepy?"
"Sleep?" She grinned. "I didn't say anything
about sleep."
"Alex. You still awake?"
"Barely. Whatcha want?"
"Remember earlier when you told me about
Agrippa and the Wandering Jew."
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"Sure. Make it quick, Val. I'm awfully tired."
"Just one second more. When you first
started telling me about Agrippa, you said you
had a theory about what was offered at the
auction, something to do with the identity of
the auctioneer."
"Okay." Yawning, Alex shifted around in the
bed. He raised his head and folded one arm
underneath for support. "It makes sense if the
auctioneer is the Wandering Jew. But I'm still
not convinced he is."
"What makes sense?"
"Look at the clues. It can't be a talisman like
we originally thought. Not if it's been offered
again and again. We now know that is the case
from the number of auctions that have been
held. How many talismans can there be? It has
to be something else.
"The prize involves magic. We figured that
out pretty easily ourselves. And it obviously has
to be something very desirable. Not wealth.
Agrippa wouldn't have been willing to trade his
mirror for gold, not with Charles V already on
the horizon. The way I see it, the only thing left
is knowledge. It has to be some kind of magic
formula, one that magicians would kill for. A
secret only the auctioneer possessed. I put all
the facts together. Came up with what had to be
the answer. All based on the assumption that
our guess about the Wandering Jew is correct."
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Robert Weinberg
Valerie's eyes widened. "You don't think . . .
you don't really think . . . ?"
"Sure I do. What else can it be? What can't
all the money or power in the world get you.
One more second of time. The prize of the
Devil's Auction has to be the secret of eternal
life."
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Chapter Nine
It was pouring rain when they awoke Monday
morning. Valerie stood at the window and
watched the gray clouds swirl about the apart-
ment building as Alex wolfed down the last of
his breakfast. During her years in New York,
she had forgotten how gloomy autumn was in
Chicago. Once summer was over, the city
seemed to go into a long period of hibernation
until spring. The sky was gray more often than
not, and cold, dreary rain was an integral part
of October and November. She had been ex-
tremely lucky this trip. This was the first major
rainstorm since she had been back. Valerie
wondered if it heralded things to come. The
Auction was tomorrow night. The thought of
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attending the gathering suddenly depressed
her. Now that she had found Alex, revenge
didn't matter so much. He was more important
than finding her father's killer. Now her main
concern was their returning from the Auction
alive.
Alex came walking into the living room.
Immediately, he must have sensed how gloomy
she felt. "Hey, good looking," he said with a
smile, "don't let the weather get you down.
This is Chicago, remember. The only city
where you can have all four seasons in one
week. It'll get better by afternoon. I've got
classes this morning and a faculty meeting
right after lunch, and I can't miss either. I'll
find someone to take over for the next few days.
So you're on your own for most of the day.
We'll go out for dinner. In the meantime, cheer
up. Can't have you sitting around in a funk all
day long. Do something. Think of the possibili-
ties. We might be talking to a two-thousand-
year-old man tomorrow."
"Do you really think it's possible?"
"What? That we'll get a chance to talk to
him? I certainly hope so."
"No, silly." In the short time they had been
together, she had discovered that Alex had a
habit of doing that. He answered the most
obvious question raised, often when she meant
something entirely different. She wasn't sure if
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he was teasing her or was just very literal
minded. It was probably a combination of
both. The literal part came from years of
having to answer student's dumb questions.
And the other half of the time, she suspected,
he enjoyed teasing her. "Could he really
be two thousand years old?"
Alex went back to the kitchen for another
piece of toast. He returned in a minute. "Be-
fore I met your father, I would have laughed at
the idea. Not anymore. If sorcerers exist, not to
mention werewolves, why can't the Wandering
Jew be real? There are lots of reported encoun-
ters with him in my books. He sounds like an
interesting character."
Breakfast finished, Alex donned a raincoat
and grabbed a big black umbrella from the hall
closet. "I'll be back around three o'clock. You
shouldn't have any problems. Our friends seem
to have given up trying to get your Invitation.
And even if they haven't, they won't try any-
thing in the daytime. See you later."
The first thing Valerie did was call her office
in New York. With the hour time difference,
her secretary was already there. A few minutes
of patient explaining took care of everything.
The Hand of Glory would be on the way within
hours and should arrive late in the day.
That done, Valerie settled down and
watched cartoons on TV for a half an hour.
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Robert Weinberg
When she was positive Alex would not be back,
she picked up the phone and dialed a well-
remembered number.
"Mak? It's me, Valerie."
"Val. I had hoped to hear from you. How are
you and Alex getting along?"
"I'm staying with him at his apartment, if
that's what you mean." She laughed. "As if you
didn't know. Do you have some time free to
talk? In person? I don't trust phones."
"Very wise. I had a feeling you might call
today, so left my morning free. I'll be by in
fifteen minutes. Will buzz you with the old
signal. Come down when you hear it. And only
if it's the old signal."
"You really think that codes are necessary?"
Makoto's tone was grim. "With the Countess
involved, you never can tell. She might be
listening to us right now."
For Valerie, the world suddenly stopped
moving. Everything clicked into place. She
knew. Old memories came flooding back. In
her mind's eye she saw a beautiful woman clad
entirely in black. And, hovering nearby, a hulk-
ing, brutish woman companion. Beauty and
the Beast, her father had called them. The
Countess Marie Lamont and her ever-present
servant. What was her name? Hannah? That
was it. Hannah Stine.
"Val? Val?" Tsuiki sounded worried. "You
still there?"
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"The Countess," Valerie managed to get out.
"She killed him, didn't she? She always hated
Dad. I should have known she did it. Or that
servant of hers, Hannah."
"We can talk when we're together. Remem-
ber, wait for my signal. I'll be there as soon as I
can."
One long ring, then two short. That was
Mak's signal. They had come up with it a long
time ago, when she was still a kid living at
home and he was her father's best pupil. It had
been a game then, a secret code between the
two of them. Only now it was deadly serious.
Across 57th Street, on Lake Shore Drive, a
small finger of rock jutted out into the lake. It
was a favorite spot for students and Hyde Park
residents to go fishing. The city had even
provided a small lot for automobile parking.
From your car, you could look directly out into
Lake Michigan. On days like today, that lot was
deserted. Mak parked his car in a spot facing
the gray waves and turned to Valerie.
"Seems like old times."
"A little. But Mom and Dad are both gone.
And the two of us are a bit older."
Mak chuckled. He had a pleasant laugh, low
and vibrant, almost dignified-sounding. It fit
him. Everything about Mak was in harmony.
He was the most balanced person Valerie had
ever known. Her father had put it best a long
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Robert Weinberg
time ago: "Others strive to find inner peace,"
he had told her. "Mak never lost it."
"Unlike most of us," Mak stated with a smile,
"growing older has agreed with you. The last
time we were together, you were an attractive
girl. Now you are a beautiful woman." Mak
hesitated for an instant. "It is good to see you
again, Val. Even if it is under such unfortunate
circumstances."
"Tell me about it. I don't think I'll ever
accept the fact that Dad is gone. Every time the
phone rings, I pick it up half expecting it to be
him on the line, telling me that it was all a
mistake, another one of his elaborate tricks. I
keep waiting for him to come through the door.
But he never does. Maybe someday the realiza-
tion will finally sink in. Not yet."
"It never does." Mak's face was solemn. "It is
part of the human condition. We cannot accept
such loses. In time the wound heals. But the
pain is never gone. It lingers there forever,
hidden beneath the surface, perhaps, but al-
ways there. Such links with the past are what
make us what we are."
"Hmmm. That's an interesting thought."
Valerie straightened up in the seat and
smoothed her hair away from her face. Her
dark mood seemed to flow out of her. Alex was
right. Life was too exciting at the moment to be
depressed. "Think of what an immortal man
might experience over the course of two thou-
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sand years. How much pain and anguish and
loss can a man stand? No matter what his
powers, he could not prevent death after death.
Friendship and love would always lead to pain.
In time, he would avoid those emotions at all
cost. No wonder such a man might become a
wanderer. And, when such a life no longer was
possible, he'd become a recluse."
Mak pursed his lips together. "Living away
from people, except for once every thirty years.
I see that Alex has been up to his usual mental
gymnastics trying to puzzle out the Auction.
Have you come up with any reason for our
mysterious hermit to interrupt his solitude?"
"Not yet. The only idea so far has been that
the Wandering Jew does it for his amusement.
Or a love of rare magical relics. Neither expla-
nation satisfies Alex."
"Nor should they. I doubt if they are cor-
rect."
"You know the answer, don't you, Mak? You
always know the answers."
"Your confidence in me is most flattering,
Valerie; but in this case, I am afraid, misplaced.
I know little more than you or Alex. There is
one thing, however, that you might want to
consider before attending this Auction tomor-
row."
"And that is?"
"No one who participated in the Devil's Auc-
tion has ever returned from it. No one living
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Robert Weinberg
admits to have ever received an invitation. That
can mean but one thing. Those who did attend
never returned. They disappear from sight.
That is why so little is known about the event.
There is no one to ask what took place at it.
That is why your father thought Romanov
foolish for keeping the Invitation. And why I
gave my Invitation away."
"You had an Invitation?"
"Of course. They are always sent to the most
powerful practicing magicians in the country. I
do have a little pride, my dear Valerie. You have
to agree I satisfied the requirement.''
"And . . . and . . . you gave it away." Valerie
couldn't believe what Mak was saying.
"Weren't you the least bit curious?"
"Of course. But not that curious. I enjoy
living too much to allow my existence to be
terminated because of curiosity. You might be
interested in knowing to whom I gave the
Invitation. I delivered it in person to the Count-
ess."
Valerie stared at Tsuiki in astonishment.
"Mak. How could you? You practically admit-
ted to me she was the one who killed my father.
The motive had to be his Invitation. Now you're
telling me you gave her exactly what she
wanted. Are you crazy?"
Mak gave her the look. It was an expression
of his, a combination of "If only you knew,"
and "Someday you will understand." She'd
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hated it as a teenager, and it didn't sit much
better with her now.
"Think about what I told you for a minute,
Val, before getting so hot under the collar. No
one ever returns from these Auctions. I can't
make it any clearer than that. Marie Lamont is
set on going. She'll attend and that will be the
end of her. Jake's death will be avenged. Nice,
neat, and with no loose ends. What could be
simpler."
"Maybe for you, but not for me. For one
thing, everything we know about this Auction
has been rumor or legend. No actual facts.
What if you aren't right? Maybe, just maybe,
you guessed wrong. And, in doing so," said
Valerie, with a trace of bitterness, "gave the
Countess a chance at immortality."
"It might not be as simple as that."
"She killed my father without hesitation,
looking for his Invitation, and she tried to kill
Alex and me!"
"I didn't know that. How?"
Briefly, Valerie summarized the events of the
last day. When she got to the fight with the
werewolf, Mak interrupted with a wave of a
hand.
"Definitely Hannah. The Countess found her
in an orphanage years ago and taught her the
correct words of power. She is not very smart,
but possesses an animal cunning. Be warned.
Hannah is a dangerous customer despite the
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way Alex handled her. She is a killer—has
killed many men. And she is slavishly loyal to
her Mistress."
"The Countess Marie Lamont." To Valerie, it
was like pronouncing a curse. "The most no-
torious sadist to practice magic in this century.
Dad used to scare me as a child with stories
about her. The infamous Countess. How many
men has she killed, Mak? Wouldn't she love to
be immortal. She's not getting any younger.
Must be around fifty now." Valerie smacked
her hands together in frustration. "The Count-
ess always managed to have her own way
before. What makes you think she'll let anyone
stop her now?"
"Ashmedai."
"Huh?"
"The master of the Auction. He calls himself
Ashmedai. That much is known about him.
He's the most powerful magician in the world.
No one knows any more than that. He lives on
an isolated estate somewhere upstate. No one
knows where. If, as you suspect, Ashmedai is in
reality the Wandering Jew, he has managed to
achieve the isolation he wants. He guards the
location of his retreat jealously. Do you have
any directions to the auction?"
"Never gave it much thought; but now that
you mention it, no."
"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll get
them when you need them. Not until then. And
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somehow, I suspect, they will be worthless
without an Invitation. A small demonstration
of his power. This is the point I was trying to
make. Marie Lamont is a vile woman. We both
know what she is—a sadistic maniac who has
used her powers to further her excesses for
decades. The Countess exemplifies the worst
aspect of those with the Power. Unfortunately,
her kind is too typical of the few who practice
the Black Arts. Those with a sense of morality
are a small minority. Power corrupts. I think
Ashmedai tries in his own way to balance the
scales."
"Sort of paying back for his sins." Valerie
chewed on her lower lip as she consider Mak's
argument. "I see what you mean. It presents a
possible motive behind the Auction. You think
they are really a trap for the wicked, a one way
ticket to Hell. Ashmedai invites the most pow-
erful mages to attend, promising them
immortality ..."
". . . and then giving them the justice they
deserve," finished Mak. "Exactly. That is why I
say, let the Countess attend. Her fate will be of
her own making."
Valerie shook her head in disagreement. "It
doesn't ring true, Mak. For one thing, Dad was
no evil sorcerer, and he got an Invitation. So
did you. You're not evil. A little weird, perhaps,
but not evil. More importantly, you're giving
your fellow adepts too little credit. They might
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Robert Weinberg
be greedy, but they are also a pretty suspicious
bunch. Do you really think this Ashmedai
could fool them for generation after generation
with the same scheme? There has to be some
thread of truth to the Auction. Otherwise, no
one would attend. If no one ever returned, like
you claim, then there shouldn't be anything
known. And yet there is. Listen to this idea:
maybe the people attending do disappear. May-
be not. It might all be part of an elaborate
coverup. After all, if I was one of the losers at
such an event, I wouldn't want anyone to know
I even attended. A fact like that could perma-
nently damage your reputation. You know how
vain most sorcerers are. Think about it for a
minute. Couldn't that be the real explanation of
these disappearances? They might not be dis-
appearances at all. Instead, the losers might
vanish through the simple method of never
admitting they attended in the first place. Since
it only lasts one night, all they had to do was
come up with an alibi for the evening, then
keep quiet about the event ever after."
Mak didn't say anything for several minutes.
Valerie was secretly quite pleased. Even if he
didn't agree with her, Mak was at least giving
her arguments some consideration.
Finally, Tsuiki shrugged and made a vague
gesture with both hands. "Much as I hate to
admit it, you could be right. It is hard to believe
that anyone would attend these Auctions if
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certain death was the only reward. As you point
out, it would account for all the legends that
have grown up about the Auction over the
years. A slip of the tongue here or there by a
disgruntled loser, and a story is born.
"Valerie, you have your father's gift for in-
trigue. It never was one of my strong points. I
don't know what to say. It looks like I mis-
judged the whole situation . . . though I still
think that Ashmedai is more than a match for
the Countess and her schemes."
"I hope you're right. In any case, Alex and I
are going to attend. We would go even if you
hadn't told me about the Countess. It has gone
far beyond avenging my father. This whole
thing intrigues me. I have to go, and Alex feels
the same way."
"Not to change the subject, but it seems that
you and Alex have hit it off pretty well."
Valerie grinned. "I'd say so. We make a good
pair."
Mak nodded, his expression serious. "You
do. A very good pair. I'm sure you realized that
Jake had a hand in all this."
"Right away. A few years ago, I would have
resented it. Not any more. Maybe if Alex had
been an ogre my feelings would be different,
but he's not. If anything, he's better than I
deserve. My father, the matchmaker. I assume
from your friendship with Alex that you were
involved in arranging this as well?"
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"Not guilty. In fact, I never once mentioned
Alex to your father the entire time I studied at
your home. I had my own plans for him. Your
family isn't the only one with good bloodlines,
you know. There have been sorcerers in the
Tsuiki family for over five hundred years. From
the day I met Alex, I was scheming to add him
to my family. His genes mixed with ours would
have produced a very powerful adept. My fa-
ther and grandfather both agreed that he was a
perfect match for my younger sister, Rushi."
Mak's voice trailed off and for a moment, his
eyes were filled with sadness. Valerie's subcon-
scious came to her rescue. "I remember now.
She was killed in an auto accident soon after I
left for New York. Mom told me over the
phone. So all your plans were for naught."
Mak nodded, sighing heavily. "Man plans
and God laughs. It's an old Yiddish proverb.
Pretty much sums it all up. Rushi never even
met Alex. She had just turned eighteen. I
wanted to wait another year or two before
introducing them. Kismet."
"When did Dad enter the picture?"
"With Rushi gone, I saw no reason to keep
Alex hidden from your father. You had been
gone a few months. Your mother was busy with
work of her own. I was no longer Jake's stu-
dent. Not much was happening in magic, and
Jake was bored silly. So I told him about Alex."
Mak held up both hands in mock defense.
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"Never once occurred to me that Jake would
want to set the two of you together. You were
gone and that was it. I wanted your Dad to meet
Alex for other reasons."
"No need to apologize. I'm not complain-
ing."
"Thank you. I'm happy for the both of you.
Alex deserves the best. Especially after his first
wife. Sheila."
"The Dragon Lady? How did she come in to
the picture, Mak? That doesn't sound like one
of Dad's tricks. Unless my old man was a lot
more subtle than I ever knew."
"No. Sheila was an unexpected complica-
tion." Mak made a face. "She was a minor
sorceress taking some courses at the Universi-
ty. She registered for one of Alex's classes on
witchcraft. Sheila was not very smart, but she
had enough brains to immediately recognize
Alex for what he was. She caught your Dad and
me completely unawares. Before we knew any-
thing was going on, Alex told us he was think-
ing of getting married. Did we feel like two
jerks! She hooked him right under our noses."
"You couldn't stop her?"
"She used a fairly potent love charm and
there wasn't much we could do about it. As you
heard at the restaurant, we tried to talk Alex
out of the marriage, but that was a futile
gesture. It wasn't till after their wedding that
Jake was able to go to work. She never stood a
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chance against your Dad. When he wanted,
Jake could be diabolical."
"I don't know if I want to hear any more. At
the moment, my opinion of my Dad is pretty
high. I'd hate to have it go to Hell so quickly."
"On the contrary," said Mak. "He was on the
side of the angels. If Alex had been truly happy,
there wouldn't have been much Jake could
have done. He was only a catalyst. Their mar-
riage would have been in trouble sooner or
later even without Jake's prodding. Sheila
could captivate Alex, but she could never hold
him. Alex was miserable with her. She wanted
his luck, not him. There was no real emotion in
that match."
Valerie squirmed a little bit at what Mak was
saying. It hit a little too close to home. She
couldn't help wondering if she was any better
than Alex's first wife. There was a certain sting
in Mak's words.
"Getting you worried, Val? Don't be upset.
True love is stronger than any spell. It's what's
happening between the two of you now. Aha,
you are blushing. I still can read your thoughts
even without telepathy. I can assure you that
you are not like Sheila at all. I knew that you
would start wondering if you weren't the same
sort of creature as the Dragon Lady. You don't
have to worry. You love Alex already—I can see
it in your eyes every time you mention his
name. This is one area in which I am the
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master. There is a bond between the two of you
that is already stronger than any magic. You
might think of yourself as cold and
calculating—a rather dramatic and adolescent
fantasy you have maintained. I know you bet-
ter. You don't have the follow-through. You are
not your father. If Alex hadn't appealed to you
on an emotional level, Power or not, you would
never have made a play for him. Nor would you
have chased him so hard until he caught you."
"Stop it, Mak." Valerie could feel her cheeks
burning. "You're embarrassing me."
"No one ever died of embarrassment. I am
sure you will survive as well. The point I'm
making is an important one. Please don't think
I'm raising it for no reason. You may have used
a few shortcuts to bring the two of you togeth-
er, but that is no terrible sin. Women have used
one type of magic or another for thousands of
years. You were just a little more direct than
most."
"Enough, enough." Valerie glanced at the
clock. "It's getting late and I have a million
other things I want to ask you about Alex."
Mak shook his head. "I have to get to the
restaurant. One of my cooks is sick and I have
to fill in. Monday is a busy day for us. Most
commuting students aren't ready to face cafe-
teria food after a weekend without it. I should
have been there a half-hour ago."
"But I have so many questions."
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Mak started up the car. "Don't look at me for
the answers. The less you know about Alex's
past the better. You can't accidentally mention
something you had no way of knowing. Let life
take its course. Learn about him from him. You
already know all you need to know. Everything
else will just round out the picture."
"But, but, but, . . ."
Mak laughed as he steered the car out into
traffic. "Looks like the sun is trying to push its
way through the clouds. Maybe we'll have a
break in the rain after all." He looked over at
Valerie. "Don't pout at me, young lady. Magi-
cian or not, you sometimes have to live by the
same rules as anyone else. This is one of those
times."
They rode back to Alex's apartment building
in silence, Valerie pondering what Mak had
said. After a few minutes, she had to conclude
that her friend was right. If she knew too much
about Alex, a wrong word could lead to difficul-
ties. Her future husband didn't seem the type
to talk about himself. She would have to
change that. A little prying linked with some
flattery should work well enough. . . .
The rain had stopped by the time Mak
steered his car to the front entrance of the
apartment complex. Putting the gear shift in
neutral, Mak turned and grinned at Valerie.
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"Alex is a quiet man, but I am sure you can get
around that. From what I saw at my restaurant
the other night, you already have him en-
thralled. Consider it a challenge."
Valerie had to grin back. Mak knew her
better than anyone. It was impossible to be
mad at him very long. Impulsively, she reached
out and touched him on the arm. "I hope this
isn't goodbye for the last time."
"Worried about the Auction? Can't say I
blame you. Even if your theory is correct, it still
will be very dangerous. Maybe fatal. You don't
have to go, you know. You could just rip up the
Invitation. Or not attend,"
"No." Valerie shook her head. "I have to go.
If I didn't, I'd spend the rest of my life wonder-
ing what I missed. I'm sure Alex feels the same
way. The Auction is in our blood. It's calling to
us. There is no way we can't answer."
"Well, good luck to the both of you. Since I
gave away my Invitation, you can tell me all
about it when you get back. Call me and let me
know what I missed."
"I'll do that. For sure, I'll do exactly that."
They were watching the Nine O'clock news
that evening when the phone rang. Alex picked
it up. He listened for a few seconds, then
turned to Valerie, an odd look on his face. He
put one hand over the speaker before saying
anything.
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Robert Weinberg
"It's for you. Man says you were expecting his
call. His name is Ashmedai."
Valerie swallowed hard and nodded. "The
directions," she managed to gulp out, "to the
Auction. From the one sponsoring the affair."
Wordlessly, Alex handed her the phone.
"Hello. This is Valerie Lancaster."
The voice on the phone was deep and pleas-
ant. Almost soothing. Valerie was not sure
what she had been expecting, but this was not
it. The speaker sounded like a radio disc jockey
on one of the elevator-music stations.
"Good evening, Miss Lancaster. Sorry to call
at this hour, but it has been a busy day. Several
of the other guests have been difficult to reach.
You are the last on my list."
"The last? How many others are attending, if
I might ask?"
"Why not?" The man on the other end of the
line laughed. "The real question is never if you
can ask. All people control their own actions.
What the response will be is another question.
However, I see no reason for you not to know.
There will be six other bidders at the Auction.
As you already know, one of them will be the
Countess Lamont."
Valerie sucked in her breath. Ashmedai was
somehow aware of her interest in the Countess.
And of her conversation with Mak that morn-
ing. "Fine. I am looking forward to seeing her."
"Dinner will be served at eight. Cocktails
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first. I would appreciate it if you and Professor
Warner would be here before then. Early eve-
ning would be best. Informal dress, of course.
The Auction will take place after our meal.
Since it might go on for some time, the two of
you will be welcome to spend the night here."
"Sounds delightful. Where is here though?"
"My home is easy enough to find. Take the
Toll Road north to upstate Illinois. Take the
Oak Grove exit going west. You will cross over
the highway. Around a hundred feet further,
there is a turnoff onto an unpaved dirt road.
Watch carefully, as there is no sign. Follow that
road for several miles and you will arrive at my
door. It should take between two or three
hours from downtown Chicago, depending on
the traffic. Oh, one last thing. Make sure your
Invitation is with you on the trip. Otherwise,
you will have a difficult time finding your way.
Is everything clear? Wonderful. I look forward
to meeting the two of you. Good night."
Hanging up the phone, Valerie dropped onto
the sofa next to Alex. "Why do I have a feeling
that I was on the line with a talk show host?
Damn, that man had a pleasant voice." She
quickly told Alex everything that Ashmedai had
said. "He was so . . .," she searched for the
right word, "... civilized."
"This Countess. You never mentioned her
before."
"I spent some time today going over possible
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Robert Weinberg
suspects in Dad's murder. She fit the bill. There
have been rumors about her for years—
nothing proven of course. She has a big estate
up on the North Shore and lives there with a
big hulk of a servant named Hannah. Her full
name is the Countess Marie Lamont. She in-
herited a lot of money from her father, who
was also a powerful sorcerer. When I was
young, there was a lot of dirt going around
about her. She is definitely a sadist, and very
likely a homicidal maniac. Uses her magic to
keep the crimes secret. No one could ever
prove anything, but suspicions are enough for
most magicians. I don't remember anyone in
the Black Arts willing to deal with her. From
what I remember, she is a very vain woman.
Beautiful in a very cold way—you know what I
mean. Black leather and whips and all that
stuff. I'm sure she is panic-stricken, growing
older. Have no doubts at all: she would kill for
the secret of eternal life."
"Seeing that Ashmedai specifically men-
tioned she was attending seems to confirm
your suspicions." Alex's face was grim. "We'll
have to be prepared. I've dealt with people like
this Countess before. I can't imagine she would
be a good loser. She might not follow the rules
for bidding, either. In any case, we have to be
ready for the worst."
A stray word from the TV news caught
Valerie's attention. "Alex. Listen to this."
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". . . has police in that small northern Illi-
nois community baffled. The dead man has
been tentatively identified as Sid Levine, a
smalltime hoodlum from Chicago. Hindering
the investigation is the condition of the body."
The newscaster paused dramatically before
continuing. "Few details have been released to
the press, but unnamed sources in the Oak
Grove police department have told us that
Levine's body looked like it had been run over
by a steam roller. In a written statement, Chief
Gustafson of Oak Grove hints that the murder
might be drug-related. Supporting that claim is
the fact that five one-hundred-dollar bills, all
neatly ripped in half, were found in the dead
man's pockets. No further information is avail-
able at this time.
"Now, turning to local news. In Chicago's
own baffling mystery, there are still no clues to
the whereabouts of the statue of Casimir Pulas-
ki that disappeared from ..."
Alex got up and shut off the television.
"Looks like the Countess might not be the only
thing we have to worry about. Oak Grove
sounds like it's going to be a lively place
tomorrow evening. Lively, or very deadly."
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Chapter Ten
Valerie woke to the sound of Alex on the
phone. He was just hanging up when she
wandered into the living room.
"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to wake you
up."
"It's okay." Valerie yawned and stretched.
"Kind of early to be making calls, isn't it?
Who's awake at seven in the morning?"
"The guy I was talking to never sleeps. Or so
he claims. You want some breakfast, or are you
going to get some more rest?"
"Food sounds good. I don't think I can sleep
anymore."
Alex nodded. "I know what you mean. Only
caught a few hours myself. I never was very
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good at waiting. I'll be glad when we are on our
way."
Valerie went into the kitchen and started
making coffee. Alex joined her a few seconds
later. He pulled out the carton of eggs from the
refrigerator. "You want some bacon and eggs?"
"Fine. I'll make some toast. God, I don't
know how I'm going to fit into all my clothes.
I'm eating like a pig. I've probably gained five
pounds since I met you."
"No problem. On you, it doesn't show."
"You're no judge. But I appreciate the kind
words none the less. You have a nice way of
saying the right thing, hdney."
"No trick to that. I say what I mean."
Valerie popped the toast out of the toaster.
She turned to Alex, who was busy with the
frying pan on the stove. "Alex. I love you very
much."
"And I love you too, Valerie." He pulled the
pan off the fire and gave her a peck on the
cheek as he went looking for a spatula. "Want
to get some plates out? Bacon should be ready
in another minute or two."
"Alex. Put down that food for an instant.
Didn't you hear what I said. I love you."
"I heard. And I love you too. I intend to
continue to love you for the next fifty or so
years. That's assuming that we survive this trip
today. With all that time, I think we can eat our
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Robert Weinberg
breakfast while it's still hot."
Valerie stuck out her tongue. "So much for
romance. Here I confess my innermost feelings
and do you care? All you can think about is
your stomach."
"There is a time and place for everything,
Valerie. Confessions of true love are best after
breakfast. I function better on a full stomach.
Sit and eat. Romance later."
"Promise?"
"I promise." Alex put down the dishes and
encircled her with his arms. "You rescued me
from myself. I swore one try at love was
enough. Almost convinced myself of that be-
fore you came into my life." He nuzzled her on
her neck, sending shivers running up and down
her spine. "I love you more than you can ever
imagine."
Their kiss was long and sweet. Valerie could
feel herself growing aroused. Alex was reacting
the same way. It was clear that she was going to
have to start wearing a nightgown. Sleeping
nude was fun but too distracting. "Breakfast,"
she said, pulling away from him. "Otherwise
we'll never get going."
"Breakfast," said Alex, with a trace of regret
in his voice. "Do me a favor, though? Put on
some clothes first. I don't think I can make it if
I have to stare at your naked body across the
table. My blood is boiling already."
"One nightshirt coming up." As she slipped
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it on, Valerie remembered what had awakened
her. "Alex, who was that on the phone?"
"An old friend from my Army days. Calls
himself the Brick. He owes me a few favors and
I'm collecting one now."
"What kind of favor?"
"The people attending this auction are play-
ing for keeps. That news report last night was
no joke. I don't care how pleasant this
Ashmedai sounds on the phone. He might not
have our best interests at heart. The other
bidders surely don't. We need to even up the
odds a little bit. Brick deals in weapons, all
sorts of weapons. If I'm going to drive into a
trap, I intend to have enough firepower to blow
my way out of it."
"You sound like you've done things like this
before, Alex."
"Not for a long time. Some skills you never
forget. Let's hope that I don't have to use them.
Better to be prepared, though, than the alter-
native."
"The alternative?"
"Dead."
It was well after two o'clock and dark clouds
were gathering over Lake Michigan when Alex
and Valerie came down to the car. Valerie
wore jeans and a floral-print top, with her hair
tied back behind her head. In a large overnight
bag, she had a nicer outfit to change into once
they reached the Auction.
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Robert Weinberg
Alex was dressed entirely in black: black
slacks, black pullover shirt, and dark black
windbreaker. He even had a black beret that he
wore pulled down tight over his forehead.
"Let's just say it matches my suspicions," he
said to Valerie when she questioned his lack of
colors. "I've got a change of outfit in my bag as
well."
The two rarities were securely wrapped and
packed away at the bottom of Alex's suitcase.
After breakfast, he had dug up an old plastic
drop sheet which the two of them had attacked
with scissors and tape. The book and jewelry
case were both embedded in several layers of
heavy translucent plastic for protection. It
wasn't fancy, but it was practical and quick.
Alex dropped both bags in the back seat of
the car. A large airline shoulder bag already
rested on the floor: a gift from the Brick.
Valerie also knew that Alex had a sheath knife
strapped to his calf. And several pieces of metal
in his windbreaker pocket rattled against each
other softly every time he moved. Alex was
armed and dangerous.
To Valerie, the real weapon was Alex himself.
He seemed the personification of death. She
could sense the coldness within him. Alex
Warner, Professor of History, no longer existed.
He had reverted back to his wartime personali-
ty; the part of him that had battled the werewolf
now controlled his body. He seemed to flow
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from place to place, never making a sound. His
head darted from side to side, his eyes taking in
everything, though acknowledging nothing.
Now she saw the Alex Warner who suspected
everyone and everything, almost to the verge of
paranoia. All the black magic in the world
could not stop a man like this. Valerie felt glad
he was on her side.
"Let's go," said Alex. His voice sounded
harsh and cold, tight with suppressed excite-
ment. "Time to get moving."
They climbed into the car. Alex started the
engine then gently eased the auto out of the
parking lot. As he drove, his body seemed to
relax slightly. Valerie turned on the tape deck,
and the gentle sound of Benny Goodman filled
the car. After a few minutes, Alex began to tap
his fingers on the steering wheel in time with
the music. A few minutes more, and off came
the black beret. Valerie relaxed.
It was in the low forties outside, so they kept
the car windows closed as they headed north.
Dark clouds filled the sky. Traffic was light and
they made good time. As Alex paid the first toll
at the O'Hare interchange, the first drops of
rain dotted the windshield. A gray mist de-
scended as the rain fell in a steady drizzle. The
car tires rolled out the miles. The Benny Good-
man tape came to an end, and Glenn Miller
took its place.
Neither of them spoke. It was enough that
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they were finally on their way. Valerie caught
herself dozing off more than once. The gray
skies, the steady drone of the tires, and the soft
patter of the rain had a soothing effect. She had
offered to drive earlier. As expected, Alex had
turned her down. He was too tense to let
anyone else behind the steering wheel. It was
probably just as well. With his luck, Alex would
never be involved in a major accident.
"Another toll," said Alex wearily. "Have forty
cents in change left, Valerie?"
"Nope. Sorry. Break a dollar."
As Alex handed the bill to the toll collector,
he asked, "How much further to the Oak Grove
west exit?"
"About twenty minutes," answered the man
in the booth. Then, he looked at Alex oddly.
"Did you say Oak Grove west?"
"You got it. West."
"Funny. You're the second one today to
make the same mistake. There's only one Oak
Grove exit, and that goes east. Hooks up with
Oak Grove Road after a mile. Maybe that's what
you're thinking of."
"Maybe," said Alex, and he directed his car
out into traffic.
Alex turned to Valerie, a frown on his face.
"Time to put the Invitation on the dashboard.
This should be some trick if Ashmedai can pull
it off." Then his mood changed, as he contin-
ued. "We were the second ones to ask about
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that exit. Looks like we won't be first to arrive."
"Fashionably late," said Valerie in agree-
ment. "It will help keep my image as a high-
price fashion-model intact."
Together, they counted down the miles. Alex
kept the car at a steady sixty. Forgotten now
was the tape player. Nor did Valerie feel the
least bit sleepy. They were close, and each
minute brought them a mile closer.
"Over there." She pointed across the high-
way ten minutes later. "The rest stop where
that body was found. Not very far at all from
the Auction."
"Means that someone knew where this thing
was scheduled to take place." Alex pumped the
gas pedal a little harder, sending his car surg-
ing forward. "Nine miles to go."
At two miles to the exit, Valerie spotted a
green highway sign announcing Oak Grove—
Oak Grove Road—Two Miles. There was no
mention on the sign of an east or west branch.
Her fingers curled into fists in anticipation. She
could see Alex's hands tighten on the steering
wheel in a death grip.
A second sign proclaimed that it was only a
mile to the exit. Then, in thirty seconds, they
were on the exit ramp. Alex slowed the car
down to twenty. After speeding along at three
times that speed, it felt like they were crawling.
Along with the steady rain, there was a low
curtain of fog covering the road; it was difficult
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to see very far ahead. Alex immediately
switched on the lights. They caught the flash of
a metal sign a few hundred feet ahead. They
coasted up to it as Alex braked the car to a slow
roll. Oak Grove-West. Next Left.
"So much for that toll collector," said
Valerie, with almost a sigh of relief. "He must
have been thinking of another exit."
"I don't know," said Alex, as he gave the
engine a little gas. The branch in the exit was
only a few hundred feet further. A perfectly
normal overpass crossed the highway. Alex
directed his car onto the bridge. In seconds,
they were on the other side of the road. The fog
was a heavy white curtain that was barely cut
by the headlights.
"It's hard to believe that guy would make the
same mistake twice in one day. And this fog
seems to have come up awfully sudden . . . the
road has a funny feel to it, too." Alex shook his
head. "Not that it really matters, as long as we
get there. Here comes that dirt road. He told
you a few miles on that, right? We should be
there in ten minutes or so. I'm taking it nice
and slow; dirt roads aren't made for regular
tires."
The car groaned in protest as Alex turned
onto the unpaved road. It was little more than a
rough track hewed out of thick forest; it twisted
and turned through the ancient wood. Huge
old trees lined both sides of the pathway. Dense
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shrubbery packed up against the road, forming
a nearly impenetrable wall. Alex had barely
enough room to maneuver. The ground was
not leveled and the car bounced and crashed as
he fought with the steering wheel to keep them
from crashing into the undergrowth. The fog
got worse as the trees shielded what little light
still remained. It was impossible to see more
than twenty feet ahead.
Alex watched the road intently. The fog lights
were little good in this gloom. His hands were
locked on the steering wheel and he was using
one foot on the gas and the other on the brake.
Sweat covered his forehead. His lips were tight-
ly pressed together in concentration.
Valerie sat braced with her arms up against
the dashboard. Every bump rattled her jaw.
Her head was ringing from the constant jolting.
The seat belt did little good on a road like this.
Her hands ached from pressing against the
dashboard. She stared out the front window,
trying to make out shapes in the fog. The mist
was not natural. She could sense dark magic in
its origin. Some primitive fear stirred in her
mind. There was something terribly wrong in
the forest.
"I see something up ahead," said Alex. With-
out taking his eyes off the road, he reached into
the back seat with one arm and grabbed hold of
the mysterious airline bag. Cords of muscle
stood out in his arm as he pulled the bag into
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the front. "Grab everything," he commanded.
"This might be the end of the road."
Valerie did as she was told. There was no
time for questions; Alex knew what he was
doing. She gathered the two overnight bags on
her lap. The headlights fastened on the object
only a hundred feet away—another car,
stopped in the road. There was no way around
it.
Alex let their car roll up close to the other
one. Twenty feet away, he switched the bright
lights on. The strong beams didn't go very far in
the dense fog. Valerie rolled down her window
a crack, but there was nothing to hear. The
forest remained silent. Thin tendrils of mist
crept into the car. The air felt damp and cold.
The drizzling rain beat a steady tattoo on the
roof.
"I don't like the looks of this," said Alex. "No
reason for anyone to be stopped here, with no
house in sight. We've got no choice. We'll have
to see what's going on."
He reached into the flight bag and pulled out
a hand gun. To Valerie, the pistol looked as big
as a cannon. Alex held it in his right hand and
checked to see that it was loaded. Next, he
swung it around, moving his hand back and
forth, up and down. "Getting used to the feel of
it," he said to Valerie. "You never should
handle a weapon until it feels right."
Alex pulled several clips of ammunition from
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the bag. "Better prepared than not." His eyes
locked with Valerie's. "The two of us will go
out there together. I think it would be a good
idea for us not to split up. Ever. If something
happens, drop the bags and run. We can always
get more clothes. You ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be. I don't like this very
much, Alex."
"Tell me about it. Nothing much else we can
do. No time for chatting. Let's go."
By the time Valerie had opened her door and
pulled the two bags out, Alex was around the
car and at her side. He used his left hand to
steady her, while keeping a constant watch on
the nearby forest. His right hand, the one with
the gun, moved back and forth as if it had a life
of its own.
"Seems quiet enough," said Alex. He stepped
forward, gently tugging Valerie with him. Cau-
tiously, his head weaving from side to side, he
made his way to the other car. She kept close
behind him. It was only ten feet away, but in the
dense fog, the auto was a vague, indistinct mass
of dark metal. She shivered as they drew
nearer. She could sense death close by.
The car was a black Cadillac limousine.
"Must be an airport rental," said Alex. "Looks
like the type you see up there. Has to be one of
the other bidder's."
Squinting in the mist, Valerie could make
out a bulky piece of steel at the edge of the
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road. She edged over closer to the wreckage. It
was a door to the Cadillac. Valerie noted that
the lock on the door was still pressed down and
the window still rolled shut. At the right and
left sides, the metal was crumpled and broken.
The edges of the breaks were all pointing
inward. It was as if some terrible hand had
ripped into the steel and pulled the door right
off its hinges. Valerie shuddered. What crea-
ture could do this?
Alex was by her side for a moment, then
moved forward. She hurried up behind him,
just as he reached the side of the Cadillac.
"Don't look inside the car," he warned, but it
was too late. Valerie turned away, suddenly
feeling very sick.
The thing on the back seat had once been a
man. Now it was a smashed ruin, crushed to a
pulp. Blood pooled on the floor and soaked the
seat through and through. Chunks of flesh and
bone were everywhere. It was impossible to
make out the features of the victim. If the
person hadn't been in a business suit, there
would have been no way to tell if it had been a
man or woman. Nothing human could have
caused that damage.
Alex's words were clipped and full of ice.
"Take a few deep breaths. There's no time for
panic. Whatever killed that truck driver has
been here too. It ripped the door off the car to
get at the passenger. Now it's probably out in
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the woods somewhere, waiting for more vic-
tims. Us."
Gulping, Valerie reached out. Alex took her
hand and guided her forward. They stepped
quickly in front of the Cadillac. Valerie glanced
ahead and froze for a second. A fallen tree
blocked the road. A number of branches were
gone from the trunk and there were huge
gouges gone from the bark, showing the wood
beneath. The mud in front of the tree was a
gooey mess. There was blood everywhere. This
time, there was not even a body.
Alex darted forward. He quickly examined
the site. Then, he scanned the area beyond the
barrier. In seconds, he was back beside
Valerie.
"Two sets of footprints. One was that of a
normal man—probably the driver. The other
prints are massive, too big to be that of a man.
And deep. The killer must be heavier than hell.
The way I see it, our unknown murderer
blocked the road with the tree, then settled
down to wait. A car came along. The driver got
out to investigate. When he got close, it at-
tacked. The driver must have been killed imme-
diately. The bidder, still in the car, saw what
happened and locked the doors. Not enough
with this monster. It ripped open the car and
finished the job."
"What rips doors off cars?" asked Valerie,
trying to control the shakes sweeping through
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her body. "What smashes men to pulp?"
"I have no desire to find out. Whoever, or
whatever, it isn't here at the moment. No
telling when it will be back. We have to get
going. From the directions you got, we should
only be a half-mile or so from Ashmedai's
estate. We'll hoof it. Give me one of those bags.
Let's move."
Alex helped her over the fallen tree. The rain
was getting pretty heavy now, and darkness had
fallen. It was muddy, slow going. Valerie snif-
fled in disgust. Her hair was plastered down flat
against her head and her clothes felt like wet
rags on her body. Fortunately, she had been
wearing flats. Heels would not have lasted a
second in this mud. Her feet squished with
each step. A small pebble had gotten into one
shoe and rubbed against her heel. There was
no time to stop and remove it.
They made slow but steady progress for the
first few minutes. Alex set a comfortable pace
and they stayed to the center of the road. It was
muddy, but flat. Alex seemed to intuitively
know how fast Valerie could move and held
their speed to that level.
It was rough going, and soon it got rougher.
The underbrush crept closer and closer to the
road, the trees pressed in on both sides, and the
dense fog clung like a blanket around them,
muffling their vision beyond a few feet. Rain
continued to drizzle in a ceaseless, depressing
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onslaught; the air was thick with moisture and
each breath became an effort. Throughout it all
the dark forest remained completely silent.
By unspoken command, they remained si-
lent as well. From time to time, leaves swirled
down at them from the rain-soaked trees. The
odor of decaying vegetation served as a con-
stant reminder of the death close by.
Alex stopped and looked around. He shook
his head in annoyance. Coming up beside him,
Valerie followed his line of sight with her eyes.
She almost burst into tears. There were trees
up ahead of them. The forest formed an impen-
etrable barrier on three sides. The only open
path led back to the cars. Alex looked at her, his
face shaded by doubt. "This can't be right. We
followed the directions. Road never split. Yet,
there's no way to go on. We're at a dead end."
Suddenly, Valerie realized what was wrong.
"Alex, we have to go back."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"The Invitation—we need it with us. It's the
key. You guessed it earlier; this road isn't real.
This stretch of highway only exists through
Ashmedai's sorcery. The Invitation opens the
gate. Once we get beyond the influence of the
Invitation in the car, the road ceases to exist.
We have to have it with us to get to the end."
Nodding unhappily, Alex turned around.
"Let's make it fast. I have a hunch our time is
running out. Even my luck has its limits."
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They sloshed through the mud and rain as
fast as they could. Alex half-carried, half-
dragged her along. A cold wind was blowing
now, whipping through their clothes. Valerie
never imagined she could feel so wet and cold.
The constant fight to move her feet through the
thick mud had her ankles aching. Each breath
was an effort. Damp, cold air swirled down into
her lungs, chilling her inside as well as out.
Up over the fallen tree. Past the Cadillac with
its grisly cargo. Back to their car. The bright
lights glared as strong as ever. It seemed like
hours since they had left the auto. Valerie
checked her watch. They had been walking for
less than thirty minutes. The wind howled as
they pulled open the car doors. Rain lashed
them like shotgun pellets. The storm was grow-
ing worse.
Exhausted, Valerie dropped onto her seat.
The Invitation was where she had left it on the
dashboard. She shook her head, trying to get
some of the wet out of her hair. There was a box
of Kleenex tissues on the seat. She pulled out a
bunch and wiped off her face.
Alex remained standing outside, his eyes
constantly searching the woods for some sign
of motion. Valerie took the Invitation and
stuffed it inside her shirt. She sighed. It felt
good to be out of the rain, even if it was only
temporary. A few minutes more and she might
feel almost human. "Be ready in a few seconds.
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You want to use some Kleenex to dry off?"
With a shrug, Alex reached for the box. His
hand half-way there, he froze. He swung
around, the hand with the gun straight out in
front of him. "Out of the car. Quick."
Valerie didn't need any urging. She could
hear branches snapping as something big and
bulky made its way through the dense forest.
The killer was returning to the scene of the
crime. The gun in Alex's hand suddenly
seemed terribly inadequate.
The crashing in the woods came closer. Alex
grabbed her by the hand. All thoughts of rest
were gone. They had to run for their lives. In
seconds, they were past the Cadillac and up
over the tree trunk. No time to pause for
breath; the roar of the wind drowned out the
sound of their running. They wasted no time
trying to hide their trail. There was only one
way to go. There was no time for deception.
Now the road stretched on into darkness.
Where there had been trees a short while ago,
the mud and gravel continued along in an
unbroken path. Valerie had no explanation for
the change. It was magic. Panting, she strug-
gled through the fog and rain. She kept her eyes
glued to the road ahead. Somewhere there had
to be a break. Ashmedai's mansion couldn't be
much farther.
Alex trailed behind her, keeping a watch
both on the road ahead and the trail behind.
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His face was grim. The gun in his hand was
steady, held in a grip of iron.
Metal screeched on metal. The noise rang
through the forest like some ancient Chinese
gong. There was a thud, then a loud clanging.
Metal screamed again. "Found our car," said
Alex. "Now it knows we're out here. It'll be
coming after us."
Valerie didn't say a thing. She just kept on
moving. Every step was an effort, but she
couldn't give up now. Alex moved up beside
her and hooked his free arm around her back,
his hand reaching and holding her beneath her
shoulder. She sagged against him as they strug-
gled forward. The wind was blowing directly
against them, sending the rain splashing into
their faces. Between the heavy forest and
the dense fog it was impossible to see more
than a dozen feet in any direction. It was an un-
ending nightmare. With a curse, she forced
herself to stand up straight. They had to keep
moving.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Each step was like
the roll of a drum. The ground didn't shake, but
it could have. Something heavy was pounding
along the road. It was getting closer fast.
Valerie knew it was a monster that could
pound a man to a pulp. The thing was after
them now. Relentless. Untiring. She knew they
would never escape.
With a growl, Alex stopped moving. He
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turned and planted his feet the best he could in
the mud. With a steady hand, he raised his gun
in the direction of the noises, bracing his wrist
with his other hand. "Keep going," he said. "I'll
catch up in a second."
Valerie reacted without thinking. She
dropped the two bags onto the ground. In
seconds, she ripped open Alex's suitcase. Out
came the book and the jewelry box. "You can't
stay behind, Alex. The forest will close in on
you if I take the Invitation ahead. You'll never
find your way."
"Go on without me, then. I'll delay this thing.
I know I can. Better you get away than the both
of us getting killed."
For a second, tears threatened to overwhelm
her. Then, instead, anger came surging for-
ward. With a wild cry, Valerie grabbed Alex by
an arm. "No way," she screamed, wrenching
him around, forcing him to face her. "You told
me we shouldn't split up, ever. Those were your
exact words. Damn you, Alex. I won't let you be
a martyr. Both of us keep going, or neither of
us. Come on. We're in this together. One way or
another."
Thump, thump. The very air seemed to echo
with the heavy footsteps. Wordlessly, Alex
stared at Valerie for a second. She still held his
arm with both hands. His eyes searched her
face as if looking for an answer.
Thump. Thump. Their pursuer was only
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yards away. She could almost make it out in the
fog. Something not human, but humanoid, a
monster walking erect. Manlike, over seven
feet tall, dark as the night itself, its feet
pounded the earth like two triphammers.
Alex shoved the gun in his waistband and
dropped the flight bag to the ground. Growling
deep in his chest, he pulled himself free of
Valerie's grasp. Surging forward, he caught her
around the waist. Up went his arms, throwing
her over his shoulder. Then, he was off.
Momentarily stunned, Valerie was barely
able to hang onto their two treasures. Alex held
her over his shoulder like a slab of meat. He
staggered and stumbled as he ran, but some-
how he kept his balance. In seconds, he was
huffing and puffing. Valerie could feel his heart
pounding as he struggled to keep moving. It
was a wild, ungainly effort, a mad, desperate
sprint. Slowly they pulled away from the thing
that followed.
The ground became firmer and he found
better purchase on the roadway. The distance
between them and the killer grew greater and
greater. The forest thinned out. The darkness
around them no longer seemed as deep. They
had to be getting close to Ashmedai's home.
One final burst of speed and they broke out
into a large clearing. As if fearful of the light,
the creature fell back into the fog. The night
swallowed it up. Valerie was sure she saw a
flash of metallic green in the mist, and then it
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was gone. The giant footsteps faded as well.
Alex continued to stagger on for several
more seconds. Only gradually did it sink in that
they had escaped. Finally, he sensed that they
were safe. With a gasp of sheer exhaustion, he
dropped Valerie unceremoniously to the
ground. "After this," he managed to wheeze
out, sucking in deep mouthfuls of air, "no
more desserts for you for a long time. Better
start drinking diet pop, too. Definitely no pasta
dinners."
Valerie scrambled to her feet. She took Alex
by his shoulders and shook him unmercifully.
"Agreed. As long as I don't hear any more crap
about me going on without you. Understand,
stupid? I've been alone too long to give you up
that easy. Comprende?"
Alex nodded wearily. Valerie grabbed him
close and hugged him very tight. "Very noble
of you," she continued in a much more sub-
dued tone. "But also very very dumb."
After a minute, she let him go and pointed at
the building only a hundred feet distant.
"Looks like we made it after all. That has to be
Ashmedai's hovel."
Away from the forest, the fog lifted. The rain
still came down, but it had turned into a steady
drizzle. Ahead of them stood a mansion right
out of a gothic romance novel. The huge wood-
en building stretched two stories high, with
long arms of rooms extending east and west.
Light spilled out into the night from rows of
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high windows. All in white, the mansion looked
like it had been painted yesterday. A long,
blacktopped driveway circled around the front
of the building, passing through rows of short
hedges trimmed in geometric shapes. Two col-
umns flanked the huge front doors.
"Well," said Alex, "one thing is for certain.
Ashmedai's not running this auction because
he needs the money."
"You never can tell," replied Valerie with a
faint smile. "Can you imagine the heating bill
for a place like that? Building that size must
need a nuclear power plant to keep it warm in
the winter. Come on, I want to meet this
mysterious character. And I want out of these
wet clothes."
Together, they made their way to the front
door. Alex was still wheezing. Valerie's feet felt
numb. She knew she had to look like a witch,
but it no longer mattered. All she could think
about was a hot bath and something very
potent to drink. Without a moment's hesita-
tion, she lifted the ornate door knocker and let
it fall.
Almost instantly, the door opened. A short,
stocky man stood in the entrance way. The first
thing Valerie noticed about him was his dark
glasses, which completely hid his eyes. His
face, otherwise, made a strong impression.
Deep angular features appeared to be carved
out of stone. A dark black beard covered most
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of his lower jaw. Equally dark eyebrows clus-
tered thick over his glasses. His nose jutted
forward like the beak of some bird of prey.
He looked at the two of them, his head held
at a slight angle. Almost immediately he called
out in a clear, pleasant voice to someone
inside. "Claude. A bottle of brandy and some
glasses. Quickly."
With a smile, the dark man stepped forward
and linked his arms with each of them. Still
smiling, he gently propelled them forward, the
perfect host escorting guests into his home. As
they walked into the bright hallway, he nodded
pleasantly at each of them in turn.
"Please accept the hospitality of this house,
my friends. You must be Valerie Lancaster.
And your companion is, of course, Dr. Warner.
I was starting to worry about you. I am your
humble servant for this evening's entertain-
ment. And your host. Men call me . . .
Ashmedai."
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Chapter Eleven
Alex let the icy water splash across his body.
The cold shower invigorated. He felt almost
back to full strength after that wild dash
through the forest. He hoped a similar shower
worked the same miracle for Valerie. He would
check on her in a few minutes.
After giving them each a drink of brandy,
Ashmedai had insisted they retire to their
rooms and freshen up. He had waved aside
their attempts to tell what had happened in the
woods. He seemed neither surprised nor wor-
ried, and Alex had been in no mood to argue.
Valerie had remained noticeably silent. Their
two rarities were given to a silently waiting
servant to be put in Ashmedai's safe. Their host
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discreetly did not ask them what was sealed
inside the plastic wrappings.
They had adjoining rooms in the west wing
of the mansion on the second floor. A discreetly
closed but unlocked connecting door between
the two suites made it clear that Ashmedai
knew of the relationship between them.
Claude, the butler who had escorted them to
the chambers, assured them that there would
be suitable clothes provided to replace their
ruined ones. With that promise, Valerie had
immediately started to disrobe. "I am taking
the hottest shower possible," she had declared,
quickly ripping off her bluejeans as the servant
made a hasty though discreet exit. "I'll be out
when every bit of dirt and grime is off my body.
And not until then."
Alex found little to argue with her on that. A
shower sounded awfully good. The last few
hours had been a tremendous strain. Fortu-
nately, he was in terrific shape, the result of
years of constant training. He was tired, but
untapped reserves of energy remained dor-
mant within him. Somehow, he knew he would
need them all before the night was over. He left
for his room as Valerie fiddled with the hot
water in the shower.
Upon re-entering his room, he first checked
the door to the hallway. To his pleasure, he
discovered a heavy bolt lock almost hidden in
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the ornate carving. He clicked it shut. He didn't
expect trouble, but eternal vigilance never hurt
in strange surroundings. What easier way to
dispose of a rival in the Auction than murder
him in the bathroom? Alfred Hitchcock, Alex
reasoned, wouldn't have thought it such an
unusual idea.
Minutes later, he let himself relax under the
cold caress of a needle-fine shower. The highly
pressurized cold water almost stunned him
with its intense spray. When he couldn't take
the cold any longer, he switched the water onto
hot. Steam rose as the water hit the chilled
tiles. The contrast between the two tempera-
tures made him gasp. He let the hot water cook
him for a few minutes, then again switched
back to cold. An old but reliable method of
treatment, the constant switching of tempera-
ture shocked his system back to full efficiency.
Unfortunately, he felt like a lobster dinner
before his body responded.
Alex became so engrossed in his shower that
he didn't notice the shadow on the shower-
curtain until a woman spoke from only a few
feet away. "Do you need your towel, now, sir?"
"Uh, sure. That would be fine."
A woman's hand reached around the cur-
tain, holding a thick, plush bath towel. As he
grabbed the terry-cloth sheet, Alex noted that
the limb holding it was well muscled and
tanned to a golden brown. Not the hand of a
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young woman, he decided, even though her
fingernails glowed bright from a red gloss
polish. The skin quality revealed age more than
most people realized. He quickly dried himself
and wrapped the bath towel around his waist.
Cautiously, he pulled the curtain back.
His guess had been right on target. The
woman who stood before him clad in a black-
and-white maid's uniform was darkly tanned
and very attractive, extremely well built. But
she was no youngster. If anything, she was a
little too good-looking just to be a maid. Her
large breasts strained against the thin material
of her tight white blouse. Her jet black hair fell
in long waves down to her shoulders. Red nails
matched equally red lips. She wore a short,
black, skirt, revealing very nice legs sexily clad
in black-seamed nylons. She wore high spiked
heels—not very practical servants' attire. Her
dark eyes watched him with frank interest as
he stepped from the bath tub. She smiled
wickedly. "Anything else you need, sir?
Anything ... at all?"
Alex clutched the towel even tighter around
his waist. First Valerie and now this woman. He
was not used to predatory females, nor was he
quite sure that he trusted this one. Women in
outfits like the one she was wearing usually
starred in X-Rated movies. This whole scene
was a little too contrived for his taste. Plus,
there was a certain look in her eyes that he
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didn't like. Alarm bells were ringing inside his
head. Ashmedai had nothing to gain from a
scene like this. Alex wondered what was behind
the sexual overtones.
"The butler, Claude, said something about
clothes?"
"Yes sir," the maid replied, still smiling. "I've
laid out your outfit on the bed. When I heard
the water shut off, thought you might have
difficulty with your towel. I know how hard it
sometimes is."
Alex cleared his throat and quickly stepped
past the maid into the large bedroom. A dark
gray pinstripe suit rested on the bed. A folded
blue silk shirt, matching tie, and even matching
socks sat in a pile by the suit. At the foot of the
bed was a pair of black shoes. "No underwear,"
said Alex.
"Oh, I forgot," answered the maid, following
him into the room. "There must be some in
one of the dressers."
She casually walked to the bed and sat down
on the edge, crossing her legs. Her skirt rode
high up on her thighs. "I never wear any
myself." She breathed deeply, doing interesting
things to her blouse. "I like my body to feel free
and natural. Do you know what I mean?"
"Sure, free and . . . natural." Alex started
searching through the bedroom furniture for
some undergarments. He kept the large bath
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towel clutched around his waist. "You always
this friendly with visitors here?"
"Friendly?" The woman laughed. Somehow
she managed to make it sound vaguely ob-
scene. "This isn't anything. I'd like to show you
what friendly really means. Why don't you give
me that towel. Then I'll be very, very friendly."
"Sure. I'll bet you would." In one of the
drawers, Alex found several pairs of shorts and
undershirts. Surprisingly, they were cotton; he
had half-expected silk. "Would you mind leav-
ing while I get dressed?"
The woman frowned. For an instant, her face
seemed a good deal older than he had imag-
ined. She was definitely not a youngster.
"What's wrong? Not up to a little company?"
Her voice had a nasty ring to it. "I thought you
were a man. Perhaps I was wrong."
"Perhaps you were," said Alex.
He returned to the bathroom with the shorts.
It only took a second to slip them on and return
to the bedroom. The maid was already half-way
to the door. She turned and sneered at him.
"Since you obviously aren't capable of satisfy-
ing a woman, I'll leave now. If you need
anything, don't bother to ring. It won't do you
any good."
She sauntered toward the door, wiggling her
hips in an exaggerated motion that caused her
tight black skirt to rise up even higher on her
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thighs. It also made it quite clear she hadn't
been lying about not wearing anything under-
neath her outfit.
Alex snorted in disgust. He found it hard to
believe a real maid would wear clothes like
those. Her outfit was right out of an S&M
catalog, complete with the black skirt and
spike heels. All she needed, Alex decided, was a
leather whip.
Everything suddenly fell into place and the
whole incident no longer seemed to crazy. That
last thought had served as the catalyst. The
door had been locked when he had entered the
shower. No real maid would have entered an
occupied room locked from the inside. The
entire deception became terribly clear.
He couldn't find his gun, but his bowie knife
sat on the dresser where he had left it. He
whipped it out of its sheath as the maid lunged
for the door. He whirled after her, the blade's
naked steel glistening in the lights.
"Hannah!" cried the woman, as she grabbed
the doorknob. "Now is the time. Quickly!"
The door burst open with a crash, sending
the maid sprawling back. Alex was at her side
before she could recover. His left hand encir-
cled her neck, catching her chin in the crook of
his elbow. The knife in his right hand flashed
up. He let the cold metal of the blade rest on
the side of her nose, directly in front of her
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right eye. Only then did Alex dare look at what
stood in the doorway.
The werewolf seemed less menacing this
time. Perhaps it was because he held the upper
hand. The huge beast stood there, its mouth
half open, its yellow teeth flashing, its hands
gripping the side panels of the doorway. It
remained frozen in place. Its gaze was fastened
on the knife in Alex's hand and stayed there.
"One move and they'll be calling your boss
One-Eyed Charlie," said Alex in a mildly ban-
tering tone. His grip on the Countess did not
lessen in the least, nor did the knife blade
flicker a hair. "Edge away from that door.
Now."
The beast did not move. It growled softly, the
sound rising up from deep in its throat. Alex
could see the muscles in its arms tightening. It
was preparing to spring.
"Call your little girl off, Countess. I'm not
bluffing."
To emphasis his point, Alex let the edge of the
knife dig into the flesh of her nose. The woman
stiffened. Alex shifted his weight, bringing his
body around so that she was tight up against his
left hip. "If wolf-girl attacks, you won't live to
see her arrive. I'm no amateur."
"Hannah," said the Countess, her voice muf-
fled by his arm around her neck. "Do nothing.
Stay back."
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The werewolf hesitated, but the muscles in
its arms and shoulders did not relax. It rocked
back and forth on the balls of its feet. Alex
could almost feel the hatred the thing was
radiating. He was not bluffing. There was no
way he would battle two enemies. The Count-
ess would die the instant the werewolf charged.
Then, he would face the beast one-on-one.
He must have tensed his own muscles in
preparation, sending a message in body lan-
guage to his prisoner. Panic stricken, the
Countess's voice cracked like a whip. "Hannah.
Obey me. Go back to our quarters. Now."
The beast stiffened, and then seemed to
shrink in on itself like some huge balloon
suddenly deflating. Its gaping jaws closed shut.
The glow disappeared from its eyes as its
muscles went slack. With a last forlorn look of
defiance, the werewolf turned and disappeared
into the hallway.
"Very wise move," said Alex. He did not
release his hold on the Countess. If anything,
this woman was much more dangerous than
her servant. Without looking, Alex flipped the
bowie knife up in the air, back behind him. It
hit the floor with a solid thunk where it re-
mained quivering straight up in a sea of white
carpet.
As soon as his hand was free, Alex pulled up
hard with the arm that encircled the Countess's
neck. The woman was forced up onto her toes
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by the powerful jerk of his elbow. She gagged
reflexively and her arms flailed about wildly—
exactly what Alex had expected and wanted.
His right hand fastened on her wrist. With an
expert twist, he bent her right arm up and
around while at the same time releasing the
hold on her neck. He had freed the Countess
from the elbow lock to place her in a hammer
lock instead.
Savagely, he shoved the Countess's wrist high
up her back. She yelped from the sharp pain,
but Alex didn't care. He had no mercy for this
woman. Valerie had stated the case against her
too well: she had killed Jake and would have
killed them as well, if able. This whole episode
was yet another attempt at murder. The sorcer-
ess whimpered in shock as he shoved her
forward to the door.
"You'll pay for this." Her voice was ragged
and full of pain. "No one humiliates me so."
Alex laughed harshly. "Really? Then you
shouldn't be wearing this kind of outfit. Gives
the impression you enjoy being pushed
around."
He shoved hard, releasing his grip. The
Countess stumbled out the doorway and
crashed to the carpeted floor of the hall. In an
instant, she had spun around onto her hands
and knees. She glared at him fiercely. The skin
of her face was taut, her teeth clenched togeth-
er in a near skeletal snarl of pure hatred.
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"Hannah will flay you alive for this insult. And
then tear you to pieces one joint at a time."
She was gone, half-running, half-crawling
down the hallway, before Alex could react to
her threats. Shaking his head in disgust, he
closed the door. For the first time since he had
been surprised in the bathroom, he thought of
Valerie. Had they attacked her first? Alex
rushed to the connecting door. He was in the
other suite in an instant. He could hear water
cascading in the shower. "Valerie. You okay in
there?"
"Sure," she called back. "Time to get
dressed?"
"Getting there. Finish up."
Breathing a sigh of relief, he returned to his
own room. The Countess had gone after him
first for some reason. He shuddered thinking
what would have happened if he had yielded to
the woman's lust. Valerie had hinted that the
Countess had pretty bizarre tastes. Alex had no
doubts about his intended fate. Being slashed
to death by a werewolf at the peak of sexual
union with her mistress was a particularly
gruesome way to die. The Countess was like a
human black-widow spider. She was enough to
make a man swear to celibacy.
He carefully put on his clothes, checking
each garment before dressing. It was doubtful
that the Countess would resort to poisoned
needles—tricks like that were commonplace
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in Viet Nam—but he was not in a trusting
mood. This undeclared war was little different
from the combat he remembered.
As he pulled on his trousers, Alex reflected
for a moment on his actions the last few
minutes. There had been no hesitation. He had
fought with the same cold intensity as the days
back in Viet Nam. Pretty much as he had
always suspected, the killer within him had not
disappeared, even after all these years. That
part of his personality had only been resting,
lying beneath the surface of his mind waiting
for the right event to trigger it back into action.
It seemed only fitting that the Countess, who
controlled one terrible beast of the night,
should let loose another. Alex felt no remorse.
Sometime the only answer to savagery was
retaliation in kind.
He walked over and retrieved his bowie
knife. He found his gun in the bottom of one of
the drawers of the dresser. It didn't surprise
him to find all the bullets gone.
The Countess had been quite emphatic in
her threats, but words meant little. The most
dangerous killers never wasted time on threats.
They just acted. In Nam, his buddies had called
him 'The Silent One.' He did what he had to do,
with no wild talk or crude bragging. Now he
was at it again. "Shakespeare had it right," Alex
whispered, his thoughts far away in times past.
"Cry havoc, and let slip the Dogs of War."
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"What did you say?" asked Valerie, standing
in the doorway between the two rooms, an odd
look on her face. Her hair was still pretty wet
and all she wore was a large bath towel
wrapped around her body.
"Nothing. Nothing important," replied Alex,
sheathing the knife. There was no way to hide it
from her so he treated it as if it was not
important. He casually fastened it beneath his
armpit as he continued to talk.
"Had a visitor. Couple of them, for that
matter. Surprised that they came to see me
first, but it was just as well. I convinced them
that we didn't have much to talk about."
Valerie turned pale. "The Countess. And
Hannah Stine. What did they want?"
Alex summarized the events of the past half-
hour as he dressed. He didn't hide anything; it
was better that Valerie knew the full story. One
forgotten fact could be deadly in a dangerous
game like this.
"So, after the Countess was gone, I checked
your room. Guess they thought I'd be the easier
one to eliminate ..."
"No," said Valerie, twisting an edge of the
towel around one finger. "You were the one
they wanted." Her voice was soft and some-
what hesitant. Alex could sense the nervous-
ness in her. "It's time you know the truth. The
whole truth."
"Sounds ominous," said Alex, trying to re-
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main calm. "Want to explain what you mean?
Why me? You're the sorceress. I'm just the
flunky boyfriend."
Valerie giggled, sending shock-waves rip-
pling through her towel. Carefully, she sat
down on his bed, pulling her legs up beneath
her. Alex dropped down close beside her. "She
wants the prize of the Auction. Desperately.
And she knows that unless you're out of the
picture, she doesn't stand a chance of winning.
Somehow, some way, your luck will win it for
us."
"My luck? Are you nuts?"
The towel was half off Valerie's body, but she
was so intense that she didn't seem to notice.
"No. Just full of regrets. I know telling you this
isn't going to do much for our relationship, but
you've got to know. I can't go on deceiving you.
"You have the Power, Alex. A great deal of it.
The only difference between you and me is that
I consciously control it. Yours is a function of
your subconscious mind. Through my mastery
of the Power, I perform feats of magic. Through
your subconscious control of that same force,
you experience unbelievable luck."
Alex shook his head in disbelief. "I'm lucky.
I'll agree to that. But not that lucky—take
Sheila for example."
"Not that simple, my love. You have to be in a
situation where chance comes into play. You
weren't looking for a woman. If you were, I
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doubt you would have come up with Sheila.
She was after you. Think about it. Luck, bad or
good, never had a thing to do with it."
Alex stayed silent for a few minutes, digesting
what Valerie had said. He needed time to grasp
all of the implications of this revelation. Her
earlier statement about deceiving him finally
registered. Valerie sat nude on the bed next to
him, but thoughts of sex never entered his
mind. She had her eyes fixed on him. Small
tears started to roll down her cheeks.
"So, I'm like a giant rabbit's foot or horse-
shoe that really works," he said with a smile.
"Making me a rather desirable company for a
sorcerer ... or sorceress."
Valerie nodded, not saying anything, her
teeth dragging across her lower lip.
"I can understand that. From what I learned
from you and Jake both, magic is a pretty iffy
operation at best, without much room for
error. One false step and that demon you raised
has you for a snack. Having your own powerful
lucky charm would be a major asset."
Valerie nodded again. The tears fell in a
constant stream now, making her eyes look red
and puffy. Gently, Alex reached out and
brushed the teardrops away with a finger.
"So you schemed and plotted to make me
yours. And now that I know, you think I'm
going to walk out of here in a huff and never
speak to you again."
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With a sniff, Valerie regained her voice.
"Aren't you?"
Alex let his fingers curl through the wet hair
bunching across the nape of her neck. "Why
should I?" he asked, a reflective tone in his
voice. "All I've discovered is that the paranoid
suspicions I've lived with for years are actually
true. In a way, I'm pretty relieved."
"You're kidding."
"No reason for me to lie. I always wondered
why Jake popped up in my class out of the blue
and what attracted Sheila to me." He half
closed his eyes for a second. "Don't tell me. I
can guess already: Mak too. He has all the
makings of a magician. That's the nice thing
about paranoia. You're suspicious of everyone.
I had my doubts about him for a long time, the
way he and Jake got along so well right from
the first, that little scene in his restaurant the
other night. Him too?"
Valerie just nodded her head in agreement.
Alex laughed at her confused look. "You don't
understand. It doesn't matter, it really
doesn't."
"You're just saying that."
Alex stood up and stretched. "Not at all.
Hopefully, it's the difference between being
suspicious of people and being crazy. Years in
Viet Nam made me cautious. It was a desperate
time and I learned not to trust anyone. Lots of
men came back with an edge, and I was one of
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Robert Weinberg
them. I kept my emotions in pretty tight con-
trol. But there is a big jump from being ex-
tremely careful and thinking the world is out to
get you. Sure, I resent learning that I've been
manipulated and deceived for years and years.
But to what end? The army did the same to
most of us. The government sure as hell does. I
resent that, but I still pay my taxes. Jake never
took advantage of me; he was a good friend.
Mak saved my life again and again in Viet Nam.
So what if my luck helped him sometime?
That's not enough of a reason for me to hate
him—or to think any less of Jake."
"What about me?" asked Valerie in a very
soft voice.
"Ah, a fate worse than death. Tricked into
marrying a beautiful fashion model, with lots
of brains, incredibly sexy, and loaded with
money. Horrible. So manipulative that she
can't hide the truth from me after knowing me
less than a week. Somehow, some way, I think I
can survive the disappointment."
Valerie looked him straight in the eye. "How
can you ever trust me knowing that I deceived
you."
"Simple. You could have abandoned me
when the werewolf attacked us at your place
. . . not to mention during our encounter with
the thing in the forest. I seem to remember
something about both of us or none of us. I
might not be the greatest judge of character in
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the world, but I'll settle for that."
Valerie stood up. Alex suddenly felt very
sweaty. Nude, she was the most desirable wom-
an he had ever seen. "Uh, we have a dinner
downstairs to attend. In a few minutes."
Valerie wrapped her arms around his neck.
"A few minutes," she agreed. "Amazing the
things you can get done in a few minutes." She
drew his mouth down onto hers.
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Chapter Twelve
Alex and Valerie missed the cocktail hour
entirely. The other guests were sitting waiting
for them when they hurriedly made their way
into the dining room. It was an elaborately
decorated place, filled with gold and silver—
elegance that matched the rest of the mansion.
Outside, the night winds howled and the re-
newed rain beat heavily on huge full-length
windows. The two of them brought to thirteen
the number of people at the table. To Alex, the
number seemed a sinister coincidence.
As they walked across the room, Alex
couldn't help but notice the other guests
watching them intently. Sizing up the competi-
tion, he decided. Valerie got most of the atten-
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tion. She looked stunning. Her black-and-white
dress, black heels and crystal earrings were
magnificent, the height of fashion. The clothes
provided by their host seemed tailored specifi-
cally for her and her alone. Another casual
demonstration of Ashmedai's power.
Their mysterious host sat at the head of the
long table. He wore the same gray pin-striped
business suit as when he met them at the door.
Only the dark-lensed glasses he wore distin-
guished him from an insurance agent. He
smiled in welcome as they came forward, their
shoes beating a staccato rhythm on the pol-
ished hardwood floor. He waved them to the
last two place-settings on the right-hand side of
the dining table.
Alex had only a few seconds to take in the
other guests, but he didn't need any more time.
In the war, he had learned to absorb vast
amounts of information with one quick glance.
Six people sat to each side of Ashmedai, facing
each other across a long, wide table. To their
host's right, an elderly gray-haired woman
peered at the two of them with undisguised
hostility. Next to her was a much younger
looking woman, wearing, from what Alex
could see of it, a very tight leather pants suit.
Next to the girl in leather, two thin men with
pinched features and sallow skin whispered in
low voices. The resemblance between the two
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of them had to be more than coincidence.
Brothers, perhaps even twins. They had the
look of typical business executives. After them
came Alex and Valerie's chairs, the last two in
the row.
On Ashmedai's left a little wizened old man
faced the gray-haired woman. His eyes ap-
peared half closed, as though near sleep. He
was dwarfed by the huge ugly woman next to
him. Third in that row, the Countess looked
quite elegant wearing a designer dress and long
string of pearls. Next to her sat a slender, very
dark black man. Alex immediately spotted him
for a professional soldier. A near-identical-
looking companion matched him in the last
seat. Between the two of them sat a very fat,
nearly bald black man wearing a rumpled
white suit. He reminded Alex of a black Sidney
Greenstreet.
Valerie sat down across from the fat man.
Alex dropped into the chair at the end of the
table, facing one of the man's two bodyguards.
As he took his seat, he again considered the
number of guests at the table. Was this to be
their Last Supper? The dark surface of
Ashmedai's glasses seemed to hide a multitude
of secrets.
As soon as they sat, an unobtrusive servant
began filling the water glasses. At the same
time, Ashmedai started to speak.
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"I am pleased to welcome you all here. Our
gathering is complete. One other was to be
here tonight, but I regret to report that he will
not be able to make it. We will proceed without
him, since I know you are anxious to get on
with the business of the evening. But first, we
shall have our dinner."
All eyes were fixed on Ashmedai. All except
Alex's. He watched the guests, looking for
some flicker of emotion. No one seemed very
disturbed by the news. Alex felt no surprise.
These people learned early how to hide their
feelings. Deceit and subterfuge filled their lives.
Even Ashmedai might have arranged the thing
in the forest for some reason of his own.
Nothing visible indicated that there had been
another setting at the table for the murdered
guest.
"One less bidder," rumbled the big, fat black
man, directly across from Valerie. "His misfor-
tune. Our gain." The two slender blacks on
each side of the fat man nodded.
"Survival of the fittest," said the Countess.
Looking at her, Alex found it hard to believe the
woman's age. She wore a demure blue dress
that could not hide her lush figure. Gold ear-
rings, encrusted with pearls, matched her long-
pearl necklace. Her eyeliner perfectly compli-
mented her dress. She wore no lipstick. Alex
had to admit that she was a remarkably good-
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looking woman. Even the fact that she had
tried to kill him less than an hour before didn't
negate that fact.
"Put your eyes back in your head," whis-
pered Valerie, leaning close to him. "She gob-
bles up little boys like you for breakfast."
"I can believe it," said Alex. "Literally."
The arrival of the first course interrupted
their conversation. "My chef is one of the finest
in the Midwest, if not the country," said
Ashmedai. "I hope you will enjoy the meal. We
will have wine with the main course. Please, no
business until we have finished dessert. After
the dishes have been cleared away, we will
talk."
"Gratin de Langoustines a la Mangue et au
Poivre Vert," announced Claude, standing be-
hind Ashmedai's chair. A pair of young women
entered the room, each bearing a tray loaded
with plates of the delicacy. "This is a combina-
tion of scampi and slices of mango glazed in a
vermouth sauce sharpened with green pepper-
corns. An excellent beginning for any meal."
The food was excellent. Between bites, Alex
and Valerie carried on a whispered conversa-
tion. Each of the guests seemed sunk in his or
her own thoughts. Those who had come with
companions talked to them. Those on their
own remained silent.
"The big ugly woman, next to the Countess,
is Hannah, our friendly werewolf?"
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"Right. I haven't seen her in years, but she
hasn't changed a bit. Face that could stop a
clock."
As if sensing they were talking about her, the
thick-boned woman turned her head and
stared at them. Her eyes locked with Alex's.
Then her eyebrows sank down as her mouth
opened in a half-snarl. There was a great deal of
the beast in her even when human. Alex
grinned at her and winked. Hannah growled
angrily.
The Countess looked up from her food and
whispered a few words to her servant. Hannah
nodded and concentrated on her plate. The
Countess glanced across the table at Alex. She
nodded pleasantly. "Remember my promise,"
she said as if discussing the weather. "Hannah
is eagerly awaiting your company."
Before Alex could reply, Valerie spoke. "You
should watch what you say, Countess dear.
After all, you haven't had the best of luck lately.
Plans going awry here and there. And of
course, there was that little matter of your . . .
pets."
The Countess turned white. "You dare," she
managed to choke out, holding her napkin to
her mouth, "You dare ..."
"Oh, does the thought bother you?" asked
Valerie, her voice dripping sugar. "I don't see
why it should."
By now, all other conversations had stopped.
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Everyone at the table was listening and watch-
ing the two women closely. Valerie seemed to
relish the attention. "Perhaps I should say, the
eyes have it."
Alex had no idea what Valerie was talking
about, but whatever it was, the words were
getting the Countess very upset. Catching some
drift of the conversation, he began to softly
whistle I Only Have Eyes for You.
Turning a remarkable shade of green, the
Countess rose from the table and quickly ex-
ited the room. Hannah followed at a rush,
sparing the time for only a quick look of pure
hate directed at the two of them.
"Ha. Ha. Ha." That was the fat black man
directly across from Valerie. Each laugh was a
distinct word, almost a bellow. The man's
whole body shook like Jello as he spoke. "Very
telling remarks, young lady. Marie never could
take a joke. Especially if it was on her."
"She did seem a bit upset," said Valerie with
a laugh.
"If looks could kill . . ." Alex began.
"... the two of you would be very dead."
This came from the thin, sallow faced man
sitting right next to Valerie. "Fortunately for
you, it is a spell far beyond the Countess's
meager talents."
"Keep an eye on that ugly bitch," said the
elderly gray-haired woman with bright blue
eyes further down their side, who sat directly
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next to Ashmedai. "She'll kick the shit out of
you if you don't guard your ass."
"I've had dealings with her twice," said Alex.
He never knew little old ladies talked that way.
"I've managed to hold my own both times."
"Better watch it, then," said the fat black
man. "Third time is the charm. Hannah is not
one to be taken lightly."
"She wouldn't have lasted five minutes in
Nam," replied Alex. Out of the corner of one
eye he caught one of the fat man's bodyguards
nodding slightly in agreement. One profession-
al paying his respects to another.
"Caesar salad," declared Claude, as two
other servants wheeled in a large salad cart.
The butler took in the two empty seats without
a pause. "Will the absent ladies be returning
shortly?"
"Undoubtedly," answered the fat man before
anyone else could say anything. "Ha. Ha. Ha."
His laughter sounded like bombs exploding.
"The Countess would not miss this evening's
entertainment for anything. Her wrinkles
would not stand for it. She will be back."
"Then we will commence serving the salad."
Claude looked at Ashmedai. Their host
dropped his head in a barely noticeable nod.
Without further remarks, the butler and his
two helpers began tossing and then serving the
salad.
The departure of the Countess had broken
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the ice. Loud conversation flourished across
the table as they ate. Most of the guests knew
each other, if not by sight, by reputation. Alex
remained quiet, letting Valerie do most of the
talking. With her flashy good looks and her ever
present glamour she was the center of atten-
tion. Only Ashmedai remained silent. He
seemed quite relaxed and attentively listened to
all of the conversation swirling about him.
The Countess and Hannah arrived at the
same time as the entree. They took their seats
quietly, making no fuss. The other guests ig-
nored them. Evidently, the Countess had few
friends in the black-magic field.
The main course was Cassoulet de Camargue.
It consisted of lamb, duck, smoked bacon and
haricot beans baked with herbs in a casserole.
Alex had never heard of the dish before and
was slightly apprehensive about trying it. One
bite convinced him of the error of his ways. All
about him, the other guests expressed the same
opinion about the delicacy. Ashmedai ac-
knowledged the praise with a smile. He waved
one hand and Claude came forward with the
wine.
After the bottle had been decanted and
served, Ashmedai rose to his feet. Immediately,
all talking and eating stopped. Alex grinned.
There was no mistaking the true center of
attention at this gathering. When Ashmedai
moved, all other motion ceased.
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"A toast," said their host in solemn tone. "To
all of you here tonight. The greatest of the
great. May that which you seek be all that you
expect. . . and more."
"Bravo, bravo." This came from the fat black
man whose name Alex had learned was Bene-
dict Crosby. "Well put, sir." Then, without a
second's pause, Crosby's voice grew cold. "But
when shall we discover what it is we seek?"
"Aye," added Mary Zongran, the gray-haired
woman right beside Ashmedai. "Toasts are fine,
Ashmedai, but it's time for some straight talk-
ing. Betty, here," and the elderly woman waved
a hand at her much younger female compan-
ion, "had to kill four people to get this damned
Invitation. You gonna tell us what we're here
for or not?" She chuckled. It was not a pleasant
sound. "I bet Betty could make ya talk quick
enough."
Alex was beyond surprise. No one at the
table seemed particularly disturbed by Mary
Zongran's revelations of murder. He could see
why no one had been upset about the missing
guest. Life was cheap here. The sharks were
showing their teeth.
Valerie glanced at Alex and shrugged. He
gently let his left upper arm nudge against his
bowie knife. The feel of the steel blade was
moderately reassuring.
With a quiet laugh, Ashmedai dropped back
into his seat. He rested both hands on the edge
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Robert Weinberg
of the table and rotated his head from side to
side. Alex could sense the eyes behind the dark
lenses staring at each of them in turn. "Come,
come, my friends, we have not yet had dessert.
My chef has prepared something very special. I
refuse to conduct any business without my
sweets."
"Ya refuse?" said Mary Zongran nastily, half-
rising from her chair. "Betty ..."
"Sit down, Mary," commanded Ashmedai.
The sound of his voice sent chills rippling
down Alex's spine. Death might have such a
voice. There was no arguing with an order
delivered with such force.
It was obeyed. Mary sank back into her seat.
"Your grandmother, Hester Ann Curtis, was
an impatient one, too," said Ashmedai, his tone
perfectly relaxed and normal. "She fidgeted
the whole evening till the Auction finally
started." Ashmedai smiled. "Didn't make a bit
of difference. She dropped out of the bidding
quite early."
"You—you knew my grandmother?" Mary's
voice was high pitched and hesitant. "She died
when I was just a youngster. Must be seventy
years gone."
"Did I say I knew her? Not at all. Don't jump
to conclusions. There are records here of each
and every auction. Very complete records, I
might add, containing some very interesting
facts."
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"Notice how he didn't answer her question,"
whispered Valerie in Alex's ear.
"Records?" This was from Randolph Craig,
the man who was sitting next to Valerie. He
and his twin brother, Justice, had remained
quiet through most of dinner. They were both
clean-shaven thin men, wearing thick glasses,
with perfect white teeth. They wore plain black
suits and reminded Alex of undertakers. They
had that lean and hungry look that Julius
Caesar had feared with good cause. Randolph's
voice was surprisingly full and deep. "How far
back do these records go?"
"Yes, how far back?" That came from Justice
Craig. His voice was nearly as deep as his
brother's and equally powerful. "I've heard it
said that these auctions have taken place for a
thousand years."
"Longer than that," said Benedict Crosby,
resting his huge arms on the table and leaning
forward. His sharp eyes narrowed. "Much fur-
ther in the past. In The Devil's Apocrypha, there
is a passage that describes an Auction for the
'gift of eternity' taking place in A.D. 476. There
are even hints that Constantine's conversion to
Christianity might have been a direct result of
that midnight gathering. An Auction, by the
way, conducted by the Wandering Jew."
"Bah," said Ashmedai with a snort of disgust.
"I thought you above such stories, Crosby. The
Devil's Apocrypha is a foolish collection of old
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wives' tales and hoary legends. Needless to say,
its unknown author proclaims it to be a true
occult history of the first thousand years after
the Crucifixion. As if that greater lie will sub-
stantiate all of the lesser ones. History is little
more than a collection of convincing false-
hoods. To the victor belongs the honor of
rewriting the past. Legends become truth after
a time. And just as often, truth becomes fable."
Ashmedai's tone was mocking now. "A perfect
example of the Church inventing history is the
so-called Wandering Jew. The whole story is
little more than a bizarre hoax conceived by
the early Popes. Think of it. A man is cursed by
Christ to live forever merely for verbally tor-
menting him. Nonsense. How can any Chris-
tian believe in the divinity of a God who would
stoop to such pettiness? Come, come. An eter-
nal soldier, fighting his way down through the
Ages? Or a mysterious figure leaving his shoes
with the Pope after performing fabulous acts of
magic? You can't be serious."
"Yet Agrippa met him," said Alex. Ashmedai
was playing word games. He couldn't let the
opportunity slip by without baiting their host a
little. "He was no friend of Rome. Are you
saying that there was a world-wide conspiracy
to create this mythical character?"
"Agrippa." Ashmedai's tone was reflective,
as if remembering things long past. Alex sus-
pected Ashmedai had a love of the dramatic.
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He was toying with them, hinting at things but
then denying them. "Cornelius Agrippa was a
remarkable man." Ashmedai grinned. "Or so I
have read. He definitely encountered a mysteri-
ous stranger in his lab many hundreds of years
ago. But that person was not the Wandering
Jew. At legist, he was not the character en-
shrined in fable."
Before Alex could pursue that final, tantaliz-
ing remark, Claude stepped forward. "Dessert
is served," the butler announced. Claude had
been standing quietly by Ashmedai's chair for
the past few moments, waiting for a break in
the conversation. "This is a very special delight.
Millefeuille a la Creme Legere et aux Framboises,
prepared fresh. These are individual thousand-
layer pastries filled with light cream, served on
a raspberry sauce and showered with confec-
tioner's sugar. Seconds," and for the first time
all evening, the butler's solid expression
cracked a little bit and he smiled for an instant,
"are available upon request."
The table was clear; even the tablecloth had
been removed. The lights had been turned
down low. Outside, the storm had grown in
intensity. A steady clatter of rain knocked
against the high windows. From time to time, a
stray flash of lightning illuminated the room.
All were silent, their eyes focused on the one
standing figure, Ashmedai.
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Robert Weinberg
He stood half-enveloped in darkness. He
held an ebony cube some six inches on a side
with both hands. Waist high he kept it, his large
fingers spread out across its sides. Alex could
barely make out recessed hinges near the top of
the container. The lid on the box was held
closed by a small but elaborately carved lock.
Except for the latch, there was no break in the
blackness. Ashmedai had brought it from an-
other room only minutes before. No one
seemed to breathe as Ashmedai began to speak.
His voice was not loud, but the sound of it filled
the room.
"Once each generation this Auction is held.
For how long concerns us not. Suffice it to say
that it has taken place before and shall take
place again."
Ashmedai slowly raised the box in his hands
until it was almost level with his face. "Inside
this receptacle is the most powerful talisman
that exists in the world today. Once, there were
others of equal power: a spear, a crown, and a
robe. They have disappeared over the ages,
though, and now only this is left. How it came
into my possession again does not concern us
here tonight. My claim to it is the most telling
one. I have it. In magic, might makes right. That
is the only law."
Ashmedai turned to face each of them. Alex
tried to pierce the darkness of the man's
glasses, but met with little success. No one
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stirred. The silence was like a thick blanket
spread across the room. Even the thunder
outside seemed to have stopped.
Ashmedai continued. "I make no promises.
The winner of the Auction will have the talis-
man. Others in the past have been over-
whelmed by the power contained within this
box. A few have been granted the one gift they
desired above all else. I offer no information or
aid. Let the buyer beware."
"Enough of this damned chatter," said Mary
Zongran. "Open the damned box and let us see
what's inside."
Surprisingly, Ashmedai smiled. It was a cru-
el, harsh smile. "Time bears down on you
swiftly, Mary. You fear death, and with good
reason. Your punishment will be great." He
turned slightly. "And yours as well, Countess.
The prize will not clean the blood from your
fingers."
"Finish," said the little wizened man on
Ashmedai's right. It was the first time he had
spoken all evening. His voice sounded like the
croaking of some huge bullfrog. "Finish al-
ready with your tale."
"You have no sense of the dramatic, Abra-
ham," said Ashmedai, setting the box carefully
down on the wood table. "I have so few guests.
Let me enjoy my moment of glory."
With a flourish, Ashmedai waved his right
hand above the box. With an audible click, the
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Robert Weinberg
lock opened. Slowly, as if ghostly hands were
raising it, the top of the box swung back.
Everyone inched forward in their chair. Only
the old man Ashmedai had called Abraham
didn't try to see what was inside the container.
He folded his short little arms across his chest
and closed his eyes. Only the look of intense
concentration on his face proclaimed that he
was still awake.
"The rules of the Auction are simple. In a
few minutes, we shall break to give you time to
think. In a half-hour, we will all meet again in
this room- The bidding will commence at that
time. There will be one round of bids. Then,
after hearing what all others have bid, each of
you will have a second chance to raise your
offer. The best proposal after that second
round will be the winner. The actual exchange
will take place when the high bidder leaves in
the morning."
"The winner leaves," said Crosby, his voice
subdued, almost a whisper. "What about the
others?"
Ashmedai sighed. "You all are free to leave
any time you wish. Departing is never a prob-
lem. The spell is constructed so that the road
out is always open. My aim was not to keep
people here, only to keep them away. I value
my solitude."
"There are stories," said Alex, "that no one
ever returns from the Devil's Auction."
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"I have to admit," replied the host, "that I am
guilty of spreading such rumors. It comes from
my desire to be alone. I am a very private
person, and I have no desire to have hordes of
curious treasure-hunters looking for my home.
This box contains my greatest prize, but there
are many temptations within these walls. A
determined searcher could find this place if he
worked hard enough. It has taken me years to
discover such a quiet location. I do not want to
move." The bantering tone of Ashmedai's voice
was gone now. A veiled threat hung on every
word. "While I expect no promises, your coop-
eration in not revealing any details of this
Auction would be appreciated."
"Finish." It was Abraham again. "It grows
late."
Ashmedai reached into the box with his right
hand. Seconds later, he stretched out his arm,
his hand clenched in a fist. Slowly, dramatical-
ly, Ashmedai's fingers uncurled. In the palm of
his hand rested a solitary silver coin. Approxi-
mately an inch in diameter, it blazed with some
inner light.
Benedict Crosby sighed heavily. Mary Zon-
gran muttered softly to herself. The Countess
licked her lips, her eyes never moving from the
coin. Valerie sat frozen in her chair. She, too,
seemed hypnotized by it.
"A silver Tyrian shekel," said Ashmedai.
Thunder rolled as he spoke, echoing each
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Robert Weinberg
word. "It is one of thirty identical silver coins.
There are few in the box now, the others having
been sold at earlier auctions. These pieces of
silver date back twenty centuries. They
amounted to four months' wages during the
time of Pontius Pilate—a decent sum, but not a
fortune. Not nearly enough to pay for the
betrayal of a dream."
Ashmedai moved his hand back and forth,
the coin shimmering in the dim light. "Blood
money. Cursed for all time." Ashmedai closed
his fingers around the coin again, clenching it
tightly in his fist. His voice challenged all of
them. "The power of Hell is locked in that coin.
It is a tangible link with the most infamous
crime in all history. Can there be a more fitting
prize for the Devil's Auction?"
"Well," said Alex as he closed and locked the
door of his room, "did you believe him?"
"Its the truth, Alex." Valerie's cheeks were
flushed and her eyes burned with an inner fire.
She rubbed her thumbs against her fingers
as she talked. Back and forth in the room
she paced, her whole body twitching with
excitement. "You couldn't sense the power
in that coin. I can still feel it. I felt like
a flower suddenly exposed to intense sun-
shine. My whole body virtually exploded with
energy."
"It has you a little jumpy."
Valerie laughed. "I feel supercharged.
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Damn, the magical energy stored in that coin is
frightening. Who knows what powers it might
give the owner!"
"Eternal life, perhaps?"
"Hell yes." Valerie could not keep still. She
bounced around the room as she spoke. "That
thing pulsated with dark forces. No wonder
Ashmedai is the most powerful wizard in the
world. All thirty of those coins would give you
the power of a god."
"Or a devil." Alex was edgy. "I still don't like
this. There are too many unanswered ques-
tions. I'm the only one who seems to care. All
the rest of you are running around like kids
with a new toy."
"That's because you can't feel the Power,"
said Valerie, slowing down for a second. "It's
addictive. As soon as I saw the coin I knew I
had to have it. I had to."
"Sure. I'm not blaming you. Everyone else at
the table felt the same way—I could see it in
their faces. There were only two of us
unaffected by the coin's magic."
"Two. You and . . . ?"
"Ashmedai. He didn't react a bit. Our host
kept a close watch on the rest of you instead.
For all it mattered, he could have been holding
a lump of coal in his hand."
Valerie sat down. "I don't get it. He's a
magician. I could feel his aura when we first
entered. Why wouldn't the coins affect him.
Unless ..."
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Robert Weinberg
"He's grown used to their power over a very
long time," finished Alex.
"But that's crazy," said Valerie. "Do you
realize how long it would take for that to
happen?"
"Two thousand years, maybe." Alex changed
subjects. "What did you think of those dark
glasses?"
"Spooky. He didn't seem to have any prob-
lem seeing through them. I don't believe he has
vision problems."
Alex slipped his coat off and began sharpen-
ing his knife. The blade didn't need it, but the
slow but steady motion relaxed him. "They say
that a man's eyes are a reflection of his soul.
I'm not sure if I want to know what lies hidden
behind those lenses."
Valerie shuddered. "I once read a story
about Lazarus. Christ brought him back from
the dead, but four days had already passed. He
remembered the other side. His body lived, but
his eyes reflected death. Anyone who looked
into them went mad." She shuddered again.
"Finally the Emperor had him blinded and sent
into the desert. He was never seen again."
"Lazarus," said Alex, thoughtfully. "Dead,
then brought back to life. Would a man like that
age and die again? Or would he live forever,
unable to find peace?"
"No more questions we can't answer," re-
plied Valerie. "Time to go downstairs. The
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Auction should be starting any time now. I
don't want to be the last one there."
Alex sheathed his knife. He had a feeling that
he would need it before the night was over. All
of the bidders in the Auction were intent on
winning. None of them looked like they would
be gracious losers.
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Chapter Thirteen
The table was gone from the dining room. A
half-circle of twelve chairs had been arranged
around a small podium. The lights were still
muted, but the drapes had been pulled back
from the huge windows to reveal the storm still
raging outside. Every few minutes violent
splashes of lightning dazed the senses. Crashes
of thunder rattled and shook the glass. The rain
was a constant drumbeat assaulting the ears. It
was as if the very heavens objected to the
Auction.
When Alex and Valerie entered, the only
other person in the room was Ashmedai. He
stood behind the podium, resting both arms on
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DEVIL S AUCTION
it. The ebony box was slightly to the left of his
hands. "Always," he remarked as if reading
Alex's thoughts, "it always rains when these
Auctions are held. This storm is typical. Please,
sit wherever you like. We will begin as soon as
the others arrive."
Alex steered Valerie over to the last two seats
in the chain, farthest away from the windows.
Every time he walked by the glass, he felt
nervous. His luck had never been wrong be-
fore. Now, with Valerie's confession, he de-
pended upon it. Thunder rolled once more
and, for an instant, the solitary light in the
room flickered. Alex began exercising his fin-
gers.
The first to enter after them was Mary
Zongran and her companion, Betty. Mary hob-
bled in using two canes. She shuffled slowly
across the floor with Betty following close
behind. Mary wore a plain brown dress with
ruffled collar closed right to the top of her
neck. She even wore brown high buttoned
shoes. She looked like a typical midwestern
grandmother. If Jack the Ripper had had a
grandmother.
Betty wore black leather, and it suited her.
She was a lot younger than the Countess and in
much better shape. Her blouse, for want of a
better name, was form-fitting and cut down the
center from neck to waist, revealing plenty of
cleavage. Her black leather pants were skin-
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Robert Weinberg
tight and molded to her body from her waist to
her narrow buttocks to her slender ankles. She
had short, curly black hair; pleasant features;
and a cute, inviting smile.
"Leather and all that," whispered Valerie to
him, "it's still hard to believe she killed four
people for the Invitation."
"Look at her hands," said Alex. "A pretty face
doesn't tell you anything. Billy the Kid had a
real baby face. See how rough her hands are?
Notice the thickness of her fingers. The bones
have broken and healed innumerable times,
hardening in the process. It's common with
advanced students of karate. Sweet little Betty
can probably smash a brick into powder. Or,
for that matter, a man's face."
The Countess and Hannah, the wizened little
man Ashmedai had called Abraham, and the
Craig brothers all came in at the same time.
Abraham sat next to Betty. He sank back into
the chair and closed his eyes without saying a
word to anyone. Hannah snarled at Valerie and
Alex then took the seat next to Abraham. The
Countess remained standing, looking out at the
storm. Her body was taut, her fingers clenched
in fists. Each bolt of lightning made her flinch.
Alex wondered what she had planned for to-
night. He was sure the Countess was not going
to give up the coin without a fight. After a few
seconds more, she took her seat next to Han-
nah.
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The Craig brothers sat next to Alex. They had
been whispering in low tones when they en-
tered the room, and they continued their con-
versation when seated.
"Who's the little guy with the eyes like a
snake?" asked Alex, leaning over close to
Valerie so no one else could hear him. "You
know. The one called Abraham."
"That's Abraham the Provider," said Valerie
in the same low voice. "I never met him, but
he's pretty famous in magical circles. Nasty
little man if even half the stories circulating
about him are true." She smiled. "He's the
world's greatest living authority on your favor-
ite text, The Kaballah."
The arrival of Benedict Crosby and his two
bodyguards completed their group. The big fat
man nodded pleasantly to everyone and then
took his seat. His companions ignored the
chairs left for them and instead took up posi-
tions to either side of Crosby and slightly
behind him. Ashmedai looked at them for a
second and then shrugged. "No need for such
actions, Crosby."
The black man laughed humorlessly. "I pay
these fine young men to protect me. They insist
on doing it their own way. No reflection on you
or your hospitality, Ashmedai. They are just
doing their job."
"Please instruct them to sit down. They are a
distraction."
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Robert Weinberg
Crosby pursed his lips together. "I think not.
They shall remain standing."
"Are we gonna get the show on the road or
yap all night?" This was from Mary Zongran.
Then she grinned, displaying a mouthful of
yellowing teeth. "Crosby, don't be an asshole.
Those jokers ain't any better standing or sitting.
Maybe, after the auction, your two bodyguards
could go a round or two with my girl, Betty?
See how good they really are. How's that
sound, fatty? Make a little wager, perhaps? Two
against one, pretty good odds for you."
Betty was carefully working on her fingers
with a thin metal nailfile. She looked up at the
mention of her name and smiled pleasantly at
Crosby. The fat black man looked suddenly
uneasy. Both of the bodyguards faced Mary
Zongran, their expressions calm. Beneath their
jackets, the muscles in their back and arms
were tensed.
"Sit," commanded Crosby, sweat beading on
his forehead. "No reason to cause a scene. We
will have out our differences after the Auc-
tion."
The bodyguards took their seats. Angry whis-
pers rumbled between them and Crosby for
nearly a minute. Unconcerned, Betty went
back to her nails. Mary Zongran, still grinning,
waved a hand at Ashmedai. "Well, whatcha
waiting for? Those two bozos got the message.
Let's start."
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A look of disgust crossed Ashmedai's face.
He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
Locking his fingers together, he rested his
elbows on the podium and leaned forward. "As
Ms. Zongran wishes, we will begin the Auction.
I will repeat the rules. There will be two
rounds of bidding. We will proceed in a clock-
wise rotation. Each bidder will make his best
offer when it is his turn. As all of the items are
in my vault, a brief verbal description will
suffice. I trust there will be no exaggeration or
deception. The winner will be chosen by me,
based on the relative value of the material.
My decision is final. Any questions? I thought
not. Let us begin. Mary, you are the first
bidder."
"About time." The old woman peered about,
her face tight with mistrust. Betty kept on filing
her nails. "Got a really special item here. Had it
most of my days." Mary grinned, again display-
ing her yellowing teeth. "Always had strong
chompers. Came in handy that day. The
damned fool thought he had me when I lost my
knife. Still remember the sound he made dying
with his throat ripped out."
"Delightful," said Benedict Crosby, wrin-
kling his nose in disgust. "Get to the point, you
old witch."
"Yes, finish," said Abraham the Provider, his
beady little eyes open and centered on Mary. "I
am getting impatient."
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Robert Weinberg
Mary's face hardened. "I'm offering a deck of
tarot cards. Not any pack, but the ones owned
by the mad king, Charles VI. I know that some
of the cards from that deck are supposed to be
in a Paris museum, but those are counterfeits.
These are the real ones, dating back to the late
fourteenth century, which makes them the
oldest known deck of tarot cards in the world.
They have been used many thousands of times,
but still look like new. They have served me
well all my life. They're pretty damned accu-
rate."
"A good offer," said Ashmedai. "Abraham, it
is your turn."
The little man shook his head. "I brought
only one thing with me. It can wait till the next
round. It will be enough."
"As you wish. Countess, the floor is yours."
"Books. My bid is in books. They have been
taken from my father's library, acknowledged
by most to be the finest collection of occult lore
ever assembled. With me tonight is John Dee's
Monas Hieroglyphics, the Grimorium Verum, in
the original French edition; and Peter of
Abano's The Magical Elements. Three of the
rarest grimoires in the world. Obviously," and
the Countess turned slightly and sneered at
Mary Zongran, "much more valuable than a
deck of cards."
Ashmedai made no comment. He looked
bored. "Crosby. What do you have to offer?"
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DEVIL S AUCTION
"A secret." The fat man straightened in his
chair. His powerful voice boomed out, dwarf-
ing even the thunder outside. "It is the grand
result of nearly twenty years of struggle. I have
learned the true meaning of the Sator for-
mula."
"Really?" Ashmedai sounded interested.
"You are positive of your results?"
"Quite positive. Once the trick is revealed,
the meaning becomes obvious. It is a powerful
magical formula. I have tried it." Crosby's
laughter boomed. "It works. It works per-
fectly."
The Sator formula was the most famous of
all magic squares. It consisted of twenty-five
letters forming a box of five letters across and
five down. Like all magic squares, it read the
same forwards or backwards, up or down. It
had first been discovered inscribed on the wall
of an ancient Roman villa in Cirencester. Later,
others found the formula written on the boards
of very early Bibles. Archaeologists all agreed
that it was written in code. Many attempts had
been made to translate the Sator square, but
none had ever made any sense.
"Very interesting," said Ashmedai. The bore-
dom was gone from his voice now. "Justice
Craig. What do you offer?"
"Like Abraham the Provider, my brother and
I have brought only one item. We will pass till
the second round."
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Robert Weinberg
"As you wish. Miss Lancaster? Professor
Warner?"
They had agreed that Alex would do all the
bidding. "All of the items offered so far have
been interesting," said Alex. "However, while
they all promise power, they are not actual
implements of magic. I offer that. For our bid,
we offer a true Glory Hand, made according to
the instructions of Little Albert. In this modern
age, perhaps one of the few such charms still in
existence."
Ashmedai rubbed his beard with one hand,
his expression thoughtful. "Another very nice
item. And a point well made." He stretched,
rotating his neck to and fro. "The first round is
over. Would anyone care for a drink? I didn't
think so. Shall we begin the final round of
bidding. Mary, you are again first."
Alex could feel the tension in the air. Mary
Zongran no longer was so feisty. The old wom-
an evidently realized her offer had little chance
of winning. Her voice cracked as she spoke.
"I, too, have a book. It is the Emerald Tablets
of Hermes Trismegistus. My copy is one of the
earliest known copies, transcribed in Latin
by-"
"I think we all know the book and its histo-
ry," said Ashmedai. There was no attempt to
disguise the revulsion in his voice. "How, when
you were still a child, you killed your mother to
obtain it. Your offer is noted."
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Betty looked up again from her nails. She
turned for an instant and looked at Mary
Zongran. The old woman made a face and
shook her head. Betty went back to her nails.
"Abraham. Your one and only chance."
"The secret of Rabbi Yehuda Loew is mine. I
have discovered the mystical incantation of the
Maharal."
The Maharal was the title given to the famous
mystic and scholar of sixteenth century Prague,
Yehuda Loew. Legends had it that to protect his
people—the Jews of the Prague ghetto—the
Maharal created a huge man of clay, the
Golem. Using words of power he had discov-
ered, the Maharal had brought the giant to life.
For many years, the animate statue had pro-
tected Rabbi Loew's congregation. However,
the Maharal never entrusted the words of pow-
er to any other, and when he died at age
ninety-seven, the secret of the Golem had died
with him. Until now.
"A major discovery," said Ashmedai, skepti-
cally. "What proof do you offer?"
"Proof? You question my word?"
"Of course not. But many magicians have
searched without success for the Maharal's
secret. All know that he inscribed emeth,
"truth" on the Golem's forehead to control it.
None have ever found the words that gave the
figure life. I need a little more evidence than
just your word."
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"You shall have it," said Abraham, with a
grunt. He settled back in his chair and closed
his eyes. "You shall have it."
"You have until the final bid is made, Abra-
ham. Countess, you have another offer?"
"More books. A library full of books. I have
no use for them." The Countess sounded des-
perate. "They won't do me any good when I'm
dead. Take them all. My father's whole library.
It took him most of his life to assemble the
collection. You can have it all. Just let me have
the coin."
"Crosby? You have something to add to your
offer?"
"NO!" screamed the Countess. She leapt out
of her chair. Hannah was up as well. The big
woman moved incredibly fast. Before anyone
could react, she jumped forward and grabbed
Ashmedai around the waist. Hannah pulled the
man tight to her. With a snarl of hate, she held
their host as a living shield in front of her. The
Countess rushed to Ashmedai's side. From
some hidden pocket in her outfit, she had
pulled a small .22 automatic. She waved it
about meaningfully.
"I am an expert shot. This may not be a very
powerful gun, but a bullet in the head would be
fatal to anyone. Don't tempt me." The Countess
rested her free hand on the ebony box. "This
Auction is at an end. I am the winner."
Hannah pulled Ashmedai back away from
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the podium. With a shove, she knocked him to
the floor in the center of the circle of chairs.
Ashmedai was breathing hard, but otherwise
did not seem harmed . . . nor did he seem
particularly disturbed by the turn of events.
The Countess waved her gun again. "Get up.
All of you."
They all started to rise from their chairs.
Alex kept his eyes fixed on the Countess. She
was a cold-blooded killer. There was no trust-
ing her. Whatever lies she told them, he knew
she had no intention of letting them leave the
room alive.
Evidently, he was not the only one who had
come to that conclusion. Without warning, one
of Benedict Crosby's bodyguards dropped
from his chair and onto the floor. He rolled to
the side, tugging out a pistol as he moved. The
Countess' gun blasted, but she had been caught
unprepared. The man came up in a crouch, his
weapon roaring as he sprayed the podium. The
Countess dropped safely to the floor instants
before the bullets crashed above her. Then,
Hannah was on the man.
The giant woman grabbed the bodyguard's
outstretched arm with both her hands. With a
savage roar, she whipped the man around. It
was a terrible demonstration of pure brute
strength. The bodyguard's arm broke with an
audible crack and the man shrieked in pain.
His scream came to a sudden, abrupt end as
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Hannah released him and he went flying into
the nearby wall. The black man's body re-
mained standing for a second, flat up against
the wallpaper, and then, without a sound,
dropped to the floor. The impact left a
mansized red blot where he had hit. The whole
incident was over almost before it had begun.
The rest of the bidders had remained frozen
during the entire scenario.
The Countess fired again. Crosby's other
bodyguard crumpled to the floor, a dark hole
between his eyes oozing blood. Gun still smok-
ing, the Countess rose to her feet. "He would
have tried something sooner or later," she
declared with finality. "Now, all the rest of you,
get moving. Back to the far wall."
They were all on their feet now. Crosby had a
stunned, confused look on his face. His two
bodyguards lay dead at his feet. Abraham the
Provider didn't seem very worried. His eyes
were half open and he was muttering some-
thing under his breath, lips barely moving.
Valerie looked at Alex, her face white and her
expression grim. He let his head dip a bare
fraction of an inch and winked. Valerie drew in
a deep breath and slid closer to him.
Ashmedai was on his feet now, standing next
to the Craig brothers. "You are wasting your
time, Marie. Why not open the box before you
continue with this charade?"
"What?" The Countess did not sound a -
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mused. "Hannah, assume your beast form.
Now."
The giantess said something softly. Alex
watched in astonishment. It was an
unbelievable sight. The woman actually ex-
panded before their eyes. The clothes ripped
off her body. Her features seemed to flow like
butter, rippling, changing into those of a beast.
The whole process took only a few seconds.
Then Hannah Stine was gone and in her place
stood a creature of the night.
Almost immediately, the thing looked
around and fastened its eyes on Alex. It opened
its jaws, revealing huge fangs. The meaning was
quite clear. Alex let his inner arm rest on the
concealed bowie knife. One of them was not
going to leave this room alive.
"Quiet," commanded the Countess. "You
will have time enough for that one later. I
promised him to you. Watch all of them for
now." The Countess laughed harshly. "Hannah
has been on edge of late. She is looking for an
excuse to kill. Don't tempt her."
The Countess rested her gun on the podium
and took the ebony box in both hands. She
worked the lock for a minute and then looked
up at Ashmedai in bewilderment. "It isn't even
sealed."
"Of course not, you fool." Ashmedai's voice
was harsh. "Do you think I would be stupid
enough to bring the coin with me once all of
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you had seen it? The exchange was set for
tomorrow morning. At the moment, the coin is
safe where you can never find it. You stupid,
arrogant bitch."
The Countess turned the box over, knocking
the lid open. Her face contorted with rage.
With a curse, she threw the ebony box to the
floor and scooped up her gun from where she
had put it down. "Tell me where it is. Tell me
now. Or, I swear, no one will have it. If you
value your life, talk."
Ashmedai threw back his head and roared
with laughter. It was a bitter, almost tearful
sound. "If I value my life," he managed to gasp
out, holding his sides with his arms. Tears
trickled down his cheeks. "Don't you under-
stand. My life is a curse. You can't threaten me
with death. I want to die."
He raised his hands to his head, pressing
them against his skull. The laughter was gone
now and only despair remained. "You still
haven't guessed the truth. Even with all the
hints and clues I provided. Don't you think I
haven't tried to die? A hundred times, a thou-
sand times I courted death, always without
success. No matter what I do, I survive. I am
cursed with life. There is no escape. Even
suicide is denied me."
Ashmedai reached for his dark glasses.
"Look," he said, pulling them off his face and
facing the Countess. "If you want to know the
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truth about eternal life, look into my eyes."
Only the Countess, standing at the podium,
could see Ashmedai's face. She stared directly
at him. All motion stopped. Her eyes widened
and then got wider still. A wild expression
crossed her face. Fingers wrapped around her
gun, loosened and then opened. The weapon
tumbled to the floor. The Countess remained
frozen. Her jaw fell. "No-o-o." The sound
started softly and built in volume. "No-O-O-O!"
She was howling now. "NO-O-O-O!"
Hannah spun around, her prisoners forgot-
ten. Alex immediately grabbed Valerie and
dragged her to the floor. He had a hunch things
were going to get much worse before getting
better. He ripped off his coat and pulled the
bowie knife from its sheath.
Betty leapt into action. Without a wasted
motion, she darted forward, the thin metal nail
file held out in front of her. The Countess never
saw her coming. With a savage thrust, Betty
slammed the file deep into the older woman's
stomach. The Countess grunted and took a step
forward, an astonished expression on her face.
Still gripping the nail file tightly, Betty slashed
hard across and up. It was a killing blow. The
Countesss' nose and mouth spurted blood as
she crumpled to the floor. Thus ended her
dreams of immortality.
With a shriek of pure animal rage, Hannah
pounced on Betty from behind, her claws
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sinking deep into leather. The young woman
tried to spin down and away, but the werewolf's
long claws were sunk too deep into her flesh.
Hannah roared and snapped at Betty's neck.
She missed by inches as Betty dropped to the
floor, dragging Hannah up and over her body.
With a perfectly timed lunge, Betty snapped
up, ramming her head into the werewolf's
midsection.
The blow would have killed any normal foe.
But Hannah was not normal. With a grunt of
pain, she bore down on Betty, forcing the girl
back to the floor. Blood was gushing from the
werewolf's nose but it didn't slow her for an
instant. One giant arm swept up and then
down, slashing with yellow claws across Betty's
face. The girl shrieked in agony. Again and
again the clawed hand rose and fell. Each time,
the werewolf's fingers were redder and redder.
Finally, the form beneath the beast was still.
Shakily, Hannah rose to her feet.
She turned and faced them. Ashmedai,
glasses back in place, was at the far end of the
room, backed up to the door. Next to him,
quivering in fear, huddled Benedict Crosby. By
the windows crouched Abraham the Provider.
Next to him stood a defiant Mary Zongran.
Lying flat on the floor, Alex and Valerie re-
mained screened from the beast by the last few
chairs. The Craig brothers had vanished.
The werewolf howled. A steady stream of
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blood dripped from its nose, and its breath
came in loud, ragged gasps. Madness burned
bright in its eyes. As the creature moved its
head from side to side, searching, Alex rose to
his feet.
"Head for the door," he said to Valerie,
keeping his eyes fixed on the werewolf. "Right
now, before the thing charges. I can't fight it if
I'm worrying about you."
Valerie scuttled away. The thing that was
Hannah Stine didn't even notice. It was only
interested in Alex. Hands raised, it stepped
forward cautiously. It had not forgotten their
earlier fight.
Alex retreated. The beast was quicker than
he, with reflexes many times faster. Even badly
wounded, its strength was enormous. The odds
were all on its side. His only chance was to
catch it by surprise. Drawing in a deep breath,
he charged.
His attack was totally unexpected. Only a
dozen feet separated him from the werewolf
and Alex covered those in a second. The beast
had no time to react. One huge hand swatted at
him—too late. He was inside its guard. The
bowie knife flashed as he plunged it deep into
the monster's stomach. Teeth snapped only
inches from his face. He wrenched the knife
hard, pulling it free. Hot blood gushed out of
the gaping wound. The werewolf staggered
back.
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Trying to keep the monster off balance, Alex
pressed forward. He stabbed again with the
bowie knife, slicing through muscle and flesh.
He twisted and tried to pull the blade free. It
didn't move. It had wedged hard against a
bone. He hesitated for a second.
It was all the time the werewolf needed. A
huge hand slammed into the side of Alex's
head. Blood filled his mouth and his vision
blurred. Desperately, he fell back and to the
side. Another clawed hand swept by him, only
inches from his eyes. He stumbled over the few
remaining chairs, his senses reeling. Far in the
distance, he could hear Valerie screaming.
The werewolf howled in triumph. Remem-
bering their first encounter, Alex dropped and
rolled. The beast went charging past him. It
was still a creature of habit. Alex shook his
head hard, clearing his vision. The monster
was a dozen feet away, doubled over in pain,
the bowie knife still embedded in its side.
Blood bubbled out of its earlier wounds, form-
ing a red pool on the carpet. Any other living
thing would be long dead with wounds like
that, but not this supernatural horror. As Alex
watched, the werewolf straightened. It was
huffing and puffing like a steam shovel. It
couldn't last more than a few minutes, losing
blood so quickly. Unfortunately, Alex knew he
would not be alive to enjoy his triumph.
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"Alex, catch!" screamed Valerie. He had no
time to think. He reacted, grabbing at what she
threw. His both hands wrapped onto cold
metal as the werewolf attacked. Jaws gaping
wide, the beast leaped straight for him.
Alex's feet spun out from under him as he
tried to escape. He had forgotten the polished
wood floor. Blood from his own wounds had
dripped onto the surface, making it incredibly
slick. He crashed to the floor as the werewolf
went flying over his head.
He rolled. The werewolf scrambled around
on all fours. For a mad instant, they were face
to face, both of them flat. The monster's open
jaws were inches away from Alex. He could feel
its breath like a hot wind out of Hell burning
across his skin. The beast snapped. Alex lunged
back. The werewolf raised itself up on both
arms, in a half crouch, and Alex saw death
staring at him from red eyes.
There was cold metal in his hand. He had
never let go of the object Valerie had thrown to
him. It was his only chance. As the werewolf
hurtled forward, Alex wrenched up the metal
and shoved it into the creature's face with all of
his strength. By reflex action alone, the were-
wolf clamped its jaws shut. Teeth smashed and
broke as they crunched down hard on steel.
Alex's grip tightened involuntarily. The gun he
was holding exploded in the werewolf's mouth.
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Wildly, Alex pulled the trigger again and again.
Long after all of the bullets were gone, he kept
on squeezing.
Finally he stopped. Trembling, he rose to his
feet. Valerie cried out in relief when she saw
him stand, and she came running forward. The
others moved much more cautiously. There
was little reason for concern, though. The gun
Valerie had retrieved from the dead bodyguard
had been very effective. Using it, Alex had
blown away most of the werewolf's skull. Han-
nah Stine had joined her mistress.
Now, Alex sucked in air, trying to regain
some of his strength. He was bleeding from a
score of cuts, but he had suffered no serious
injury. Valerie fussed over him, trying to get
him to sit down. Alex refused. Somehow, he
knew that it wasn't over yet.
"Well, now what?" Benedict Crosby's voice
boomed like a foghorn, breaking the silence.
He nudged the dead werewolf with one large
foot, as if to convince himself it was really
dead.
"The Auction is not yet complete," said
Ashmedai. "We have yet to finish the second
round."
"It is over," said Abraham the Provider, with
a crackling laugh. The little man stood alone,
by the main entrance to the room, beside the
row of long glass windows. "Over for all of you.
I have the winning bid."
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Abraham waved one small arm in a signal.
Outside, in the rain, something big and bulky
cast a giant shadow on the windows. Glass and
wood crashed as the thing smashed through
wall and window and lumbered into the room.
Alex recognized the metal giant at once.
Eight feet tall, deep green in color, armed with
a long cavalry sword, it was the missing statue
of Casimir Pulaski. Pasted high on its forehead
was a white slip of paper inscribed with the
word emeth.
This was the thing that had roamed the
woods dealing death to all it encountered. It
was a juggernaut of living bronze. Abraham the
Provider pointed an accusing finger at their
host. "Let us put your immortality to the test,
Ashmedai. How much pain before you go mad?
Can your immortal body survive being crushed
to a pulp?" There was madness in Abraham's
voice. The old man's tone grew harsh and cold.
"Kill them. Kill them all."
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The statue marched forward. Each step it took
shook the room. Thump. Thump. Thump. It
moved slowly but steadily. Its footsteps were
like the beating of some giant heart. In one
huge hand it held a long sword of bronze. Its
other hand was empty. Huge unfinished metal
fingers opened and closed with each step it
took.
The Golem had no eyes, yet it seemed to
know where they all were. For an instant, they
stood frozen in place. Five steps and it was
nearly upon them. With a high-pitched scream,
Benedict Crosby dashed around the animate
statue, making for the door. Alex grabbed
Valerie by the waist before she could follow,
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dragging her back behind the podium.
Ashmedai followed them hastily, pushing
chairs out of his way.
Crosby had the right idea. The statue could
not think; it was little more than an extension
of Abraham's will. It did not react quickly. The
fat man was by the statue before the man of
metal reacted to what was happening. Then the
Golem hesitated in mid-stride. Its head fol-
lowed the fat man's path, rotating 180 degrees
on a motionless body. It was an eerie sight.
Huffing and puffing, Crosby had eyes only for
the double doors a dozen feet away. His arms
flailed wildly as he ran. In doing so, Crosby
totally forgot the carnage that littered the floor.
It was the body of the bodyguard Marie
Lamont had shot without provocation that
proved to be his undoing. One misplaced step
caught his foot beneath the dead man's torso.
With a sharp cry of pain, Crosby stumbled and
fell to his knees.
The sound was what decided the Golem. It
swung around. Metal grated on metal as it
marched after the fat man.
Crosby saw it coming. Desperately, he
pushed hard with both hands against the floor,
trying to regain his footing, but his huge bulk
was not made for speed. He barely made it
upright when the golem grabbed at him. Metal
fingers sank deep into the back of his white
jacket.
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The fat man shrieked. The eoat ripped like
cheesecloth beneath powerful bronze fingers.
Blood gushed where the metal fingers ripped
away flesh. Crosby crashed forward, his mo-
mentum carrying him free. He raced desper-
ately for the door, huge legs pumping like
pistons. The Golem marched after him.
Alex grabbed one of the loose chairs and
raised it over his head. It was too late to help
Crosby. Their own survival was his main con-
cern. When it finished with the fat man, the
statue would come after them—and Alex had
no intention of waiting for it to attack. With a
powerful lunge, he threw the chair into the
long windows at his left. Glass shattered, leav-
ing a large hole to the outside. Valerie ran
forward. She had her heels off and held them
like hammers in her hands. A few well-placed
sweeps and the jagged fragments of glass on the
lower sill were gone.
The storm howled its welcome. Alex swung
Valerie up and out. Mary Zongran, using her
canes, hobbled forward from the rear of the
room and went next. Ashmedai followed. Only
Alex remained. He had one leg over the sill
when Crosby shrieked in pain.
Alex risked a quick look over his shoulder.
The Golem's arms were wrapped around
Crosby's waist now, and the black man dangled
several feet off the floor. The thing had him
tight against its body and was squeezing hard.
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Metal grated again as the Golem pulled one
arm around the other. Crosby's face turned
beet red as he screamed in pain. His legs
kicked helplessly in the air.
The Golem continued to squeeze. Crosby's
screams rose in volume. His arms clawed at the
metal arms that encircled his waist. Desperate-
ly he tried to wrench loose from that unbreak-
able grip. There was nothing the black man
could do. Blood spurted from his nose. His
arms dropped limply to his sides.
Inside his body, bones cracked under the
pressure. His rib cage collapsed in ruin. Blood
burst from his chest as broken bone was
shoved up through muscle and flesh. Crosby
screamed one last time.
Hands grabbed Alex's shoulders and pulled
him outside. It was Valerie. Ashmedai stood
close by. Mary Zongran was already twenty feet
away, heading for the cars parked at the end of
the long circular driveway. Hard, driving rain
pelted them like a thousand tiny bullets. "We
have to get back in the house," said Ashmedai.
"We stand no chance against the Golem in the
open."
Glass and wood shattered behind them.
There was no time to talk. The statue was
coming for them. It smashed through the bro-
ken window and wood frame, arms out-
stretched. The monster's chest and arms were
no longer green, but a bright shade of red. Alex
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Robert Weinberg
grabbed Valerie's hand and together they ran.
Ashmedai was right. They could not fight the
metal man in the storm. Thunder rolled and
lightning flashed. Icy rain slashed at their bod-
ies as wind ripped through their clothing.
They were mere flesh and blood. The Golem
was hard, unyielding metal, unfazed by the
storm. Thump. Thump. Thump. It marched
after them; relentless, never yielding. Behind
them, floating on the wind, Alex could hear
Abraham the Provider yelling instructions to
his creation. "The old woman. She's slow and
feeble. Get her! Crush her\"
"The other way!" said Ashmedai. "There is
nothing we can do for her. Make for the far end
of the building. There is another entrance
there."
Alex and Valerie chased after Ashmedai. He
was right about Mary. Every one of the Golem's
strides brought it closer to the old woman. She
had no chance. Alex didn't miss a step when a
thin, wailing cry filled the night. Soon the
Golem would be coming after them.
The door was locked. Ashmedai pounded
desperately with his fists against the upper
panelling. "The servants are quartered at the
end of the other wing. They know better than to
meddle in my affairs. We can expect no aid
from them. I must have lost my keys in the
scramble. We're locked out."
Alex fought off exhaustion. His body felt on
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the verge of collapse; the fight with Hannah
had pushed him to the limit. He ached all over
and his muscles screamed for rest. He sucked
air into his chest, filling his lungs with oxygen.
There was no time for finesse. Already, he
could hear the monstrous steps of the Golem
somewhere behind them.
He spread his legs for maximum balance,
bending them slightly at the knees. One hand
outstretched, the other pulled back even with
his chest, Alex focused all of his mental energy
on his fingers. Another deep breath, and then
he was ready. "Hail" he shouted, pulling back
his one arm and lashings out with the other. His
fist slammed into the wood panelling with the
force of a pile-driver. Into and through. With a
quick wrench, Alex had the lock undone. The
three of them dashed into the hallway.
Thump. Thump. The Golem was very close.
"Up the stairs," said Ashmedai. He led the
way, mounting the steps two at a time. Valerie
helped pull Alex along. Every step was an effort
for him. His arms and legs felt like lead weights
now. His lungs burned and a red haze clouded
his vision. Up to the second floor they raced.
Valerie had one of his arms over her shoulders.
Ashmedai supported him on the other side.
They half-dragged, half-carried him down the
long hallway. Behind them, the stairs were
quiet.
"This room has two exits," said Ashmedai,
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pulling open one door. "We can rest inside."
They staggered in. Alex collapsed onto the
bed, gasping for breath. Valerie sank into one
of the plush chairs off to the side. Only
Ashmedai remained standing.
"We are probably safe for now. The statue is
too heavy to climb that staircase. It will have to
circle back to the main entrance and come up
the main hallway. That gives us a little time."
Alex forced himself to a sitting position.
Gingerly, he rubbed his knuckles. "Time for
what? I doubt if my karate would even dent that
thing. You have any tricks up your sleeve?"
"I remember reading the legend of the
Golem," said Valerie. "The word inscribed on
its forehead gives it life. According to the story,
to stop the Golem, you have to erase the first
letter of emeth. That changes the word to meth,
meaning 'death'. Nothing else works."
"Perhaps," said Ashmedai, stroking his
beard, his dark brows furled in thought. "There
was a tendency in such stories to exaggerate
the magic involved. Remember, Rabbi Loew
lived long before modern weaponry. For all of
its unnatural strength, the Golem is a thing of
metal. I suspect a well-placed bazooka shell
would stop it, and dynamite would probably
blast it to pieces."
Alex pounded the bed with his sore hand.
"That's the answer! Not dynamite, but some-
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thing just as good. Only it's back on the road-
way at the edge of the forest. I'll have to go get
it."
"Get what, Alex?" asked Valerie, her voice
tight with worry.
"Plastique. There was a brick of plastic ex-
plosive and a small detonator in my duffel bag.
I told you I was ready to fight a small war. The
explosive can be molded into a small but very
powerful bomb. I was pretty handy with the
stuff once upon a time. Those are lessons you
don't forget."
"It will be powerful enough to stop the
Golem?" asked Ashmedai.
"You'll be scraping bronze off your roof for a
week. The biggest difficulty is getting into the
forest and back. Do you have any of those
Invitations lying around somewhere?"
Ashmedai shook his head. "No need. The
paper was a mere extension of my will. You will
have no trouble leaving. But the spell would
keep you from returning." He reached out with
his left hand. "Do not move for a second."
The sorcerer touched Alex on the forehead
with one finger, tracing a strange pattern. The
design burned for an instant. "You will not
have any problems. Come, we must leave this
room. I can sense the Golem climbing the
other stairs."
They hurried back the way they had come.
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"We'll split up," said Alex. "Valerie, you go
with Ashmedai. I'll get the plastique on my
own."
Valerie started to protest, but he cut her off
with a wave of his hand. "No time to argue. I
know what I said about sticking together, but
this is different. I can make a lot better time on
my own. Ashmedai knows the mansion. The
two of you can keep the Golem distracted until
I get back."
They emerged from the hallway onto the
second-floor landing. Alex was in the lead now.
"Seems like we're forgetting one thing," said
Valerie, right behind Alex. "What about Abra-
ham the Provider?"
"Yes. What about me?"
Abraham the Provider stood in the broken
doorway. The skin of his face was pulled back
in an evil grin. Mad eyes glared at them. Both
his hands were raised. His middle three fingers
were pressed together and pointed right at
them, his pinky and thumb at right angles to
the other digits. Electrical sparks leapt across
his fingers. The little man stepped forward,
mounting the first step. "Did you think you
could escape me? The Golem is behind you. I
guard this door. You are trapped."
Ashmedai pushed forward past Alex on the
steps. "Arrogant little snake. You dare chal-
lenge me?"
Behind them, the floor shook as the Golem
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approached. Abraham laughed wildly. He dug
one hand into his pocket and brought it out
clutching a handful of silver coins. "I have the
power now, Ashmedai. I found your precious
talismans. This is the final Auction."
Ashmedai took another step forward. Then
another. He did not seem particularly worried.
"You bore me, little man. And, you have made a
mess of my home." Alex noted that Ashmedai
did not seem overly concerned about the mur-
der of his guests. "It is time to pay the price for
your greed."
Swiftly Ashmedai descended the steps. Alex
and Valerie followed, keeping well back from
the man. Abraham's body began to shake. He
threw both hands over his head and quickly
started to chant a spell. Ashmedai kept coming.
"I conjure thee, Fire, by Him who made thee
and all other creatures of this world, to burn,
torture and consume this one before me. Let
him suffer the agonies of Hell in thy fire."
With a roar, a curtain of white fire
surrounded Ashmedai. Flame engulfed him. In
seconds, he stood in the midst of a raging
inferno. Abraham the Provider fell back away
from the blaze, his hands still held up over his
head. "I have won!" he shouted. "I have won\"
The door at the top of the stairs burst open.
The Golem had arrived at the landing. At the
same time, Abraham's cry of triumph turned
into a scream of horror. The burning figure
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before him had not stopped moving. Fiery
arms reached out and grabbed ahold of his
shoulders. Abraham shrieked as Ashmedai
wrenched him forward. The little man tried to
pull away, but it was too late. Fire enveloped
him. His body sizzled in Ashmedai's terrible
embrace. The smell of burning flesh filled the
air.
The Golem lurched forward as if to save its
creator. One foot descended on the fragile
wooden landing, then the other. For a bare
instant, the frame held. Then, with a loud
crack, the whole stairway collapsed.
Alex and Valerie were almost at ground level.
A quick leap forward and they were safe.
When they looked back, the Golem was no-
where to be seen. It lay buried under a mound
of wood beams. Then Alex turned back to the
burning figures. He took a step forward, then
had to retreat. The fire was just too hot. The
flames roared furiously. Then, as suddenly as
they had appeared, the flames began to fade.
"Alex," said Valerie. "It can't be. No one
could live through that."
The fire vanished, revealing two standing
figures. Ashmedai looked completely un-
touched by the flames. He released the black-
ened body of Abraham the Disciple, and the
charred corpse collapsed to the floor. Then
Ashmedai turned to them, a wry smile on his
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DEVIL S AUCTION
face. "You are quite mistaken, Miss Lancaster.
Look at the floor. Not a mark on it. Those
magical flames only consume mortal flesh.
Abraham was destroyed by his own sending."
Behind them, the wooden beams groaned in
protest. One huge green hand thrust up out of
the collapsed landing. Then another. The
whole pile trembled. Even though its master
was dead, the Golem still lived. Wooden beams
went flying as the bronze statue struggled to its
feet.
Alex shoved Valerie into Ashmedai's arms.
"Get going. Make for the cars. I'll meet you
there. Run."
Back out into the storm they ran. A flash of
lightning greeted them as they emerged from
the house. Thunder rolled. Valerie and Ash-
medai struggled up the driveway towards the
cars.
Alex stood waiting. He didn't want the
Golem following the others. He was human
bait for the metal man.
The Golem burst out through the door. It
held its sword high over its head. It spotted Alex
immediately. Without hesitation, it came
pounding forward. Alex turned and ran.
He deliberately cut across the huge open
lawn. The ground was soaking wet and heavy
rain had turned it into a swamp. It was like
running through Jello. It was difficult for Alex
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Robert Weinberg
to make much progress, but for the Golem it
was nearly impossible. It sank six inches down
in mud with each step.
Alex risked a quick look over his shoulder.
He was pulling away from the monster. With
luck, he would make it to the forest before the
Golem got to the end of the huge lawn.
Lightning flashed, momentarily blinding
him. Thunder roared. Without warning, some-
thing incredibly heavy smashed into his right
leg. With a cry of pain, he collapsed to the
ground. Mud splattered in his face as he hit the
earth. His leg felt like it was on fire. Using all of
his strength, he rolled onto his back. Pain
lanced through him each time he tried to move
his leg. A hurried examination confirmed his
worst fears. The bone was broken.
A few feet away, Alex spotted a long green
metal shaft on the ground. It was the Golem's
sword. The metal man must have thrown it at
him like a spear. It had missed his back but had
gotten his leg. Alex looked up. The Golem was a
score of feet away and advancing steadily. If he
didn't get moving, he was a dead man.
Frantically, Alex tried to grab hold of the
bronze sword. If he could get it, he might be
able to use it as a crutch. He stretched out as
far as he could without shifting his leg. It was
no use. The metal rod was just beyond his grip.
Gritting his teeth, he tried raising himself up on
his hands. Red mists swept across his vision as
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DEVIL S AUCTION
he thrust himself forward. With a whimper, he
collapsed only a foot away from the sword. He
struggled to remain conscious. There was no
strength left in his arms. The sword was only
inches from his face, but he couldn't raise a
hand to grab it. Then, the Golem was there.
It towered over him, a green bronze giant.
Slowly, the Golem bent down and grasped its
weapon For a second, the metal head was so
close that Alex could see the strip of white
paper glued to its brow. There was nothing he
could do. Pain held him in an unbreakable
grip. His eyes opened wide as the Golem raised
the sword over its head. It paused for a second,
as if saluting a fallen foe.
In that instant, the sky exploded.
297

Chapter Fifteen
Touch returned to him first. Alex could feel the
crisp, clean sheets beneath his fingers. The
digits of his hands curled, sending shivers
through his arms and up across his shoulders.
Without thinking, he drew in a deep breath.
The scent of Valerie's perfume filled the air. He
opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came
forth.
"Alex. Don't panic. It's me, Valerie." At first,
she sounded far distant, but as she continued to
speak, his hearing seemed to improve. "You're
okay. There is nothing to worry about. Your
body has been through quite a lot. It's mend-
ing, but it takes time. Just rest. All you have to
do is rest."
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DEVIL S AUCTION
He tried to open his eyes. It felt like there was
a heavy weight resting on each eyelid, holding
them shut. Again, he drew in a deep breath and
tried to speak. A soft croaking noise was all he
could manage. Resigned to his fate, he stopped
struggling. In seconds, he was asleep.
The next time he awoke, he was immediately
conscious of bright sunshine. Without effort,
he opened his eyes. He blinked a few times,
unaccustomed to the glare. Squinting, he spot-
ted Valerie on a chair only a few feet from the
bed. She was watching him anxiously. When he
moved his head, she smiled.
"What the Hell is going on?" he asked. His
voice was a little hoarse, but otherwise back to
normal.
Ashmedai moved into his line of sight. The
bearded man shook his head in disbelief and
smiled. "You are the luckiest man I have ever
met, Professor Warner. In all my days, I have
never seen anything like it."
With a groan, Alex rolled over and pushed
himself up. It took some effort, but he raised
himself on a bent arm so that his head was off
the bed. He was naked beneath the sheets, but
he didn't care. Looking around, he recognized
the room where he had changed for dinner.
The curtains had been drawn back and sun-
shine streamed in.
"You've been out for nearly two days," said
Valerie with a grin. "It took time for
Z99

Robert Weinberg
Ashmedai's magic to work. How do you feel?"
"Pretty weak, but otherwise, not too bad."
Alex paused for a second. "My leg. It was
broken." He bent his injured leg without any
pain. "The bone snapped. I felt it break."
"It healed while you slept, Professor. As did
your eyes and ears and the burns over much of
your body."
"Burns." Alex remembered the sky explod-
ing. "Lightning. The statue was hit by light-
ning."
Ashmedai nodded. "It was incredible. We
saw the whole thing from the driveway. The
upraised metal sword acted like a lightning
rod. The sky erupted with electricity. One bolt
after another came hurtling out of the storm,
and the sword drew them down to the Golem.
Nothing of this Earth could exist in that blaze of
energy. The Golem shattered, blown to bits.
Much of it was reduced to smoldering slag. It
was the most incredible display of nature's fury
I have ever witnessed. I was positive you had
been killed, either by the Golem or by the force
of the lightning. Miss Lancaster refused to
accept my judgment. She was sure the Golem's
destruction was a direct result of your astonish-
ing luck. Reluctantly, I accompanied her to
inspect your body. You were not a pretty sight,
but you were still alive."
Valerie came and sat down on the bed next
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DEVIL S AUCTION
to him. She covered one of his hands with her
own. "So we carried you back here.
Ashmedai's magic did the rest. It took time, but
you're just about healed now. He assures me
you'll be as good as new."
"Better," said Ashmedai, with a laugh. "You
will find that all of your scars have disappeared
as well. And any other minor medical nui-
sances like allergies will no longer bother you,
either. The Coins are quite thorough."
"The Coins," said Alex. "They actually
work?"
"Yes. They do work." Ashmedai walked over
and pulled the curtains closed. "But even they
need some help. You have remained awake
long enough, Professor. Your body has still not
fully recovered. Time for you to sleep again."
Alex did feel tired. But there were so many
questions left unanswered. "The Craig broth-
ers?"
"No sign of them. Their car was gone as well.
They must have fled as soon as the opportunity
presented itself. Now go to sleep, Professor."
"Then we are the only ones left," Alex mur-
mured as Valerie joined Ashmedai by the door.
"We won the Auction."
"You are the winners," said Ashmedai in soft
tones. "The only ones left are always the win-
ners."
* * *
301

Robert Weinberg
They were in a library lined with thousands
of books of magical lore. Ashmedai sat in a
huge, carved chair, made of the same dark
wood as the mysterious ebon-colored box.
Grinning gargoyles leered at Alex and Valerie
from the high posts of the chair. Valerie sat
directly across from Ashmedai. Alex remained
standing. It was hard to concentrate
surrounded by this treasure-trove of occult
references.
Ashmedai finished his examination of The
Secrets of the Hanged Man and closed the cover.
"A very fine copy," he said. "Much better than
the one I already own. It will make a nice
addition to the Library."
"What about the other items in your safe?
The ones brought by the Countess and your
other guests. What happens to them?"
Ashmedai shrugged. "I plan to keep them.
What else would you have me do? Who has a
better claim to them than I. Call it a small
measure of repayment for the destruction done
to my home and grounds."
Valerie snapped her fingers. Her face was
flushed with excitement. "Of course. I should
have guessed. The answer was obvious all the
time. You expected something like this to hap-
pen. You planned the whole thing.
"It was easy. You invited the most powerful
black magicians in the world to this mysterious
Auction, every one of them an arrogant, self-
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DEVIL S AUCTION
centered individual, accustomed to getting his
own way. Even my father fit that description.
Then you show them something which they all
must have, but only one can win. What a set-up.
The suckers don't even realize they are being
manipulated. All you have to do is sit back and
watch them kill each other off—leaving you in
possession of all the rarities they brought as
part of the bargain."
Ashmedai gently drummed his fingers on the
desktop. "So? I told no lies. I deceived no one.
But you are only seeing a small part of the
whole picture. Weren't you ever curious about
all the rumors and stories concerning the
Auction? If it is so secret, how did so many
people know something about it? Especially if
no one ever returns to tell the tale? I came
close to revealing the truth that evening at
dinner. I am responsible for spreading all of the
half-truths and hints about the Auction. You
can't catch any fish without spreading your
net."
"But why do you bother?" asked Valerie. She
waved an arm about, taking in the whole
library. "You are the most powerful magician
in the world. No one can equal you in power.
Your library and collection of occult talismans
is the greatest in existence." Her voice got
louder and louder as she continued, until she
was nearly shouting. "Was Alex right? Are we
puppets dancing to the strings of an immortal
303

Robert Weinberg
toyman? Is this all just some sort of sadistic
game?"
"No." Ashmedai pushed back his chair and
rose to his feet. He walked to the rear of the
room. On a small teak table rested the ebony
box. Ashmedai took it with both hands and
brought it back to the desk.
"I am immortal. That one fact rules my
actions. You are bound by a span of decades. I
have lived for centuries. My plans are not yours
to understand. I take the long view. I am
preparing for . . . Armageddon."
"Armageddon?" asked Alex. "The Day of
Judgment?"
"The final confrontation," corrected
Ashmedai. His expression was grim, "when
Good and Evil battle for the fate of mankind. It
will be a war fought between unimaginable
foes. They will be armed with the darkest
secrets of magic. Suffice it to say that I am
collecting weapons for that conflict."
"Which side?" asked Alex in a whisper. "Is
this truly the Devil's Auction?"
Ashmedai laughed. He reached for the lock
holding the ebony box closed. "I will leave that
for you to decide, my friends."
With a touch, the lock opened. Bright light
filled the study. "The time has come," said
Ashmedai, pushing the box across the top of his
desk. He let it rest in front of Valerie. Leaning
forward, Ashmedai pulled the lid completely
304

DEVIL S AUCTION
open. Resting inside the container were three
stacks of silver shekels.
"The Auction was not a sham. For all of the
manipulation and deceit, no lies were told. The
violence was a result of greed, not any of my
actions. The Auction was designed for the
greatest return possible, but I never cheated
anyone. The bargain is always kept."
He took a deep breath and continued. "As
the only bidder left, your bid is the winning
one." His voice sounded odd. It was as if he was
trying to warn them of something but could
not. His face had a grim, desperate look to it.
"Here are the thirty pieces of silver."
Valerie reached for the box. Without know-
ing exactly why, Alex grabbed her wrist. "Not
yet." A vague feeling of wrongness had swept
through him when Ashmedai spoke. There was
a message in those words.
"Alex." Valerie sounded annoyed. "What is
this all about? You're hurting me."
"Sorry." He released her arm. "Leave the
Coins alone for now . . . please. At least until I
get a few things straight in my mind. Okay?"
Valerie rubbed her wrist and grimaced. Her
eyes were fixed on the pieces of silver. Reluc-
tantly, she nodded. "Okay. But I think you're
crazy."
"Humor me."
Alex stood silent for a moment. All of the
explanations made sense. The secrets of the
305

Robert Weinberg
Auction were revealed. Yet, he felt uneasy. It
was as if one piece of a giant puzzle was still
missing. His eyes were drawn to the ebony box.
It was hard to believe that it held thirty pieces
of silver over two thousand years old. "Thirty
pieces," whispered Alex. And then he knew.
"You've been holding these Auctions for a
long time. For a thousand years or more. Each
time, the prize is one of these silver shekels?"
"That is correct," said Ashmedai. A smile
crossed his lips and he nodded, as if urging
Alex to continue his line of reasoning. "One
coin for the winner."
"Yet," said Alex, pointing an accusing finger
at the three stacks of coins shining brightly
amidst the ebony, "there are thirty pieces of
silver in the box."
Ashmedai laughed. The dark shadow was
gone from his face. "You are one of the very
few to notice, Professor. Most act without
thinking. Their greed blinds them to the truth.
I want to warn the winners, but cannot. Long
ago, I vowed never again to interfere with
another's destiny.
"The Coins have a history of returning to my
possession after a short time—often, within a
few days. Like me, they are cursed.
"A long, long time ago, I tried to give them
away. I tried many times. Agrippa, whom you
mentioned, was just one of many who had
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DEVIL S AUCTION
them in his possession for a short time. Like all
of the others, they brought him only disaster.
No matter how I tried to dispose of the Coins,
sooner or later they returned to me. Finally I
decided to take advantage of my burden. Thus,
I began holding the Auctions."
Valerie looked down at the silver and shud-
dered. "With all of the power in the Coins, I can
guess the only way the winner relinquishes his
prize."
"They are worthless to the Dead," said
Ashmedai, as if reading her thoughts. "That is
the final irony. Magicians come here seeking
eternal life. They never realize that the prize
they desire brings only death."
Alex pushed the lid closed on the ebony box.
"Keep the Geoffrey book and the Glory Hand.
And the Coins as well." Valerie had gotten to
her feet and Alex pulled her close. "We have the
greatest prize of all. Our lives and each other."
"Nicely put," said Ashmedai, "though I still
feel in your debt. Defeating the Golem would
have been a problem even for my powers. Let
me think. Ah, I know one thing I can do!"
He pointed a finger at Valerie and muttered
something under his breath. "You will no long-
er suffer for your adolescent mistake. The
glamour is gone. I removed the spell. I would
advise," he said with a chuckle, "you to be a bit
more careful practicing sorcery in the future."
307

Robert Weinberg
Impulsively, Valerie grabbed Ashmedai and
hugged him for an instant. The sorcerer quick-
ly disentangled himself from her grip.
"Enough. I am not fond of emotional scenes."
He turned to Alex. "For you, Professor, I have
something much more precious. You asked me
a question at dinner. It was not the right time
or place for a reply. If you like, I will answer
you now. Are you sure you want to know the
truth?"
Alex drew in a deep breath. "Tell me."
Ashmedai picked up the Justin Geoffrey vol-
ume. "Who is the Hanged Man? Geoffrey knew
his identity. But Geoffrey was a madman. He
feared some sort of divine retribution if he
revealed too much, so he disguised the answer.
The truth was hidden in the Latin verse that
began his book. The rest of the work is gibber-
ish, meant only to deceive the unwary."
Ashmedai opened the book to the title page.
"Read between the lines. 'We have signed a
treaty with death'. Why a treaty with death?
What bargain could there be with the Dark
Angel? Only one covenant would matter. Geof-
frey knew that the Hanged Man was undying,
immortal. 'With Hell we have made a pact'
signifies a man damned for all eternity."
"The picture of the Hanged Man in the tarot
deck," said Alex, trying to follow what
Ashmedai was saying, "a man hanging from a
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gibbet by one foot, touching neither earth or
sky."
"Cursed on the Earth, he is denied entrance
forever to Heaven," replied Ashmedai. "The
most telling point is that he is hanging but not
dead. His face shows no sign of either suffering
or remorse. He is the suicide who hung himself
but did not die."
A cold chill passed through Alex. "In
fortune-telling, the Hanged Man is the sign of
treachery."
"Betrayal." Ashmedai spat the word out like
a curse. "The Hanged Man is twelfth of the
major trumps. He stands between death and
justice. It was the twelfth disciple who betrayed
his master that night in the olive grove, Geth-
semane."
Alex could feel the tension within him.
Everything Ashmedai said pointed to only one
conclusion. "Woe to that man by whom the Son
of man is betrayed. It would have been better for
that man if he had not been born."
Silently, Ashmedai returned to his ebony
chair. "John knew the truth before he died. In
the New Testament, chapter 21, verse 22, he
described the true fate of the Betrayer. He was
to tarry until their Master returned." Ashmedai
laughed harshly. His voice was filled with bit-
terness and despair. "Tarry."
Valerie shook her head, bewildered by the
309

Robert Weinberg
conversation. "What does all this have to do
with the Wandering Jew?"
"The Wandering Jew is the Hanged Man,"
said Ashmedai quietly. "And the Hanged Man is
the betrayer of Jesus Christ." The weight of two
thousand years was in Ashmedai's voice. "I am
the Hanged Man. I am Judas Iscariot."
310

PRIME VIRGINS...
PRIME CUTS...
PRIME HORROR..
By Ed Reliefer
& Harriette Vidal |
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Thirteen years of renewed life had been granted to the believer who had
sacrificed his own blood relative — thirteen years of power and youth to
sustain a body centuries old.
Thirteen years have passed, and again it is prime time for prime evil.
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