A Calculated Magic

43

“An amazing recovery, Mr. Quinn,” said Dr. Philips, two weeks later. “If I hadn’t examined the blemishes myself, I would swear they never existed.”

“Then they’re definitely gone?” asked Roger, his voice trembling with ill-concealed emotion.

“I can’t find a trace that they were there in the first place,” answered the doctor. “If I were a religious man, I’d say you’ve experienced a miracle,” Philips’s brows knotted in curiosity. “You haven’t been visiting faith healers or charlatans like that, have you?”

“Not in the least,” said Roger. “I woke up this morning and the marks were gone. That’s the whole story.”

“Your jaunt to Las Vegas?” suggested the physician.

“I’m not sure,” answered Roger truthfully. “Near the end of the trip, I experienced a major financial setback. Fortunately, everything was satisfactorily settled the same evening. Since returning home, I’ve led a rather quiet life.”

“Maybe,” said the doctor as Roger buttoned up his shirt, “the desert air agreed with you.”

“Obviously something did,” said Roger. “Thank you, Doctor. I must say it was a pleasure to see you today.”

Out on the street, Roger sucked in a deep breath of air and exhaled slowly. It felt wonderful to be alive and to be free. Free of the blotches on his elbow, and free of the Crouching One. For, though he had not said a word to the physician, Roger knew that the disappearance of the marks on his skin were the direct result of another mysterious vanishing. The Lord of the Lions was gone.

When Roger had awakened that morning, his home felt different. It lacked a certain sense of presence that had hovered over the surroundings for months. A quick but thorough check of the building confirmed his suspicions. Nergal was no longer present. There was no sign of the demigod’s departure, but the ancient entity was definitely not on the premises. It wasn’t until an hour later that Roger thought to check his elbow. That was when he realized that the Crouching One hadn’t merely left, but was gone for good. Somehow, Jack Collins had sent the Babylonian deity back to the outermost dark.

“I don’t know how you did it, Collins,” murmured Roger as he walked along the street, “but I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Now I can try that damned spell again. This time, though, I’ll get it right.”

Roger cursed as the front of his nose exploded in pain. It felt as if he had been jabbed in the face by a sharp stick or bird’s beak. But, of course, there was nothing there.