Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Resurrection

“My poor boy,” Garry Randolph murmured, lowering the week-old edition of the Review-Journal his Las Vegas contact had sent.

The social scene reporter, although a bit gushy, had written vividly enough to paint him into the entire scene, especially since he’d glimpsed some of the players. Well, her especially, Temple Barr. Max’s Temple Barr.

He slapped the paper against the small glass-topped table on his hotel balcony. The vast ripples of Alpine meadows beyond it were too magnificent and generous to absorb a fit of pique.

Still, Max was a son to him. He wanted to witness his wedding, a happy ending to all those unhappy years since Max’s cousin Sean had exploded from an IRA pub bomb.

Even if Max had been here now, Garry wasn’t sure whether he’d show him this news from what had been his most recent home. The boy’s body was compromised from the attempt to kill him even as he attempted to fake his death. His mind was . . . able, still quick and brilliant, but emptied of all its personal data, even the guilt of Sean’s death. That, at least, was a blessing. And his spirit was intact.

Garry grinned. And he could still disappear, like any good magician, as he’d learned from his mentor for both stage and spying purposes.

Damn! The magician once known as Gandolph the Great again slapped the folded paper to the glass tabletop as if trying to flatten a fly. Why had Max vanished, and that sleek lady psychiatrist with him?

Another attempt on his life in the Swiss clinic? Most likely. Why leave with her? Had she made the attempt and he’d taken her as hostage? But a man with his legs in casts was hardly able to take a hostage, even a female one. Even Max. Had she and her henchmen abducted Max? More likely.

Who would be her henchmen? Members of the rumored group of worldwide magicians, the Synth? Synthesis was an important concept in the kabbalah and ancient systems of magic and alchemy. Las Vegas had hosted a small, secret nest of Synth members, but—from what Max said when he infiltrated them in his own persona—they were petty plotters, more disgruntled unemployed magicians playing at conspiracy than any real force.

Or so Max had concluded. Had he miscalculated? Certainly someone had arranged for him to hit a wall at high speed at the nightclub called Neon Nightmare, the very pyramid-shaped building in which the Las Vegas chapter of the Synth met.

Pyramid. Another link to ancient magic systems. Perhaps he, Gandolph, should take these theatrical villains much more seriously. He was tired of returning to his old European spy grounds as Garry Randolph, calling in debts and trying to lay to rest Max’s ghosts, Sean and their personal femme fatale, the psychotic IRA operative Kathleen O’Connor, now finally at rest in an unmarked grave in Las Vegas.

What was happening now could create new ghosts, perhaps for Garry Randolph himself.

So far he’d followed the tried-and-true paths. In Switzerland, Ireland, and Las Vegas. But with Max missing, Gandolph the Great was coming out of retirement, albeit secretly.

It would need more than spy work to quickly find and save Max this time.

It would require a bit of that old black magic that Gandolph knew so well.