"The Hot Red Salty River"
May. 13th, 2022 12:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"The Hot Red Salty River"
8/2/2021
I.
"I have heard so many wild stories about you," Graumont said, leaning forward on an ornate handmade oak desk. "The Dire Wolf. The most dangerous man alive. But I have to say I am not impressed after seeing the actual man."
Fifteen feet away from him, Jeremy Bane was being held down in a plain wooden chair by three huge thugs. There was a man holding his right arm, a man holding his left arm and a man behind him pressing down on both shoulders. All three of the gunmen weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds, and even the well-tailored business suits could not minimize their muscular bulk.
In contrast, the Dire Wolf looked lean as a runner. His jacket had been taken away, and the black slacks and turtleneck made him seem thin, even gaunt. Under heavy feral brows, a pair of pale grey eyes stood out vividly in the dimly lit office. His face clearly showed only what he wanted it to, and at the moment he kept his features expressionless.
"But in all fairness, the legends are from years ago," Graumont went on. The crimelord folded immaculately tended hands which nevertheless remained thick-fingered and brutal. "I believe you are in your early sixties now, only a year or so younger than myself. Perhaps your time has passed."
"I came here to ask you about one of your freelancers, an enforcer named Lukas," Bane unexpectedly said.
"I did not give you permission to speak."
"You don't have to. Listen, Graumont, you may not realize it but Lukas is tied up with a worse group of people than you mobsters. He's a Sanguinarian."
The big boss let out a deep exasperated sigh. "Still defiant when you should be pleading. You know too much to live, Dire Wolf. To be aware of my name, let alone being able to find this office... in faith, many undercover police and FBI agents have been killed for getting this far. Anton, use the bag."
Lifting his hands from Bane's shoulders, the man behind the chair snapped open a clear plastic bag. The other two thugs tightened their holds on the prisoner's arms and smiled at each other.
Even as the bag was being brought down over his head, Bane remained calm and confident. He met Graumont's gaze evenly and said, "You stay put. This won't take long." And he whipped his left leg straight up to touch his own ear, then smashed that foot down hard to the base of the neck of the man holding his arm. That goon dropped heavily, not even trying to break his fall. Before the man's face hit the carpet, Bane had reached up with his now-freed hand, seized the back of the head of the man behind him and yanked him bodily forward to crash in a clumsy somersault in front of the chair.
Still moving before anyone could quite react, Bane stamped down brutally with one foot between the fallen man's shoulders and heaved up from the chair. The man who had been grasping his right arm released it and jabbed a hand into his belt for the small .38 automatic but his fingers had not touched the weapon before a short straight punch to the heart stopped him short. He wheezed and could not seem to catch his breath.
Graumont was just now pushing his chair back. Before he could get to his feet, there was a thwack and a slim silver-bladed dagger was sticking out of the desk within an inch of his paunch. The mobster froze. Hardened as he was to scenes of violence, everything had taken place so quickly his brain could not process it.
Bane had tugged the plastic bag off and tossed it aside. He took two quick steps forward, retrieved his dagger and jabbed it lightly up against the underside of Graumont's nose, enough to prick the skin but not drawing blood. "Back to what I was talking about," the Dire Wolf said, not even short of breath. "I don't care about your casinos or your money laundering. I'm after more dangerous prey. Where can I find Pavel Lukas?"
For the first time since childhood, Albert Graumont was absolutely terrified of another human being. He dropped back down into his leather-bound chair. "Don't hurt me. I can tell you where he will be tonight. He's driving down from Buffalo. He should be calling me with a report around eleven o'clock."
"Good. Now, listen and remember this. Look at your men. I didn't need to kill them. Do I seem angry to you, Mr Graumont?"
"No. No. You are in control of yourself, Dire Wolf."
"That's right," Bane said. He picked up his black sport jacket from where it had been tossed aside when he had been searched and pulled it on. His long-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver had been placed on an end table, he retrieved it and holstered it behind his left hip. "I did all this without emotion. Think about it. If you warn Lukas that I'm going after him, then I WILL get angry. And I will come back here for you."
II.
The knock on the apartment door made Lukas give a start. That was more than unexpected, it was alarming. Only Graumont should have known he was staying in this fleapit. The Sanguinarian straightened up, glanced back at the victim in the bathtub and the sheets of clear film laid down over everything. He decided he had to answer the door. Yanking off his disposable apron and tugging off the latex elbow-length gloves, Pavel Lukas rushed out into the main room, being certain the bathroom door was closed behind him.
Very young, seemingly no more than twenty at most, Lukas was a tall rangy man with quite a handsome square-jawed face under a mop of thick blond hair. He was wearing unremarkable sneakers, jeans and a snug white polo shirt. The only unusual item about him was the snub-nosed little .32 pistol that could almost be concealed in his hand. The knock came again, louder and more insistent.
Standing next to the door, which unfortunately had no peephole, Lukas listened but could hear nothing. Some drunk mistaking this room for the one he sought, perhaps? It was after one in the morning, after all. Unhappy about the whole situation, the Sanguinarian held his gun up by his head, unfastened the deadbolt, and abruptly swung the door open. The hallway yawned vacant at him. To his right were stairs going up to the next floor, to his left was a turn in the corridor that lead to the lobby. This seedy building had the despairing scent of mildew and neglect.
Lukas had started to turn back into his room when he spotted the 8x10 manila envelope on the bottom step of the staircase. From where he stood, he could make out his own name LUKAS with large thick magic marker letters. What the hell? Even tenser than before, the Sanguinarian stepped over and bent to pick the envelope up. From the next landing, a black-clad form vaulted down the entire flight to crash into him with bone-cracking impact.
Lukas had been stunned insensible by the collision, but Bane was instantly up on his feet again as though nothing had happened. The Dire Wolf seized the dazed man by both arms and dragged him rapidly through the still open door, then darted back to snatch up the manila envelope he had used to distract his enemy. This was an old old trick that still usually worked. In only a few seconds after he had leaped down the stairs, Bane closed the door leaving the hallway to seem as drab and placid as ever.
Sprawled out on the threadbare carpet, Lukas mumbled and stirred, but did not seem fully conscious. Bane judged he had a few minutes before he would have to deal with the man. He had already confiscated Lukas' pistol and stowed it in a pocket of his sport jacket. A sharp twinge in one knee made the Dire Wolf scowl more than usual. He had thought his healing factor had built itself back up again after having been neutralized by the Varcrow months earlier. But evidently not. Bouts of violent action were leaving him with minor aches or soreness, enough to be annoying.
He remembered the preparations he had made for the upcoming confrontation with the eldest Sanguinarian. It was time to rely more on strategy and cunning than his own physical abilities.
No time to worry about that now. Bane swung open the bathroom door and examined the naked man in the bathtub. White, aged about thirty, slightly overweight, heavy saturnine features and a five o'clock stubble. The Dire Wolf found a strong but sluggish pulse and listened to the victim's deep but labored breathing. He thumbed open an eyelid and saw dilated pupils. Whatever drug had been administered gripped this man strongly and he would not be reviving right away.
Taped in place in the right elbow was a venous access port. These were used in hospitals both to draw blood or to administer IV solutions.
The bathroom floor was covered with sheets of clear plastic that had been carefully laid down to cover every surface. An open suitcase showed some ominous eqipment in readiness. A bundle of empty plasma bags, plastic tubing and a squeeze bulb. Plus plenty of alcohol swabs. Bane looked over and saw the victim's clothing neatly folded in one corner. Taking the man's wallet for a second, he memorized the driver's license information at a glance. Long decades of experience had given him this ability. The name meant nothing to him, though.
Back in the main room, he positioned Lukas so the recovering man was propped sitting up against a recliner chair. Bane himself remained standing as he waited. Minutes dragged by with agonizing slowness before the Sanguinarian's eyes were focused enough to show he was aware of the situation.
"I wouldn't recommend trying to get up," the Dire Wolf said. "You'll vomit. You took a knee to the stomach and you'll be severely bruised by now."
Lukas did not reply. He twisted his head around without moving his body, saw the open bathroom door and visibly sagged.
"Yeah, it's a little obvious what your plans for tonight were," Bane went on. "It's easier to drain blood while the victim is alive, of course. Otherwise you'd have to carry some sort of suction pump with you. Do you know who I am?"
"What child of the night does not know Jeremy Bane?" came the sullen answer. "The Dire Wolf. A knight of Tel Shai, captain of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Oh yes. You are the boogeyman that other boogeymen fear."
"It's nice to be appreciated," Bane responded without any hint of humor in his deadpan voice. "At least I caught you before you were stowing away all that poor guy's blood and moving on. When the EMTs get here, they should be able to safely get him to an ER. Metro General is nearby."
Struggling to rise but wincing at the pain in his abdomen, Lukas gasped. "You.. you didn't call 911, did you? I've got to get out of here."
Not yet. I will. But first, I want to tell you that you have a chance to stay alive a little longer." Bane had not moved closer, he remained with arms folded across his chest, within reach if his enemy made a move. "I did some research on you, Lukas. You look like a college boy but you're actually seventy-two years old. And for one of your kindred, that's not particularly old. Like Ghouls and vampires, you Sanguinarians draw lifeforce from your victims but you have the trick of restoring youth and vitality while remaining alive yourselves."
Lukas remained silent, probing gingerly at his stomach with both hands. He pulled his knees up to get slightly more comfortable but it was clear he was in no shape for an escape attempt.
"I know a few more things about your kind," said the Dire Wolf. "You boys keep moving from city to city, using fake identities so no one notices you don't age. You can sense the presence of another Sanguinarian. But you don't cross paths casually because one of you always tries to capture the other and take his blood. I understand that blood from normal Humans keeps you young and healthy, but blood from another Sanguinarian... well, it gives you abnormal strength and vigor. It's like the difference between kerosene and jet fuel."
Moving closer, Bane squatted down and fixed those pale eyes on the increasingly unsettled Sanguinarian. "So, I intend to use you, Pavel Lukas. You'll help me find the oldest of your breed, the one who has been killing innocents for three hundred years. Maybe you'll get to take his blood, we'll see. But you are going to lead me to Mordain."
III.
Once Lukas was able to move about, Bane allowed the man to gather up his blood-letting equipment as well as a few personal items. The Dire Wolf did not hurry the Sanguinarian but merely watched in silence. When both suitcases were ready, Lukas waited by the door. Bane examined the snoring man in the bathtub one final time.
"His vitals are getting stronger," the Dire Wolf said. "After we're gone, some medical attention will bring him about well enough." He stood up and swiveled around to face his enemy. "Look at the way you've planted your feet. So obvious. All right, take a swing."
"What, take a poke at YOU? I've heard about you, no thanks..." began Lukas, but in mid-sentence he flung a perfectly fine right jab that showed experience and training. To his shock, Bane simply caught that fist in an open hand as one might catch a lobbed softball.
Lukas cried out involuntarily as he felt the small bones in his hand begin to move under unbearable pressure. "Wait! Wait!"
"If I break your hand, you won't be as useful to me," Bane said quietly. "I don't think that will be necessary, will it?"
"No, no," Lukas yelped. "Let me go." He rubbed his sore hand and grimaced at the pain. "Jeez, you made your point."
"Let's go then," the Dire Wolf told him, gesturing toward the door. "Still a few hours before dawn and lots to do." He let his prisoner down the stairway, blithely opened the pressbar on the Emergency Exit door and led the man out into the parking lot despite the sudden alarm bells ringing.
"They'll find your victim quick enough," Bane said. "That's my car over there, the dark green Mustang. Put your gear in the back and get in the front passenger seat." As Lukas complied, the Dire Wolf opened the driver's door, grabbed a pair of regulation handcuffs and quickly locked the man's right wrist to a steel bar that had been welded to the dashboard.
"Now you won't try jumping out at a red light," Bane said. "I think I'd be justified in killing you now, Lukas. At a minimum, you've murdered two or three innocent people a year since you turned blood-drinker around 1990. Right now, that poor sap in the bathtub would be a pale dry shell if I hadn't stopped you."
"What is it to you anyway?" burst out the response. "How is any of this your business? Are you the police? The Mandate? No. You have gone through life sniffing out trouble that was no concern of yours!"
Bane scoffed. "We all find what we like doing in life. Imagine if you had not decided to become a murderous blood-sucking monster. You might have been a doctor or a mechanic or something useful. Here's the turn you told me about. We're getting out in the sticks now."
"Yes. Keep going. Up that dirt road."
"I would have thought an ancient fiend like Mordain would have gone for luxury."
"Oh, the Old One has lived in mansions and palaces. In three hundred years, you go through phases. What I have heard lately is that he is living simply while he sets up a new identity. Something in New Zealand, I understand, a real estate mogul. And he will continue the great game for another generation of mortals."
"Not if I can help it," Bane said. "There's the cabin at the top of this hill. One lighted window. We'll leave the car here and go on foot."
As Lukas watched his handcuff being unlocked, he shook his head. "I can already sense Mordain's presence. I'm sure he knows a fellow Sanguinarian is in the area. He'll be ready for us."
"He'll be ready for YOU," Bane snapped as he hopped out and shoved Lukas roughly to get him started up the dirt road.
IV.
Struggling up to consciousness was an old experience for Bane, but that never made it easier. A dim spark of thought deep in his mind brightened, stopped flickering and began to assert itself. Everything ached abominably. He felt as if he had been beaten all over his body with hammers. Lying still, become aware he was lying face up on the ground, his arms and legs spread wide. The Kumundu training over decades asserted itself. He began breathing slowly and deeply, drawing in oxygen and visualizing the pain being flushed from his body... not completely successfully.
He still wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothing, which dispersed impact across its entire surface. Usually it worked well enough that he could ignore a small arms hit if he was braced for it. But the soreness over his torso indicated he had taken multiple shots. Now he remembered shoving Lukas to one side as the cabin door had opened. Then had come the rattle of automatic gunfire and the white flash of the muzzle no more than fifteen feet away.
Careful not to move or make any noise, the Dire Wolf experienced an uncharacteristic twinge of dismay. He wasn't shaking off the damage the way he usually did. His enhanced healing really was diminished, he had to recognize the fact. Maybe it would never return to its former effectiveness.
"You might as well sit up," said a cultured baritone voice almost within reach. "I can see you breathing better. And of course I know that a mere burst from my AR-15 would never get rid of you permanently."
In the small of his back, Bane felt the absence of his revolver. Damn. Moving more slowly than he felt he was capable of, the Dire Wolf drew up one leg and rolled halfway over onto his side. He gripped his left forearm with his right hand and felt still another pang of a further setback.
"Oh, I claimed your famous silver daggers right away," continued the voice. "Come now, no stalling. We have much to discuss."
Bane opened his aching eyes and propped himself up to a seated position on the grass. The night was still warm after a sweltering day and dew was heavy. He took in the situation instantly.
The body of Pavel Lucas sprawled not twenty feet away, lying with its arm resting in a stainless steel basin filled with dark blood. Bane saw that the corpse's other arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Both legs also seemed to be broken. A deep ragged wound in the elbow had stopped pumping out blood now that the man's heart had stopped.
Straightening up over the cadaver was a gaunt old man wearing only a pair of white pajama bottoms. His bony chest and lower face were smeared liberally blood that was only now beginning to dry. A thick shock of white hair was brushed back from a long feral face.
"You were looking for Mordain and Mordain you have found," the pleasant baritone continued. "Believe me, you are not the first would-be crusader to seek me. Nor the the first to bitterly regret his folly. Let terror fill your mind."
"What fills my mind is surprise that you're so wasteful with that blood," Bane replied. He swung his upper body forward, so he was resting on hands and knees.
"Eh? That's not... what I expected."
"The blood of another Sanguinarian is supposed to be a rare treat for you monsters. You guys spend a lot of time stalking and ambushing each other for it. Look at you. You've gone a little amok, don't you think? Looks to me like you're wasting a least a pint."
The terrible old man began to wipe at his mouth with the back of one hand, then caught himself. "How can you understand such an experience? It's primal. Basic. Drinking the blood at its full heat, catching spurts with each arterial pump, that is a joy you cannot understand."
"I'm okay with not experiencing it," Bane said. He felt now that he was capable of leaping up and attacking, but some of his confidence had been undermined. A few more minutes. "Anyway, you don't know why I came for you tonight. I'm done with fighting monsters and madmen like you. I can to sell you something."
Mordain tilted his head, stepped back and picked up with his weapon. "This has a fresh magazine in it, son. This time I will make your head turn into red confetti. But go on, you were saying you had something to sell? Other than your safety, of course?"
"Yeah. Let me see if I can quote it." Bane cleared his throat and shifted his weight more toward a possible rise to his feet. "Let's see, it goes 'The Fountain of Youth is real, my friend, but it is not some mystic pool of water, it's the hot red salty river that flows within your veins and arteries!"
"Oh my God!" burst Mordain involuntarily. "You have a copy of THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN. I last saw a copy back in Moscow fifty years ago and it was falling apart."
"Oh, I've got a real prize to offer. You know Kenneth Dred spent his life collecting books about the Midnight War. I inherited his library. How would you like a mint condition first edition of that evil book? Rue Blanc Press of Paris, 1922. 522 pages."
"This is such an obvious trick," the ancient Sanguinarian scoffed. "Honestly. I won't be taken in. But, if you did have a copy, how might I see it?"
Now Bane felt ready to arise. He was steady on his feet as his healing factor finally kicked in fully. "You knw, for a poet, Jean-Georges Bouchard sure did a lot of harm to the world. He indirectly founded Those Who Remember. That sect has been a plague for a hundred years. And with only a few hints and suggestions in his poem, 'After the Storm,' he created the Sanguinarians. It would have been a better cleaner world if he had not survived the trenches in World War One."
Mordain readied his AR-15, bracing himself with legs spread well apart. His licked his lips, smacking at the blood which was growing sticky. "Oh, I cannot believe this. It's not like you, Dire Wolf. You have spent your life hunting my kind, and now you want to become a mere merchant of artifacts?"
"Bah. I'm tired of it all. Every year there are new threats, new vampire warrens, new Alchemists starting to scheme, new Darthim and Nekrosim. I don't care any more. I'm sure you can afford a reasonable price for Bouchard's book." Bane gave a snort. "I'll think about you reading it while I'm snoozing on the beach in Rio with a valise full of money."
The ancient Sanguinarian stood still for a long tense minute. "Let me play along for right now. Where is this book, Mr Bane?"
"In the bushes right over there," the Dire Wolf pointed. "I tossed it while Lukas was knocking on your door. Watch. I'll do this slowly." He strode down the dirt path to a cluster of brush at the base of an elm. Moving carefully so as to not alarm the man who was holding an assault weapon at his head, Bane straightened up and displayed a package wrapped in brown cloth, not more than four inches by six inches.
"The last reported copy sold to Karl Eldritch for three million," Bane said. "Of course, that was in 1981 and we'd have to adjust for the changing value of money..."
"Enough! I must see it. Come no closer, Dire Wolf, slide it along the ground toward me."
"Hmm. I really should ask to see some cash first." Bane bent forward and gave the bundle a hard shove so it skidded along the wet grass and came to a halt only a foot away from Mordain.
"No sudden moves, I assure you I can empty every bullet into your face before you can reach me." With one hand, the Sanguinarian ripped open the brown wrapping paper to expose a tiny thick book with a venomous green binding. Embossed on the front cover was a detailed ivory skull. "I say, it looks authentic enough...." Mordain held the book up to the light which came from the open door of his cabin. "This is definitely fine Moroccan leather."
When the Sanguinarian opened the book, Bane averted his eyes. The sharp crack of the explosion echoed off the hills. Three ounces of plastic explosive left nothing above the ragged stump of Mordain's neck. By some quirk of balance, the body remained standing for a full ten seconds before falling over backwards.
Stretching and rubbing his still sore chest, Bane went over to inspect the gruesome scene. "A little more blood doesn't matter much at this point," he muttered to himself. What a mess." He picked up the gimmicked book, hot to the touch, to dispose of on his way home to Manhattan. How long would it be before any stray hiker stumbled upon this remote cabin and got a severe jolt at the two bodies? Before the State Police were called to investigate? And what would they conclude? The scene made no sense from any mundane crime scene angle.
Suddenly, Bane didn't care. His body still hurt enough to be annoying. The Dire Wolf began trudging down the dirt trail in the dark to where he had left his Mustang. He had been right to spend an afternoon gimmicking up that book. Otherwise, open combat against a tough experienced fighter like Mordain, armed as he had been, might not have gone in his favor. In the gloom, the Dire Wolf allowed him a wry smile. Maybe he could stay in the Midnight War a few more years after all.
8/12/2021
8/2/2021
I.
"I have heard so many wild stories about you," Graumont said, leaning forward on an ornate handmade oak desk. "The Dire Wolf. The most dangerous man alive. But I have to say I am not impressed after seeing the actual man."
Fifteen feet away from him, Jeremy Bane was being held down in a plain wooden chair by three huge thugs. There was a man holding his right arm, a man holding his left arm and a man behind him pressing down on both shoulders. All three of the gunmen weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds, and even the well-tailored business suits could not minimize their muscular bulk.
In contrast, the Dire Wolf looked lean as a runner. His jacket had been taken away, and the black slacks and turtleneck made him seem thin, even gaunt. Under heavy feral brows, a pair of pale grey eyes stood out vividly in the dimly lit office. His face clearly showed only what he wanted it to, and at the moment he kept his features expressionless.
"But in all fairness, the legends are from years ago," Graumont went on. The crimelord folded immaculately tended hands which nevertheless remained thick-fingered and brutal. "I believe you are in your early sixties now, only a year or so younger than myself. Perhaps your time has passed."
"I came here to ask you about one of your freelancers, an enforcer named Lukas," Bane unexpectedly said.
"I did not give you permission to speak."
"You don't have to. Listen, Graumont, you may not realize it but Lukas is tied up with a worse group of people than you mobsters. He's a Sanguinarian."
The big boss let out a deep exasperated sigh. "Still defiant when you should be pleading. You know too much to live, Dire Wolf. To be aware of my name, let alone being able to find this office... in faith, many undercover police and FBI agents have been killed for getting this far. Anton, use the bag."
Lifting his hands from Bane's shoulders, the man behind the chair snapped open a clear plastic bag. The other two thugs tightened their holds on the prisoner's arms and smiled at each other.
Even as the bag was being brought down over his head, Bane remained calm and confident. He met Graumont's gaze evenly and said, "You stay put. This won't take long." And he whipped his left leg straight up to touch his own ear, then smashed that foot down hard to the base of the neck of the man holding his arm. That goon dropped heavily, not even trying to break his fall. Before the man's face hit the carpet, Bane had reached up with his now-freed hand, seized the back of the head of the man behind him and yanked him bodily forward to crash in a clumsy somersault in front of the chair.
Still moving before anyone could quite react, Bane stamped down brutally with one foot between the fallen man's shoulders and heaved up from the chair. The man who had been grasping his right arm released it and jabbed a hand into his belt for the small .38 automatic but his fingers had not touched the weapon before a short straight punch to the heart stopped him short. He wheezed and could not seem to catch his breath.
Graumont was just now pushing his chair back. Before he could get to his feet, there was a thwack and a slim silver-bladed dagger was sticking out of the desk within an inch of his paunch. The mobster froze. Hardened as he was to scenes of violence, everything had taken place so quickly his brain could not process it.
Bane had tugged the plastic bag off and tossed it aside. He took two quick steps forward, retrieved his dagger and jabbed it lightly up against the underside of Graumont's nose, enough to prick the skin but not drawing blood. "Back to what I was talking about," the Dire Wolf said, not even short of breath. "I don't care about your casinos or your money laundering. I'm after more dangerous prey. Where can I find Pavel Lukas?"
For the first time since childhood, Albert Graumont was absolutely terrified of another human being. He dropped back down into his leather-bound chair. "Don't hurt me. I can tell you where he will be tonight. He's driving down from Buffalo. He should be calling me with a report around eleven o'clock."
"Good. Now, listen and remember this. Look at your men. I didn't need to kill them. Do I seem angry to you, Mr Graumont?"
"No. No. You are in control of yourself, Dire Wolf."
"That's right," Bane said. He picked up his black sport jacket from where it had been tossed aside when he had been searched and pulled it on. His long-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver had been placed on an end table, he retrieved it and holstered it behind his left hip. "I did all this without emotion. Think about it. If you warn Lukas that I'm going after him, then I WILL get angry. And I will come back here for you."
II.
The knock on the apartment door made Lukas give a start. That was more than unexpected, it was alarming. Only Graumont should have known he was staying in this fleapit. The Sanguinarian straightened up, glanced back at the victim in the bathtub and the sheets of clear film laid down over everything. He decided he had to answer the door. Yanking off his disposable apron and tugging off the latex elbow-length gloves, Pavel Lukas rushed out into the main room, being certain the bathroom door was closed behind him.
Very young, seemingly no more than twenty at most, Lukas was a tall rangy man with quite a handsome square-jawed face under a mop of thick blond hair. He was wearing unremarkable sneakers, jeans and a snug white polo shirt. The only unusual item about him was the snub-nosed little .32 pistol that could almost be concealed in his hand. The knock came again, louder and more insistent.
Standing next to the door, which unfortunately had no peephole, Lukas listened but could hear nothing. Some drunk mistaking this room for the one he sought, perhaps? It was after one in the morning, after all. Unhappy about the whole situation, the Sanguinarian held his gun up by his head, unfastened the deadbolt, and abruptly swung the door open. The hallway yawned vacant at him. To his right were stairs going up to the next floor, to his left was a turn in the corridor that lead to the lobby. This seedy building had the despairing scent of mildew and neglect.
Lukas had started to turn back into his room when he spotted the 8x10 manila envelope on the bottom step of the staircase. From where he stood, he could make out his own name LUKAS with large thick magic marker letters. What the hell? Even tenser than before, the Sanguinarian stepped over and bent to pick the envelope up. From the next landing, a black-clad form vaulted down the entire flight to crash into him with bone-cracking impact.
Lukas had been stunned insensible by the collision, but Bane was instantly up on his feet again as though nothing had happened. The Dire Wolf seized the dazed man by both arms and dragged him rapidly through the still open door, then darted back to snatch up the manila envelope he had used to distract his enemy. This was an old old trick that still usually worked. In only a few seconds after he had leaped down the stairs, Bane closed the door leaving the hallway to seem as drab and placid as ever.
Sprawled out on the threadbare carpet, Lukas mumbled and stirred, but did not seem fully conscious. Bane judged he had a few minutes before he would have to deal with the man. He had already confiscated Lukas' pistol and stowed it in a pocket of his sport jacket. A sharp twinge in one knee made the Dire Wolf scowl more than usual. He had thought his healing factor had built itself back up again after having been neutralized by the Varcrow months earlier. But evidently not. Bouts of violent action were leaving him with minor aches or soreness, enough to be annoying.
He remembered the preparations he had made for the upcoming confrontation with the eldest Sanguinarian. It was time to rely more on strategy and cunning than his own physical abilities.
No time to worry about that now. Bane swung open the bathroom door and examined the naked man in the bathtub. White, aged about thirty, slightly overweight, heavy saturnine features and a five o'clock stubble. The Dire Wolf found a strong but sluggish pulse and listened to the victim's deep but labored breathing. He thumbed open an eyelid and saw dilated pupils. Whatever drug had been administered gripped this man strongly and he would not be reviving right away.
Taped in place in the right elbow was a venous access port. These were used in hospitals both to draw blood or to administer IV solutions.
The bathroom floor was covered with sheets of clear plastic that had been carefully laid down to cover every surface. An open suitcase showed some ominous eqipment in readiness. A bundle of empty plasma bags, plastic tubing and a squeeze bulb. Plus plenty of alcohol swabs. Bane looked over and saw the victim's clothing neatly folded in one corner. Taking the man's wallet for a second, he memorized the driver's license information at a glance. Long decades of experience had given him this ability. The name meant nothing to him, though.
Back in the main room, he positioned Lukas so the recovering man was propped sitting up against a recliner chair. Bane himself remained standing as he waited. Minutes dragged by with agonizing slowness before the Sanguinarian's eyes were focused enough to show he was aware of the situation.
"I wouldn't recommend trying to get up," the Dire Wolf said. "You'll vomit. You took a knee to the stomach and you'll be severely bruised by now."
Lukas did not reply. He twisted his head around without moving his body, saw the open bathroom door and visibly sagged.
"Yeah, it's a little obvious what your plans for tonight were," Bane went on. "It's easier to drain blood while the victim is alive, of course. Otherwise you'd have to carry some sort of suction pump with you. Do you know who I am?"
"What child of the night does not know Jeremy Bane?" came the sullen answer. "The Dire Wolf. A knight of Tel Shai, captain of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Oh yes. You are the boogeyman that other boogeymen fear."
"It's nice to be appreciated," Bane responded without any hint of humor in his deadpan voice. "At least I caught you before you were stowing away all that poor guy's blood and moving on. When the EMTs get here, they should be able to safely get him to an ER. Metro General is nearby."
Struggling to rise but wincing at the pain in his abdomen, Lukas gasped. "You.. you didn't call 911, did you? I've got to get out of here."
Not yet. I will. But first, I want to tell you that you have a chance to stay alive a little longer." Bane had not moved closer, he remained with arms folded across his chest, within reach if his enemy made a move. "I did some research on you, Lukas. You look like a college boy but you're actually seventy-two years old. And for one of your kindred, that's not particularly old. Like Ghouls and vampires, you Sanguinarians draw lifeforce from your victims but you have the trick of restoring youth and vitality while remaining alive yourselves."
Lukas remained silent, probing gingerly at his stomach with both hands. He pulled his knees up to get slightly more comfortable but it was clear he was in no shape for an escape attempt.
"I know a few more things about your kind," said the Dire Wolf. "You boys keep moving from city to city, using fake identities so no one notices you don't age. You can sense the presence of another Sanguinarian. But you don't cross paths casually because one of you always tries to capture the other and take his blood. I understand that blood from normal Humans keeps you young and healthy, but blood from another Sanguinarian... well, it gives you abnormal strength and vigor. It's like the difference between kerosene and jet fuel."
Moving closer, Bane squatted down and fixed those pale eyes on the increasingly unsettled Sanguinarian. "So, I intend to use you, Pavel Lukas. You'll help me find the oldest of your breed, the one who has been killing innocents for three hundred years. Maybe you'll get to take his blood, we'll see. But you are going to lead me to Mordain."
III.
Once Lukas was able to move about, Bane allowed the man to gather up his blood-letting equipment as well as a few personal items. The Dire Wolf did not hurry the Sanguinarian but merely watched in silence. When both suitcases were ready, Lukas waited by the door. Bane examined the snoring man in the bathtub one final time.
"His vitals are getting stronger," the Dire Wolf said. "After we're gone, some medical attention will bring him about well enough." He stood up and swiveled around to face his enemy. "Look at the way you've planted your feet. So obvious. All right, take a swing."
"What, take a poke at YOU? I've heard about you, no thanks..." began Lukas, but in mid-sentence he flung a perfectly fine right jab that showed experience and training. To his shock, Bane simply caught that fist in an open hand as one might catch a lobbed softball.
Lukas cried out involuntarily as he felt the small bones in his hand begin to move under unbearable pressure. "Wait! Wait!"
"If I break your hand, you won't be as useful to me," Bane said quietly. "I don't think that will be necessary, will it?"
"No, no," Lukas yelped. "Let me go." He rubbed his sore hand and grimaced at the pain. "Jeez, you made your point."
"Let's go then," the Dire Wolf told him, gesturing toward the door. "Still a few hours before dawn and lots to do." He let his prisoner down the stairway, blithely opened the pressbar on the Emergency Exit door and led the man out into the parking lot despite the sudden alarm bells ringing.
"They'll find your victim quick enough," Bane said. "That's my car over there, the dark green Mustang. Put your gear in the back and get in the front passenger seat." As Lukas complied, the Dire Wolf opened the driver's door, grabbed a pair of regulation handcuffs and quickly locked the man's right wrist to a steel bar that had been welded to the dashboard.
"Now you won't try jumping out at a red light," Bane said. "I think I'd be justified in killing you now, Lukas. At a minimum, you've murdered two or three innocent people a year since you turned blood-drinker around 1990. Right now, that poor sap in the bathtub would be a pale dry shell if I hadn't stopped you."
"What is it to you anyway?" burst out the response. "How is any of this your business? Are you the police? The Mandate? No. You have gone through life sniffing out trouble that was no concern of yours!"
Bane scoffed. "We all find what we like doing in life. Imagine if you had not decided to become a murderous blood-sucking monster. You might have been a doctor or a mechanic or something useful. Here's the turn you told me about. We're getting out in the sticks now."
"Yes. Keep going. Up that dirt road."
"I would have thought an ancient fiend like Mordain would have gone for luxury."
"Oh, the Old One has lived in mansions and palaces. In three hundred years, you go through phases. What I have heard lately is that he is living simply while he sets up a new identity. Something in New Zealand, I understand, a real estate mogul. And he will continue the great game for another generation of mortals."
"Not if I can help it," Bane said. "There's the cabin at the top of this hill. One lighted window. We'll leave the car here and go on foot."
As Lukas watched his handcuff being unlocked, he shook his head. "I can already sense Mordain's presence. I'm sure he knows a fellow Sanguinarian is in the area. He'll be ready for us."
"He'll be ready for YOU," Bane snapped as he hopped out and shoved Lukas roughly to get him started up the dirt road.
IV.
Struggling up to consciousness was an old experience for Bane, but that never made it easier. A dim spark of thought deep in his mind brightened, stopped flickering and began to assert itself. Everything ached abominably. He felt as if he had been beaten all over his body with hammers. Lying still, become aware he was lying face up on the ground, his arms and legs spread wide. The Kumundu training over decades asserted itself. He began breathing slowly and deeply, drawing in oxygen and visualizing the pain being flushed from his body... not completely successfully.
He still wore the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothing, which dispersed impact across its entire surface. Usually it worked well enough that he could ignore a small arms hit if he was braced for it. But the soreness over his torso indicated he had taken multiple shots. Now he remembered shoving Lukas to one side as the cabin door had opened. Then had come the rattle of automatic gunfire and the white flash of the muzzle no more than fifteen feet away.
Careful not to move or make any noise, the Dire Wolf experienced an uncharacteristic twinge of dismay. He wasn't shaking off the damage the way he usually did. His enhanced healing really was diminished, he had to recognize the fact. Maybe it would never return to its former effectiveness.
"You might as well sit up," said a cultured baritone voice almost within reach. "I can see you breathing better. And of course I know that a mere burst from my AR-15 would never get rid of you permanently."
In the small of his back, Bane felt the absence of his revolver. Damn. Moving more slowly than he felt he was capable of, the Dire Wolf drew up one leg and rolled halfway over onto his side. He gripped his left forearm with his right hand and felt still another pang of a further setback.
"Oh, I claimed your famous silver daggers right away," continued the voice. "Come now, no stalling. We have much to discuss."
Bane opened his aching eyes and propped himself up to a seated position on the grass. The night was still warm after a sweltering day and dew was heavy. He took in the situation instantly.
The body of Pavel Lucas sprawled not twenty feet away, lying with its arm resting in a stainless steel basin filled with dark blood. Bane saw that the corpse's other arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Both legs also seemed to be broken. A deep ragged wound in the elbow had stopped pumping out blood now that the man's heart had stopped.
Straightening up over the cadaver was a gaunt old man wearing only a pair of white pajama bottoms. His bony chest and lower face were smeared liberally blood that was only now beginning to dry. A thick shock of white hair was brushed back from a long feral face.
"You were looking for Mordain and Mordain you have found," the pleasant baritone continued. "Believe me, you are not the first would-be crusader to seek me. Nor the the first to bitterly regret his folly. Let terror fill your mind."
"What fills my mind is surprise that you're so wasteful with that blood," Bane replied. He swung his upper body forward, so he was resting on hands and knees.
"Eh? That's not... what I expected."
"The blood of another Sanguinarian is supposed to be a rare treat for you monsters. You guys spend a lot of time stalking and ambushing each other for it. Look at you. You've gone a little amok, don't you think? Looks to me like you're wasting a least a pint."
The terrible old man began to wipe at his mouth with the back of one hand, then caught himself. "How can you understand such an experience? It's primal. Basic. Drinking the blood at its full heat, catching spurts with each arterial pump, that is a joy you cannot understand."
"I'm okay with not experiencing it," Bane said. He felt now that he was capable of leaping up and attacking, but some of his confidence had been undermined. A few more minutes. "Anyway, you don't know why I came for you tonight. I'm done with fighting monsters and madmen like you. I can to sell you something."
Mordain tilted his head, stepped back and picked up with his weapon. "This has a fresh magazine in it, son. This time I will make your head turn into red confetti. But go on, you were saying you had something to sell? Other than your safety, of course?"
"Yeah. Let me see if I can quote it." Bane cleared his throat and shifted his weight more toward a possible rise to his feet. "Let's see, it goes 'The Fountain of Youth is real, my friend, but it is not some mystic pool of water, it's the hot red salty river that flows within your veins and arteries!"
"Oh my God!" burst Mordain involuntarily. "You have a copy of THE SKULL BENEATH THE SKIN. I last saw a copy back in Moscow fifty years ago and it was falling apart."
"Oh, I've got a real prize to offer. You know Kenneth Dred spent his life collecting books about the Midnight War. I inherited his library. How would you like a mint condition first edition of that evil book? Rue Blanc Press of Paris, 1922. 522 pages."
"This is such an obvious trick," the ancient Sanguinarian scoffed. "Honestly. I won't be taken in. But, if you did have a copy, how might I see it?"
Now Bane felt ready to arise. He was steady on his feet as his healing factor finally kicked in fully. "You knw, for a poet, Jean-Georges Bouchard sure did a lot of harm to the world. He indirectly founded Those Who Remember. That sect has been a plague for a hundred years. And with only a few hints and suggestions in his poem, 'After the Storm,' he created the Sanguinarians. It would have been a better cleaner world if he had not survived the trenches in World War One."
Mordain readied his AR-15, bracing himself with legs spread well apart. His licked his lips, smacking at the blood which was growing sticky. "Oh, I cannot believe this. It's not like you, Dire Wolf. You have spent your life hunting my kind, and now you want to become a mere merchant of artifacts?"
"Bah. I'm tired of it all. Every year there are new threats, new vampire warrens, new Alchemists starting to scheme, new Darthim and Nekrosim. I don't care any more. I'm sure you can afford a reasonable price for Bouchard's book." Bane gave a snort. "I'll think about you reading it while I'm snoozing on the beach in Rio with a valise full of money."
The ancient Sanguinarian stood still for a long tense minute. "Let me play along for right now. Where is this book, Mr Bane?"
"In the bushes right over there," the Dire Wolf pointed. "I tossed it while Lukas was knocking on your door. Watch. I'll do this slowly." He strode down the dirt path to a cluster of brush at the base of an elm. Moving carefully so as to not alarm the man who was holding an assault weapon at his head, Bane straightened up and displayed a package wrapped in brown cloth, not more than four inches by six inches.
"The last reported copy sold to Karl Eldritch for three million," Bane said. "Of course, that was in 1981 and we'd have to adjust for the changing value of money..."
"Enough! I must see it. Come no closer, Dire Wolf, slide it along the ground toward me."
"Hmm. I really should ask to see some cash first." Bane bent forward and gave the bundle a hard shove so it skidded along the wet grass and came to a halt only a foot away from Mordain.
"No sudden moves, I assure you I can empty every bullet into your face before you can reach me." With one hand, the Sanguinarian ripped open the brown wrapping paper to expose a tiny thick book with a venomous green binding. Embossed on the front cover was a detailed ivory skull. "I say, it looks authentic enough...." Mordain held the book up to the light which came from the open door of his cabin. "This is definitely fine Moroccan leather."
When the Sanguinarian opened the book, Bane averted his eyes. The sharp crack of the explosion echoed off the hills. Three ounces of plastic explosive left nothing above the ragged stump of Mordain's neck. By some quirk of balance, the body remained standing for a full ten seconds before falling over backwards.
Stretching and rubbing his still sore chest, Bane went over to inspect the gruesome scene. "A little more blood doesn't matter much at this point," he muttered to himself. What a mess." He picked up the gimmicked book, hot to the touch, to dispose of on his way home to Manhattan. How long would it be before any stray hiker stumbled upon this remote cabin and got a severe jolt at the two bodies? Before the State Police were called to investigate? And what would they conclude? The scene made no sense from any mundane crime scene angle.
Suddenly, Bane didn't care. His body still hurt enough to be annoying. The Dire Wolf began trudging down the dirt trail in the dark to where he had left his Mustang. He had been right to spend an afternoon gimmicking up that book. Otherwise, open combat against a tough experienced fighter like Mordain, armed as he had been, might not have gone in his favor. In the gloom, the Dire Wolf allowed him a wry smile. Maybe he could stay in the Midnight War a few more years after all.
8/12/2021
