"THE WALLS BETWEEN THE WORLDS II: Azalin"

THE WALLS BETWEEN THE WORLDS - Azalin

1/14/2012

I.

Char lit a cigarette by looking at it. At low power, the beams from his eyes were barely visible, just two faint reddish threads in the air. As the end of the cigarette began to smolder, the beams cut off. He put the filter end in his mouth and took a drag. "What are you looking at me like that for? I'm down to two or three cigs a day."

Standing by his car, Jeremy Bane studied the man thoughtfully. He had not seen "Char"- Charles Lee Hopewell- in a few years. Char had not changed much. He was still just under six feet tall, thin and unimposing in a light blue work shirt with a name patch ripped off, dark slacks and beat-up sneakers. Char had lanky black hair that had not been cut in a while and which could use some shampoo as well. His face was long and sullen, with a pointed nose and either the beginning of a beard or the result of not shaving in a week or more.

It was the eyes that caught one's attention. Deepset under heavy black brows, the eyes had amber irises. Now they glared up at Bane with characteristic testiness.

( the rest of the story )

"THE WALLS BETWEEN THE WORLDS III: Vendgor"

"The Walls Between the Worlds III - Vendigor"

3/2/2012

I.

On the trip up from Manhattan, Unicorn and Jocelyn had started off stiffly formal but had soon warmed up to each other. Ashley Whitaker was so chatty and genuinely interested in people that Jocelyn responded to her questions about Australia with a candor she had not shown before. Behind the wheel of the rented Ford van, Jeremy Bane relaxed a tiny bit. If they had not gotten along, the mission would have been more difficult than it already was.

The last two weeks had been excrutiating for Bane. He was impatient and restless at best, and spending long days searching through Kenneth Dred's letters and notes and journals for possible clues went against his basic nature. It was maddening that they had so little to go on. In his head, he went over the basic problem as he had a thousand times. Three enigmatic beings from the Darthan Age had turned up in the summer of 1957. Ugamesh, Azalin and Vendigor. They were powerful but almost nothing was known about them. Mark Drum had apparently managed to imprison all three beings in different spots shortly before he himself was killed. There was a prophecy that when "the Three Sleepers joined hands, the Walls Between the Worlds would come down." This was interpreted as meaning a virtual apocalypse as the armies and creatures from the adjacent realms would be able to enter the real world...

"Hey, Jocelyn, let me ask you something," Unicorn said, turning around in the passenger seat to face the Aborigine girl in the back. "Did you ever hear that Australia used to have a huge inland sea?"


( the rest of the story )

"Lost Science of the Ancients"

"Lost Science of the Ancients"

4/12-4/13/1978


The guard had been found frozen solid on a beautiful April afternoon, a day with a high of sixty-one degrees and a sunny sky. His body lay on the floor next to his overturned chair, the keys had been taken from his shirt pocket. Frost covered the man's skin and hair, and his dark blue uniform was white with hard ice crystals. Inspector Wollheim tilted his battered fedora back on a balding scalp and exhaled sharply. He felt he was getting too close to retirement age to be given this sort of assignment all the time. Somehow all the weird and creepy crimes were dropped in his lap. He knew this unofficial procedure was his fault in a way because he had been bringing such cases to Kenneth Dred.

Wollheim looked around at the shelves which lined the long, high-ceilinged room under bright fluorescent lights. There were many locked drawers and many glass-fronted cabinets holding particularly rare volumes, here in the section of the New York Public Library dedicated to the occult.
Of course, one cabinet was hanging open, keys still in the lock, and a gap where books leaned on each other showed where a few had been taken.

As the forensics squad had finished their measuring and photographing and sampling, they faded out and two paramedics got the frozen body on a stretcher. Covering the bizarre sight with a sheet, they headed out the door, leaving Wollheim alone with Sgt Yeager and the strange young man he had brought here.

Wollheim took a sidelong glance as Bane studied the scene. He had an odd kid, no more than twenty-one if that, six feet tall and gaunt at barely a hundred and seventy pounds. Jeremy Bane dressed all in black.... slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He had short black hair, a narrow intense face and the palest grey eyes Wollheim had ever seen. Under heavy brows, the sharp stare of those eyes was unsettling.

( the rest of the story )

"The House of Pain"

"The House of Pain"

(6/26-6/27/1978)

I.

Waiting for it to get a little darker outside, Jeremy Bane turned away from the window and went back to plop down into a rickety wicker chair. What a dump. He had stayed in fleapits before but this won the prize. The mattress smelled of mildew and had assorted bugs. Water barely trickled from the tap in the sink, and it was brown. The ceiling fan didn't work, the phone buzzed and hummed over conversations. He hesitated to even try the toilet. And the taxi driver had steered him here because this was the best hotel in the island. Next time he would scout around for himself.

At twenty-one, the Dire Wolf had never been out of the United States before. In fact, he had barely left Manhattan more than a handful of times. Working for Kenneth Dred was full of surprises, though. He was surprised that Dred had managed to get him a passport, considering Bane had no documentation, no Social Security card or driver's license. Dred had just mentioned that he knew people and handed his assistant all the papers. The flight out of Newark to Corazon had been dull and boring, as was the boat ride from Corazon to this island. Diablito, it was called, the Little Devil, just outside the limits of the Phillipines. Bane had got into a taxi and taken here, and he wished it would get dark faster. The hot muggy air and mosquitos did not improve his normally sour disposition.

Six feet tall, Bane seemed at first to be too thin, almost frail but he actually had the wiry of a runner. His narrow face was not exactly handsome, but the pair of pale grey eyes under heavy brows were all that anyone noticed. His short black hair was damp with sweat. Bane wore all black always - boots, slacks and a turtleneck with the sleeves rolled back. Strapped to his bare forearms were leather sheaths that held a matched pair of silver-bladed daggers. They were a gift from Kenneth Dred and he had gotten masterful with them so fast it seemed as if he had always owned them. The leather straps were covered by a silicon mold crafted to resemble muscle. Draped over the chair was his sport jacket, as well as the detachable holster with a .38 Colt revolver within reach.

Finally, the sky outside was black. Standing up, Bane threaded the holster through his belt and slipped his jacket on. It was humid and sticky, but he wanted the various gimmicks he had started stowing in its added pockets. He turned off the lamp by the bed and slid out the window into the night. Now he started to feel alive. ( the rest of the story )

"Terror Reign of the Pudge"

"Terror Reign of the Pudge"

8/19-8/24/1992

I.

It had been two days since the South Street Seaport Massacre. At dawn, the bodies of seventeen gangsters had been discovered piled up behind a fish market. Most had been shot with semi-automatic fire, but four had been killed by having their heads crushed, or in one case, pulled off entirely. They were all members of the Irish gang headed by the Doherty Cousins, and now the area they had formerly controlled had new thugs continuing the same brutal extortion and rackets. These usurpers were a mixed crew of different races and nationalties, something rare in the badlands, united only by their leader... the Pudge.

In his office at the former KDF headquarters on 38th Street, Jeremy Bane read every detail in the papers and received dozens of phone calls from his network of researchers. The underworld was in an uproar such as had not been seen since the 1970s. The Dire Wolf normally didn't operate against normal Human crime, but the Pudge was bizarre and vicious enough to catch his interest. He was described as monstrous, bigger than a Sumo, heartless and violent. Curious, Bane began to gather information and even tentatively plan what to do if he tangled with this brute.

( the rest of the story )

"The Eyeless Legion"

"The Eyeless Legion"

5/27-5/29/1881

I.

The peddler's cart creaked to a halt on Rose Street directly before Blind Man's Alley. Piles of garbage had been sitting in the sun all day, with frequent contributions of urine from street children, and flies were buzzing happily around the stinking heaps. The swaybacked old horse that pulled the wagon full of pots and pans and scissors and cutlery slumped gratefully. A woman's hat adorned the horse's head, with holes cut for the ears that twitched as flies tormented the beast.

"Here ya go, Tony," called out the driver of the wagon. "Home before dark."

Struggling off the seat next to the driver, an old man in tattered rags got himself situated on the sidewalk. He tapped the curb with his cane. Opaque glasses hid his eyes completely, but his unwashed lanky hair was blowing to nearly cover his face in any case. "You have my gratitude," said 'Tony.' "Here, take this fifty-cent piece in recompense..."?

"Nah, nah, that's a-okay," replied the driver. "This was on my route anyway and you are no trouble as company. Maybe I pick you up tomorrow if I pass through here again, eh?"

"I would like that, Gino. Thank you again." The blind man stood listening as the driver tsked his horse and the cart rumbled away. It was in fact getting dark quickly, here almost in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Streetlamps had not been installed in this part of the city.

Tony stood for a moment, sorting out the sounds of children howling at play, of a couple up on the second floor arguing over some trifle, of an untalented hand scratching away on a fiddle. All so familiar. He turned around, tapping his cane to give warning to anyone who might come hurrying along, and stepped between two delapidated tenements. Here was a dead end alley marked at its mouth by a knee high cement pillar used for tying up wagons.

Shuffling into Blind Man's Alley, counting his steps, Tony tucked away his tin begging cup. He stopped at an umarked wooden door and rapped five times with his knuckles. It creaked open a crack.

"What's the haul?" demanded a woman's voice.

"Six dollars and three-five cents," Tony answered. "Plus a turnip and an inker."

"Good enough. Enter and be welcome, brother of the Legion." The door swung outward and a thin elderly woman in a floral brocade dress tugged him inside.

The windows had been painted black. Not a candle was lit, not an electric light burned. It was unrelieved darkness within that large room where he tapped his way. Finding a table with a bench, he dropped down into an unoccupied spot.

All about him, he could hear men moving. Some were ripped off chunks of bread and chewing with their mouths open. Some gurgled beer from mugs. He was so used to these noises that he would have been alarmed if they had been absent.

A refined upper-class voice asked, "You know our rules. The cash you may keep but any tidits you liberated will go into our fund. Hand them over, Tony."

Turning toward the voice, Tony held out a heavy gold pocket watch, disconnected from its chain, and an elegant fountain pen. "I obey the rules as we all must, Dr Bernard."

"For the best," said the mellow voice. "Fellows of the Eyeless Legion, my wife is concocting one of her famous stews for tonight, with several hambones to add savor. It will be doled out shortly. But first, I must remind you all of the danger we are in."

In the unlit room, where not a glimmer of light showed under a door or through a window crack, Dr Bernard's voice went on, "Our late landlord is sorely missed. The new owners of this property, the MacDermott brothers, continue to speak of demolishing this building and turning us all out. They want to erect a clothing store-- fine suits and hats for gentlemen."

The angry muttering that met this statement was unanimous. Bernard paused and then added in a ringing tone, "So they think. They have not reckoned with the Eyeless Legion!"

From out of utter blackness, wild laughter rang out and grew louder. Blind men laughing in the dark.

( the rest of the story )

"You Do Realize You're Married To an Alien Being?"

"You Do Realize You're Married To An Alien Being?"

8/20/2017

I.

It was getting near dusk of a sullen humid July day before Jeremy Bane rolled into the tiny hamlet of Shermanton, up past Buffalo. He had been driving since leaving Manhattan at dawn, but far from being tired, he was boiling with an excitement he had not felt in weeks. More and more, he realized that closing his PI agency had been a mistake. After the gruesome deaths of his longtime friends Bleak and Lt Montez in close succession, he had been further shaken when Haley Lawson had been traumatized by a violent incident enough to make her leave the Midnight War herself. Watching that sassy insolent spirit broken in such a young woman had been the tipping point for him. Bane had closed his detective agency, bought a house in a quiet Forest Hills neighborhood and tried his best to live a peaceful life.

But he had quickly become restless and miserable. None of the hobbies he tried satisfied him. Whenever someone approached him with some weird or inexplicable trouble, he jumped at the chance. He thrived on stress and mystery. Maybe he would always be the Dire Wolf.

Shermanton was a hamlet of barely a thousand inhabitants residing in houses scattered along six miles of paved road and several side trails. There was a post office on the unimaginatively named Main Street, but no store or gas station. Years ago, there had been a Country-Western bar up the road, but it had been damaged in a fire and eventually torn down to leave only an empty lot. That was all a quick search online had informed him. There were hundreds of undistinguished little towns like this scattered all over upstate New York. Bane spotted a sign at an intersection that read SERENITY LANE and turned onto it. There were two houses on either side with a larger one at the dead end. That was where he would find Evelyn Hutton. The widowed Mrs Hutton. And he would hopefully figure out what had happened to her husband.

Parking in front of the house, the Dire Wolf stood by his dark green Mustang and took in the scene. Just over sixty years old, he remained gaunt and active, a lean six-footer wearing his invariable uniform of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. He gave the impression of a much younger man.
More white strands turned up in the short black hair every week, but his most distinctive feature remained unchanged... a startling pair of light grey eyes that were never still.

The house was a new two-story building with beige aluminum siding and a deck in the back holding wicker chairs. An aboveground pool stood covered with a tarp, and a corrugated sheet on posts sheltered a gleaming SUV. He thought that the property showed considerable expense had gone into its establishing but that, for the past few weeks, upkeep had been skipped. The lawn was unevenly mowed, the shrubbery uneven and there was a broken styrofoam coffee cup by the road that had been there for a few days. This made sense if her story was accurate.

As Bane stood there taking it all in, the front door slammed open and a stout woman in her late forties rushed out. Mrs Evelyn Hutton was seemingly a likeable, down to Earth woman wearing olive-colored pants and a loose brown blouse with bell sleeves. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back, and that tightness showed also in her distraut features. "Oh, you're here! Thank God. I've tried so hard not to reach you by phone while waiting for you to arrive...."

"I drove straight here," he said. Bane stepped forward to meet her but disengaged himself immediately when she clutched at both his forearms. There had been many times when he had needed to react instantly to an unforseen attack. "When we talked last night, I thought you were too upset to give a really clear account. Let me go over what I know. You were married for twelve years to Richard Hutton. He worked in an auto and home insurance office down in Wilkins. Everything seemed normal until he went missing for a few days and you reported it."

"Yes. Yes. Volunteers searched the area and they found him at the bottom of a steep hill. The police concluded he had fallen, hurt himself too badly to move and had died of exposure. But..."

"But? What did the autopsy show?" Bane asked bluntly.

"It was inconclusive. I couldn't get a straight answer from the Medical Examiner. All I found was that he had not broken anything, not his neck or his legs. You'd think a healthy man in good shape like Richard could have at least dragged himself toward the road." The widow hesitated, then continued in a rush, "But there's more to it than that. I've heard about you, Mr Bane. The occult is a hobby of mine and I have read many intriguing reports about you, your team the Kenneth Dred Foundation, all your activities in what they called the Midnight War. That's why I managed to get you personal number and contact you."

The Dire Wolf moved back a step, gazing at her with a concentration that was normal for him. His Kumundu training made him automatically listen for subvocal tremors in her voice, for how often she blinked, for the degree of visible tension in her neck muscles. He concluded she was speaking the truth as she knew it. "There's something else bothering you," he ventured.

"Yes. I don't know how to put it. For maybe a month before he disappeared, Richard acted a little off. Nothing obvious. He didn't get my mother's name wrong or suddenly hate his favorite dinner, nothing like that. It was his behavior patterns. After you live with someone so long, you get used to their moods and whims. Richard always got cranky late at night, he always got lost in crossword puzzles on Sundays, he sometimes brought home unexpected trinkets as presents. Those little details changed. He spent a lot of time sitting on the desk with a newspaper but not even reading it."

"Hmm," Bane commented noncomittally. "What was your conclusion about these changes?"

"This is going to sound crazy. There was nothing blatant to point at. But more and more, I began to wonder if somehow Richard had an identical twin he had never told me about. Seriously I know he didn't, I've known his family most of my life, but that's how I reacted. It was like was living with a twin who didn't quite get every detail right about impersonating my husband..."

There was absolutely no flippancy or disbelief in Bane's voice. "I've seen stranger things with my own eyes."

"But even that's not the worst. It's my friend Beth. She told me the same odd discrepancies are happening with her husband!"

II.

Straightening up, Bane turned those pale eyes on her with an intensity that made the woman flinch involuntarily. "Where does she live?"

"Only about five minutes up Main Street. Wait, you don't think...?"

"Hurry! Grab your purse and lock your front door if you think you have to." Without looking back, he sprinted over to his Mustang and dove in behind the wheel. As he started the smooth-running motor up, Evelyn had gotten a brown leather handbag and slammed her door shut, hustling toward the passenger side door he pushed open for her. He was rolling back down Serenity Lane before she got her seatbelt fastened. At the intersection, he wheeled right on Main Street and sped along.

"Mr Bane, please! What do you think is going on? Tell me."

"I'm not at all sure yet," he answered. "My instincts say it's bad, though. Point out your friend Beth's house before we shoot past it. How old is she? What's her husband's name? What jobs do they have?"

"Umm, she's younger than me, thirty-six. She works at the Healthcare Facility across the river and Stan is a manager at the gravel and landfill pit. When I confided in her at Richard's funeral how he had been acting, she almost broke down. There! That red brick house up at the end of the driveway, that's them."

Swerving too sharply for comfort, Bane hurtled up the short driveway flanked by pine trees. Before them was a rather tiny building that could not have held more than five or six rooms, and next to it were parked a red Kia and a black Hyundai Accord. No one was in sight. As he brought his own car to a skidding halt, the Dire Wolf snapped, "Call her! If she's in there, tell her she's got a visitor coming in."

Yanking out her smartphone, Evelyn hit a number of speed dial and a voice instantly answered, "Evvie? What's up?"

"Listen, I'm right outside. A man in black clothes is going to be at your door in a second. Don't worry, let him in."

"Wait, what?" Then the voice broke off as Bane had reached the house and flung the front door open to rush in as if he owned the place. He found himself in a living room crowded with excess furniture including little tables holding decorative knickknacks. Jumping up from the brown cloth couch was a tall man wearing a business suit with the tie loosened and the top button unsnapped. He had black curly hair over a heavy-featured weary face that now tightened with alarm.

"Hey, what the hell?" he yelled.

Bane held up his billfold to display his PI license and his consultant card with the FBI's Department 21 Black. "Stay calm. I'm a private detective from New York City. I've been asked to look into the death of Richard Hutton and clear up some questions." As he tucked the billfold away, the Dire Wolf automatically checked the room to see any exits and any places where possible ambushers could be hidden. From the open doorway to the kitchen, a petite woman in a light summer dress stuck her head through uncertainly. She would barely hit five feet tall and being barefoot didn't help.

"Evvie?" she called out, not daring to enter the living room until she knew what was going on.

Behind Bane, Evelyn had come in and she waved to the couple. "Beth! Stan! It's all right. Mr Bane is here to help figure out what happened to Richard. He's not going to hurt anyone."

Hearing this, Beth relaxed visibly but Stan rose from the couch to walk over toward this strange intruder. There was obvious belligerence in his tensed form but Bane perceived much more. Half of Kumundu training was not in punching or kicking technique, but about reading an opponent. Bane automatically judged the balance, the co-ordination, the potential strength and speed of everyone he met without consciously doing it. It was a reflex to him after the decades of training. He decided that Stan did not move like a man six foot three and weighing two hundred and sixty pounds. He moved like a much smaller person carrying less weight, light on his feet and energetic. This man was not what he seemed. "Hold it right there, 'Stan,' he said with an odd emphasis on the name.

Gesturing to Evelyn without taking his eyes off Stan, Bane motioned for her to come fully inside the house. "I want you and your friend to stay here. This guy and I have to step outside for a second."

As she obeyed while shaking her head dubiously, the Dire Wolf had kept his full attention on Stan, whose face had become expressionless and masklike instead of angry. "Very well," the big man said in a hollow tone. As Bane stepped aside to let the man pass through the door, he said, "You ladies stay inside and keep well back." Then he followed out into the twilight of an early summer evening.

Fifteen feet away from the house, Stan swung around with belligerence in his body language but a lack of emotion on his face that was eerie in contrast. "Tell me what you think you know."

"Aren't you going to add, 'Human' to the end of that sentence?" retorted Bane. "Never mind. I'm starting to recall something I read in Mr Dred's notes a long time. Something rare I haven't encountered in the Midnight War before. Impersonators from Fanedral. And you're one of them."

As he spat out the last word, Bane plunged forward with the lightning-fast closing technique of a fencer and his tight left fist cracked up under Stan's jaw with an impact that cracked a few teeth. His opponent was flung back, one foot swinging up in the air as he fell, hitting the hard dry dirt with a thud. Something dropped from his limp hand. Still pressing forward in one continuous movement, Bane had drawn back his fist for a follow-up blow but he saw that it wouldn't be needed. That single punch had broken the Impersonator's thin neck. The Dire Wolf glared down as the body at his feet shimmered and changed to its natural state.

III.

From the corner of his eye, he was aware of the two women emerging slowly out of the house to huddle together behind him. They were all grippred by uneasy fascination at what they saw. Stretched out on the ground was a small being who would not have stood more than four feet six inches tall in life. He wore a snug tunic of some fuzzy velour-like material that left his arms and legs bare. All the exposed skin was bright Kelly green, vivid even in the fading light. As gnarled as the long-fingered hands with their talons were, it was the oversized cabbage-shaped head that held their attention. Ropy veins stood out on the hairless cranium, the ears rose to sharp points and the wizened little face had barely a snub excuse for a nose and a pursed mouth. Even in death, the green-irised eyes stared hatefully straight up.

Behind Bane, Evelyn breathed, "A little green man. Oh my God. It's all true. All the wild sightings and UFO reports and whacky movies."

"I do NOT understand," Beth interrupted. "What is this monster? Where's Stan? What the hell is going on here anyway?"

The Dire Wolf reached over and picked up the short metal rod that the creature had dropped when it had been struck. Capped with a polished green gem, the copper-colored staff shimmered hotly as if it had just been taken out of a fire. "A Darthan blasting wand," he mumbled. "I tagged him just in time." He did not clarify his other thought about how, at the last possible split-second, he had struck not at where 'Stan's' jaw had seemed to be but at where his instinct told him it really was. That was why his punch had been so lethal.

"Can someone please explain this to me?" continued Beth. "I feel like I'm losing my mind."

The calm assurance in Bane's voice settled her slightly as he turned to place a hand on her shoulder, "You're okay. You're not going crazy. This creature impersonated your husband. When he died, he reverted to his true form. I don't think he actually changed shape so much as he used some sort of illusion to look Human."

"Is he a Martian? I can't believe I'm saying this. You know, a Martian? An alien from another planet?"

"Not exactly," Bane said. "It's hard to explain. The important thing is that I suspect this is what happened to Richard. He was abducted by these Infiltratrors and one of them took his place."

"You've got to be kidding," Evelyn objected. "As if I wouldn't know the difference. Living under the same roof for weeks, eating our meals together, sleeping in the same bed..." Her voice trembled and she pressed a hand tightly over her mouth before saying, "But that means that we... That I did it with that monster, thinking it was Richard?"

Bane stopped her with a sharpness in his voice. "Right now, we have to concentrate on the immediate danger. Where are they holding the real Stan? It seems likely they keep the original alive during the impersonation. Does anyone Human know about all this? And most importantly, how many more of these Impersonators are there?"

III.

"I think I'm taking this remarkably well," Beth mumbled. "It's a nightmare. I used to hate those science-fiction movies and now I'm in one. Heh."

With relief, Bane decided he did not hear any hysteria in her voice. It was not unsteady or rising in tone. "I have a plan but I need to count on you two to carry it out. You both seem pretty tough-minded. Do you think you can go along with me for a little while?"

"Oh, yeah," Evelyn said. "We've both been through a lot in life. Divorce. Parents dying. Kids with opiate problems. I feel like I can handle this and Beth is tougher than I am." She was almost hugging her friend, one arm rubbing on Beth's back. "We need to start calling everyone we know. Sue. Brooke. Maybe Bernadette. We ask them if they notice their men have been acting a little funny lately. It's so insane. 'Excuse me, hon, you do realize you're married to an alien being, right?' "

"Wait, don't do that," said the Dire Wolf. "Not yet. I want to try something else first. I want both of you to get in my car right now. Come on, we're going to leave that thing where it is." He hustled Beth into the back seat of his Mustang and Evelyn in front, then jumped behind the wheel and sped back up the driveway. He had brought the blasting wand and he stuck it under his seat for the moment. At the main street, Bane swung right and drove for only a mile before slowing and pulling off the road. He had seen a spot where he could drive up behind a few elms and leave his car mostly concealed.

"Everybody out," he ordered as if the two understandably anxious women were working for him. "We're going to hike slowly back to the house but keeping out of sight. And I want you ladies to stay well behind me as we get closer. Understand?"

"Right, right, but first explain a little. Okay? We deserve that," demanded Beth.

"Here's what I think. These creatures are called Impersonators. They're from a realm known as Fanedral, and they're very rare. I don't think they've been heard of in fifty years. Now, as I recall from reading about them, they have some telepathic abilities. Not that they can read your minds directly or control your actions, but they do have an image casting power." He started leading Beth and Evelyn through the forest at a creeping pace slower than a walk, finding easy going for them considering their distress. It was early enough on a summer night that the stars gave sufficient illumination after their eyes adjusted.

Behind him, Evelyn asked, "So my Richard IS dead, then?"

"I'm afraid so. Sorry," replied Bane. "That was him they found at the bottom of that hill. For some reason, the Impersonator posing as him had to call the charade off but they couldn't dare release him to talk about his abduction. I wish I could give you some hope that he's still alive but I don't think so."

"I don't get it. How can these things impersonate our husbands, of all people?" Beth sounded increasingly distraught as everything seemed to sink in. "This are men we know so intimately. How can these creatures get every detail right? Even spies can't do that."

The Dire Wolf paused at a clearing near the back of an old rundown house that they had to pass on their way. "It's the telepathy. The Impersonators keep their victims alive, probably in a sort of trance, so they can draw on the memories in the Human brains. That's my guess, anyway. Not much is known about these beings." He herded the two around out of sight of the house and they continued on their way.

After a few more minutes, Evelyn let a small sob escape her. "Poor Richard. I was just getting to accept to him being gone. It's so unfair, he never hurt anyone."

"The worst things happen to the best people," Beth offered to her friend. "Listen, I have my phone. I'm going to call 911. The State Police. The FBI. We need to report all this."

"Not yet." Bane turned his head to fix his grey eyes on her startled gaze. "If the Impersonators have other victims imprisoned somewhere, and there's an alarm raised, they might simply kill the men and escape. I want to see if we can find out more before we're suspected. For all we know, half the men in this town are being held somewhere while Impersonators are passing as them."

"What a thought," Beth replied. "Shouldn't I be hysterical at this point? You know, screaming and crying and having to be restrained? I feel sort of... numb."

"You're doing fine," he said. "You're in crisis mode right now. This is such an emergency that both of you are repressing your natural reactions until everything is settled. Trust me, I've been handling horrors like this all my life."

By now, they were slowly approaching the back of the yard where Beth had lived with the real Stan. Bane whispered to them to keep as quiet as they could while they moved from one cluster of trees to another. Soon they could see the house where a white Ford Explorer was coming to a stop near the grotesque little corpse sprawled in the dirt. Three men got out and circled around the body, leaving the vehicle running with its headlights revealing the scene. They looked like normal enough people in their thirties and forties, wearing regular jeans and flannel shirts. But Bane studied how they moved, how they balanced their weight, how their heads snapped around at slight noises and he knew these were more imposters.

Raising a finger to his lips for his companions to be silent, the Dire Wolf dropped to his hands and knees and then scuttled through some bushes without making the slightest noise. Decades of training and experience explained his uncanny passage through the brush and up within reach of the Impersonators without being detected. In a dark blur, he exploded out of the woods onto the aliens faster than a real wolf pouncing.

IV.

Bane had been concerned about fighting these Impersonators and he took no chances. They looked to be of normal size, each within a few inches of six feet tall and two hundred pounds. But his Kumundu intrpretation of their movements contradicted this and he knew they were actually much smaller. This left him confused and uncertain, and he worried that in a prolonged brawl he would make mistakes that would make him vulnerable. As he rushed at the surprised creatures, he had drawn a silver-bladed dagger in each hand. The Dire Wolf slammed into two of the Impersonators from behind, plunging a blade each into their sides and whipping it back out again. As the creatures made high screeching noises and fell, Bane closed in on the third one and smashed a straight side kick to a point three feet off the ground. The impact was solid. The Impersonator was thrown violently back.

All this had taken place in less than half a second. Wheeling around, Bane crouched over the two creatures he had stabbed. One was already dead and had revealed its true appearance. As he watched, the second one wheezed and went limp. A shimmer passed over the body, then it was shown as a bizarre green man with an oversized bald head and gnarled limbs. He jumped up and whirled to see the final Impersonator was up on its hands and knees, unable to rise. As the creature struggled to catch its breath after the blow to its chest, the guise of a normal Human flickered once or twice.

Watching the creature , Bane knelt and wiped his dagger blades on the tunics of the two dead monsters. He returned them to their leather sheaths which he always wore under his sleeves. The Dire Wolf went over to the stunned Impersonator and judged there would be a few more minutes before the creature would recover. He dropped down to one knee, grabbed the back of the creature's head and snapped a powerful left hook that made a whiplash noise. The Impersonator sagged down prone to the ground without a sound.

From back by the trees, he heard one of the woman take in a deep shaky breath at what she had witnessed. Bane turned at the waist and gestured for them to come forward. "Sorry you two had to see that," he admitted.

"They look dead. ARE they dead?"

"Yes." Bane knelt over the gasping survivor. "But I need one to answer questions. He'll be recovering for a few minutes." Since he had already determined that they could not be seen from the main road, he did not try to conceal the grotesque bodies. Instead, he hauled them around to prop them sitting up against the side of their Explorer. Neither one carried another Darthan wand, but one did have a vicious-looking curved blade tied to its waist sash. Now that he had a chance, he examined the creatures. As he flexed their lifeless hands and thumbed up an eyelid to check out the wide-irised green eyes with vertical slit pupils, he felt Evelyn standing behind him.

"They can't really be aliens, I mean Extraterrestrials, can they?" Evelyn breathed. "I mean, the odds that they could breathe our air are ridiculously low."

"You're right," Bane answered as he straightened up. "They're descended from ordinary Humans. Like the Nekrosim and the Gelydrim and a dozen other sub-Races, the Darthim modified them. They've been made this way deliberately."

Stepping closer, Beth started to prod one body with her toe but stopped short. "Magic, you mean?"

"I guess that's a convenient word," the Dire Wolf replied. "It's incredibly ancient knowledge that might as well be called magic." He was keeping an eye on the two women. Hardened combat veterans had gone into hysterics at seeing weirdness like this but Beth and Evelyn seemed as cool and unaffected as if regarding a minor traffic accident. He expect that all the trauma would catch up to them at some point. The Dire Wolf dragged the reviving Impersonator over to where the creature was facing his two dead comrades, then squatted down between them to wait.

As the being from Fanedral moaned and struggled to sit up, Bane planned his questioning. Tricks and ruses usually weren't needed in a situation like this with most captured crooks or occultists. Just the nearness of impending death frightened almost everyone into talking, but then these Impersonators weren't Human and he couldn't be sure how they would react. They might be dedicated, even fanatical.

In the next split-second, he heard one of the women take in a sharp breath. All his heightened sense of danger rang the alarm and he jumped up to his feet as a brutal impact to the back of his head made everything flash white. Even falling, he began to catch himself but a second blow to his head stunned him beyond knowing what was going on. For the next few seconds, he was completely vulnerable. Something fumbled at the small of his back. He heard voices but couldn't make out what they were saying over the thumping pain.

It only took another second or two before his enhanced healing factor kicked in. The pain subsided to a throb, his vision cleared and he became aware again. Heaving up off the ground, he swung around with fists raised but froze into place. Something he had not expected greeted him.
Beth was standing well out of reach, holding Bane's own Smith & Wesson .38 revolver in both hands with a steady grip and she grinned at him with wicked delight.

"Beth, have you lost your mind?!" screamed Evelyn. She took a step toward her friend but hesitated at the murderous expression on the woman's face. "What happened to you?"

"Neither of you move, not a muscle," Beth ordered. "Wanru, are you able to stand?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you." The Impersonator got shakily to his feet. "Oh, may Draldros be merciful to his servants. This Human has slain both Menel and Dupra. Look at them! They are dead. My heart breaks."

Taking in the situation, Bane had raised his open hands in surrender but only to chest level. His hands were close enough that he could snatch the daggers from his forearm sheaths easily. All he needed was an imperceptible distraction. "You're not one of these Impersonators," he declared.

"No. They're all male. Only males survived the purge by Draldros. Or that's what Yende told me, anyway. I realized he was wasn't Stan right away, but when he explained the situation, he won me over. I decided to help these Impersonators. They deserve to live, to perpetuate their kind." Beth smirked in a way that was thoroughly creepy. "And if the only way for them to reproduce is through Earth women, well, so be it."

Evelyn was breathing in short rapid gasps, ready to hyperventilate. "I can't handle this. It's too much to take in. Beth, you can't be serious."

"Don't I sound serious?"

"She has sold everyone out, not only the women of this town but the Human race as a whole," Bane said. "Talk about treason..."

"Oh, shut up!" Beth snapped, cocking back of the gun's hammer with her thumb. "You have no idea what you're talking about. I grew very fond of Yende. In some ways, he was a better person than Stan ever was, ha ha!"

The Dire Wolf did not move, did not even shift his weight to announce his imminent attack. "How many more Impersonators are here in the world, anyway?"

"Wanru is the only one still alive. Four were sent here," Beth said as the green man came around to stand beside her. "I guess I'll be mating with him now to see if we can breed. So far no luck. Evvie, it's too bad you found out about all this. I'm sorry, dear."

"Wait, what do you mean?" asked Evelyn Hutton. "You wouldn't... kill me?"

"What choice do we have?" Beth said. "Wanru, you have to report back to Draldros. Can we allow these Humans to abort your mission?"

"No," said the strange creature. He turned his oversized head to regard her thoughtfully. "Very few of us are left. There isn't much time. If I don't report soon to the Dread One, my kind is doomed."

At that moment, Evelyn's nerve broke completely. She shrieked and spun around to start running faster than she ever had before. As Beth swung her arm to take aim, Bane took the opening. Silver flashed in the backglow from the SUV's headlights. With a hiss, the thin blade of a throwing dagger slid inbetween Beth's ribs up under her left breast and she gasped as she dropped to her knees. The Dire Wolf hopped in close to wrest the gun away from her dying hand and he whirled to loose a single shot that caught the Impersonator right in the center of that high hairless forehead. Blood spurted from the exit wound in the back of the skull. One hand dropped the fist-sized rock that the creature had snatched up, the same rock that Beth had used a minute earlier to strike Bane with. That had been closer than expected, he realized.

The Dire Wolf eased slightly, glaring around to see that Evelyn had stopped her flight at the sound of that gunshot. She was staring with bugged eyes. He lowered his weapon and called over to her, "It's over. Don't run. You're not in any danger now."

"She's dead. Beth. I've known her all my life. We grew up together."

"Well, she didn't give me much choice. She was right about to shoot you in the back." Bane tugged his dagger out of the dead woman and cleaned its blade for the second time that time. "I'm not happy about it, but honestly it was you or her. And then me."

With a shuddering sigh, Evelyn dropped her knees and her head hung down. Her body was visibly shaking. "Beth. Stan. My Richard. All gone. This can't be real, I have to be hallucinating. Or dreaming, but it doesn't feel like a dream..."

The Dire Wolf came over and sat down on the ground next to her. She clutched at him with both hands and he let her tremble as she tried to assimilate all that happened. "Do me a favor," he said in as close to a gentle tone as he could, "Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Again. Deep as you can. The worst is behind you. Breathe in and let it out. There you go."

"How... how can things like this happen? I can't believe any of it, but there she is. Beth, dead. And she was really going to shoot me!"

"I know, I know," Bane said as he supported her weight. "Listen. I am going to have to load all those bodies into their SUV and leave it deep in the woods. This is hard to explain, but the force that brought the Impersonators here will wear off if it's not reinforced. It's like a sort of rubber band that will pull them back where they came from. Those monsters will be returned to Fandedral. And because I'm going to leave Beth in contact with them, she'll go there too."

"Huh? Are you sure? What about her family? What about a funeral for her?" Evelyn looked up and her face was wet but she had not been crying audibly. "But I guess you know what you're doing."

"It's for the best." Bane gave her an encouraging hug. "Listen to me, you're in a sort of emergency denial right now. That happens in a real crisis. It'll pass and you'll be exhausted, traumatized, grief-stricken. I'm going to call a few friends of mine to come up here and help you through it. Sable is a great person, she has helped many other victims deal with nightmares like this. Okay?"

Evelyn got hold of herself and rose to her feet, still holding on to Bane's arms. "I guess. I mean I owe you my life. I should trust you enough to do as you say. It's all too much to digest."

"Sable will come right up here and I think she will bring Timothy with her. They're the best emotional support you can hope for in a situation like this. You'll get through this, Evelyn. You're stronger than you realize. But even though everyone in in town will be wondering what happened to your friend and her husband, you can't ever explain the truth about why they disappeared."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare," she said, wiping her face with her hands. "My God, I'd be kept so medicated I couldn't dress myself if I told what happened today."

9/11/201

"Imaginary Friends Have Real Friends"

"Imaginary Friends Have Real Friends"

10/12/2014

I.

With the kickstand down, Timothy Limbo shut off the engine and dismounted. He took off his helmet, moved a few steps back and regarded his Harley with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. Why on Earth had he agreed to let Megan tune the old girl up? He should have known what would happen. When Megan Salenger was left unchaperoned with any machinery, she promptly took it apart and reconstructed it to her own wild ideas. She had revised and updated their stealthcopter CORBY so extensively that their captain swore not a screw or bolt of the original aircraft remained. True, these changes were always vast improvements but still....

His bike didn't handle the way it used to, it handled better. It ran smoother. The fuel efficiency had doubled. Maybe he should roll the changes and take it all as improvements he should appreciate.

He walked the Harley further off the road and concealed it from casual view behind the bushes. Standing by the dusty back road, Timothy looked around at the woods. White birch, elm, lots of pine trees. The past two days had been rainy, the leaves glistened and puddles of water filled any potholes. It was great to be back upstate. He used to love riding these deserted country roads, especially late at night and best of all under a bright moon. Still in his early twenties, Timothy was a few inches under six feet tall, built like a runner, with butter-yellow hair hanging down over a friendly-looking face. Although he had the many miniaturized tools and gadgets on him that KDF policy required, Timothy was wearing motorcycle boots with heels, faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. The black leather jacket was new, he was still breaking it in and he felt unreasonably smug about how well it fit.

Well, time to get to work. He had his assignment. The new KDF member trotted quickly back along the road and swung left into the woods. The slope was steeper than he had expected. His foot slid out from under him and with a dismayed howl, he fell onto his side and rolled down the hill, doing a complete somersault at one point. It was only by grabbing a tree root that he stopped himself. Timothy sat up. His brand new jacket was smeared with mud and, as he got to his feet, he noticed a scrape along one sleeve that must have come from a projecting rock.

"Are you KIDDING me?" he grumbled. The young Tel Shai knight had been on a Tagra tea regimen for more than two years, so his healing factor was enhanced enough that bruises healed almost instantly. It was seeing damage to the sleeve that annoyed him. He had resisted buying a new jacket for the longest time. Timothy started off again, but he was trudging rather than galloping.

From his briefing the night before, he knew the Eldar cabin was less than a mile from the road. There was a dirt trail he could have used to ride there, but he wanted to approach undetected if he could. As he walked, Timothy held up an open hand and a blur three inches high materialized above his palm. Tornado-shaped, stretching and contracting, his Casper was a shimmer of force that was barely visible even in the afternoon sunlight.

"Hey, buddy," he said. "Go ahead and scout around for me, willya?" As the whirlwind flitted away, Timothy began walking faster. Everyone on the team was divided as to exactly what his Caspers were. Some thought they were mere manifestations of gralic force controlled by his subconscious. Some thought they were individual sentient beings of a spiritual nature, perhaps even genuine ghosts. He himself had long come to accept them as somewhere between pets and friends. His 'Friendly Ghosts,' as he called them.

Hiking briskly through the woods, Timothy mulled over the assignment. Info was slack this time. A KDF informer in the underworld had overheard the rumor that an independent mastermind knew about the Eldar outpost up here and reportedly had an unhealthy interest in meeting an Eldar. That had been enough for Sable. Her response was to yank Timothy from his day off and dispatch him up here. Very inconvenient for him, too. Timothy's romantic life had been dismal for a long stretch and a cheerful barrista at Starbucks named Jazmine had been asking if he would pose for a charcoal sketch. She had added that she worked best late at night by candlelight and maybe they would need a glass of champagne first to be comfortable with each other.

Sounded great. But no, he was a knight of Tel Shai and a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation, so instead he had left Manhattan at dawn and rode north for five hours to find himself marching downhill on wet fallen leaves. His left foot slipped again but he had been ready for it and he held up his arms for balance. No good. He windmilled his arms furiously, going "I got this, I got this" out loud but crashed on his back anyway. His head hit a hard flat rock with a thud that made lights flash behind his eyes.

Very quietly, Timothy Limbo said, "God. Damn. It."

II.

He struggled back up, decided he wasn't hurt and began walking again. Then he noticed the smell. Was it going from him? It was. NOW what? He examined the soles of his boots, twisted his torso to check himself and finally with great reluctance, he got off his new leather jacket with his heart sinking. A white and brown smear of something organic and vile stretched down the jacket's back.

Mumbling profanity, the young Tel Shai knight kept moving, tearing off handfuls of leaves to wipe and discard as he went. He felt close to vomiting and his head ached. We may love nature but Nature sure doesn't love US, he thought. Just before he reached the Eldar cabin, he felt he had gotten most of the foulness off. A powerful urge to abort this mission and head to the nearest dry cleaner tempted him, but he had his duty.

He paused to check on what his Casper saw. This was a form of telepathy, so it wasn't a literal case of his seeing what was in front of the manifestation. Instead, it was more like remembering something he had seen a moment earlier. There was a small redwood cabin at the foot of a hill, with two Schwinn ten-speed bikes propped up against it. No one was in sight. At that very moment, two cars rolled slowly up the dirt road. In the lead was a silvery Lexus GS, a black Audi A6 right behind it. They might as well scream, "Hey, the crooks are here!" he said under his breath.

As far as he could tell, the cabin was just out of sight, below the jutting ledge of the hill he was on. After reluctantly tugging his jacket back on, Timothy summoned two more Caspers. The little tornadoes spun into view and circled him excitedly, just puppies ready to play. "Hi, you guys. Go see what's going on with your brother, okay?"

The two whirlwinds flashed away. Timothy reached behind him under his jacket and drew the dart gun from its holster across the small of his back. This was a clunky-looking handmade weapon with a needle-thin barrel that fired potent anesthetic darts. It was silent and non-fatal but unfortunately it didn't penetrate heavy clothing and a stiff breeze ruined the accuracy. Still, these were what KDF policy required rather than the reliable Glock 19 he had always carried. Oh well.

Moving more carefully now, trying to keep trees and brush in front of him, Timothy got closer to the scene. Six big beefy men in black business suits had emerged from the cars and were forming a circle around two smaller figures. These seemed at first to be children maybe ten or eleven years old and barely five feet tall, bundled in oversized maroon sweatshirts with the hoods up, tight jeans on skinny legs, black and white trainers. Several of the ominous brutes had pulled out flat .45s and were holding them with both hands, more to intimidate than for immediate use.

Emerging last from the black Audi was a much smaller and less imposing figure. About forty, of average height and build, he had thinning brown hair swept straight back off a high forehead and wire-rimmed glasses on a nose that resembled a badly peeled potato. He was well dressed, but in a lower management office-drone sort of way. Yet the thugs who stood a half foot taller and who had at least seventy pounds more on them stepped quickly out of his way. He was the boss, all right.

Timothy dug back in his memory, try to remember where he had seen that unimpressive mug before. Somewhere in recent KDF files, he was sure of it. Then a deep, hoarse voice behind him said, "Easy. Don't jump. I got ya covered, kid. Put that heat down, whatever it is, on the ground. That's right."

Thoroughly ashamed, Timothy obeyed and then rose slowly to his feet, making sure his open hands were visible. He turned only his head. Even for a hired gunman, this goon was remarkably unattractive. Scars left by acne to remember it by, a nose that had been broken and not restored entirely to its original orientation on the face, dull lifeless dark eyes. The man did not make a good impression.

"You know da drill, kid, hands behind your head."

As Timothy obeyed, he watched the thug crouch down and snatch up the dart gun. A reverse hook kick would easily connect right on the side of the face. But, even with all his Kumundu training, Timothy thought it would be a bad idea to try on this muddy ground. He had fallen twice already simply walking.

"This is a mean-looking shooter you got here," the gunman said, giving the dart gun a cursory glance. "Start walking down there. Nice and slow. There ain't been no blood spilled yet, maybe there won't have ta be."

Everyone in front of the cabin was standing motionless as they saw the gunman escorting his prisoner down to them. Timothy studied the situation. The ground in front of the cabin was hard-packed earth, dry enough to give better footing. The cars were parked one behind the other, the nearer one only ten feet. The gunmen were standing much too close together with their shoulders almost touching. This could be workable if he had to fight.

But the two innocents in the middle of the circle... Their safety had to considered first.

As Timothy came to halt next to the two Eldarin, he let out an exasperated sigh. Things had not gone well so far.

"Jeez, what is that Godawful SMELL?" demanded the leader.

To Timothy's dismay. the man turned his head toward his own left shoulder and said in a squeaky voice, "Smells like he slept on top of a septic tank if you ask me, Pete."

III.

Oh my God, Timothy thought with a jolt of uneasiness. Peter Galliano, 'Pete and Repeat,' a notorious planner of big-scale heists and swindles. He was known as a thorough planner and creative thinker who fired strong-arm boys for protection and to handle anything physically dangerous. Galliano had never been known to actually kill any civilians or police, but a few rivals had conveniently disappeared when they got in his way.

Of course, he did have the disconcerting practice of speaking to his left shoulder as if it were a separate person. Maybe he visualized another head growing there, maybe an entire person standing there. His gunmen had learned to simply agree with him and not offer any comments.

"Hello, Mr Galliano," Timothy began hopefully.

"Ah, it's good you recognize me. I can see that you're not a cop. Nor a private eye. You just don't have the maturity nor the dead hopeless eyes. So, tell me, who am I dealing with here?"

Keeping his hands raised, Timothy began planning how a fight would proceed. The two apes to his left were a half foot apart, he could knock one into the other, get the gun that the nearest was holding way too carelessly, then drop to the ground, shoot and roll...But the Eldarin were right in the middle of the grouping. No, he needed to move them aside somehow.

Aloud, he said, "Sure. My name is Timothy Limbo. I'm a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation."

"Oh, those nuisances," replied Pete and Repeat, "I've met a few of them. You're obviously not Jeremy Bane."

"Well, obviously," the mobster continued but switching to the high falsetto. "The Dire Wolf is actually scary."

"And I met the Chinese guy, Argent. What was his real name? Sheng something or other, I forget. But I haven't heard of you, kid."

"Limbo, Timothy Limbo. I've been fighting the Midnight War for a few years now. My picture was in the papers. There was an article about me in the METROPOLITAN REVIEW a month ago."

"No, sorry. Doesn't ring a bell. Hey, you know the KDF agent I'd like to meet? Unicorn, the little blonde who carries around an actual Unicorn horn. She's all kinds of cute. If we don't have to kill you, maybe you could set up a meeting between me and her?"

Timothy's voice crackled like an adolescent's in his distress. "You know about Unicorn but not me?! That is so unfair. Come on, I caught that Russian spy, Comrade Buchinsky. You remember that blue devil-bird that was terrorizing the city? It was a freakin' Pterodactyl! And I helped destroy it, too."

"Really? I don't seem to remember that," the crimelord mused. "Hmm. You know, there's also the Blind Archer. Jubilec, I think his name is. Everyone wants to stay away from him, those Blind Archers are murder on two legs."

"You know about him, too. But not me." Timothy sounded crushed. "Oh, all right. Break my heart, it doesn't matter. But listen, can I ask what you're up to with these Eldarin?"

At the word, the two slim little figures turned their heads toward them, pulling down their hoods. The faces revealed were almost androgynous, one slightly more masculine and one more feminine but not by much. The skin was a beautiful golden tone, the sleek long hair a bright yellow and the large clear eyes had amber irises which gleamed in the sunlight. Most startling, their ears rose to distinct points. "Behold, I am Palisor," said the boy in a soprano tone. "This is my twentieth cousin Lindoral. We are here to listen to radio reports of what is happening in your world. We did not know Humans were aware of our presence in the world."

"Wait, what?" interrupted Timothy. "Are you little kids? How old are you two?"

That elicited a mellow chuckle. The female Eldar said, "I am two thousand, nine hundred years old. My twentieth cousin there was born nearly five centuries later, so I may freely order him about."

"Mr Limbo, if that IS your name," Galliano said, "You surely must realize why I am here with my associates. In the cars we brought syringes and tubing and specimen bags. These two are more than Human. Donating a pint or two of their blood will not do them any harm."

"I hope you offer them a cookie and some orange juice, at least," Timothy managed to get out in a steady voice.

"The kid has got nerve, I give him credit for that," squeaked the strained secondary voice from Galliano's mouth as the criminal watched his own shoulder. "What do you think? Do we let him live?"

"I don't think so," the man continued in his natural voice. "Those KDF bastards are too persistent. We don't want them chasing us around for the next few years. You know what, let's take these surfer kids with us, too."

"Wait, weren't you going to just take some blood to analyze? I mean, you do think you can derive immortality from them, right?" demanded Timothy. His hands were still tucked behind his back, the gunman behind him had not moved an inch.

Peter Galliano rubbed the lower part of his face and did not answer immediately. "Or at least longevity and enhanced healing. That was the plan. But if it means getting the KDF involved... If that damn Dire Wolf starts after us, we're in real trouble. I'm afraid Mr Limbo needs to disappear and we might as well take the golden children with us. The more I think of it, it's more sensible to keep them as living blood banks. As long as they're alive, they'll produce blood. I bet a million dollars for a few drops wouldn't be asking much."

As the confrontation got tenser, Timothy spotted more of his Caspers appearing. He hadn't summoned them. Were they responding to his emotional distress? Or were the ones already in existence calling for others? There was no way to tell. Eight of the little swirls of energy were moving silently through the air at head level. The gunmen were beginning to catch glimpses of the nearly invisible beings wheeling around them and even those prosaic-minded brutes gave twitches of confusion at something they could not understand.

"What the hell?" asked the mastermind. "What's going on here?"

Timothy deliberately unclasped his hands and lowered them to chest level, moving one foot forward to get himself set up. "Mr Galliano, you won't like hearing this. But the truth is, you're not the only one with imaginary friends."

V.

Complete hysteria broke out in front of the cabin. Each of the Caspers flew right up against a gunman's eyes and stayed there. Frantic attempts to brush them off did nothing but distort their shapes for a second. Even if the gangsters had known what was going on, having their vision hopelessly and unexpectedly blurred would have frightened them. Several dropped their guns to rub their faces and they were all screaming wordlessly or yelling "My eyes! I'm blind!"

As soon as the Friendly Ghosts had acted, Timothy took advantage of the pandemonium. He wheeled around and blasted a combination left backfist and right hook that snapped the gunman's head around so violently that the concussion knocked him out. Timothy grabbed the man's gun and swung it up. That interaction had only taken an instant. While the thugs panicking, he ran over to scoop up their guns and fling them as far away into the bushes as he could.

This was going better than he expected. He mentally asked the Caspers to stay over the goon's eyes as he went around yelling, "Lie down! Your eyes will clear if you lie down!" To speed up the process, he began kicking the thug's feet out from under them and giving them hearty shoves between the shoulder blades. Soon, he had all five of them stretched out in the dirt.

"Stick with them, fellas," he said.

"What do you mean? We did what you said," whimpered a gunman who must have weighed three hundred pounds and had hands covered with scar tissue.

"I wasn't talking to you," Timothy started to explain, "That was for my... never mind. Mr Galliano, you're the last one on your feet. Get down on your knees at least."

Still pawing at his eyes, the mastermind screamed, "It's a trick! This is one of those Midnight War tricks I've heard rumors about. We're not actually going blind."

Timothy stepped closer and whispered, "Do you really want to find out?"

As Peter Galliano considered this and sank to one knee so he was kneeling like a knight begging audience, Timothy Limbo quietly lowered the confiscated gun. He still expected some awful reversal as things went wrong, but everything seemed under control.

"Tel Shai, you have our gratitude," said the male Eldar in his sing-song tones. "Well done. We will be leaving now."

"What? Really?"

"Yes, there is nothing of value in this rustic building. My twentieth cousin and I have listening to radio news from the BBC World Service and the NHK of Japan, memorizing every word. When we return to Elvedal, we will repeat what we have heard to our King Elzulang so he may be informed of what state your poor world is in."

"It's our calling," Lindoral said. She drew the hood up over that shining hair and Timothy felt a twinge of sadness. Eldarin were beautiful beyond Human beauty, in an almost abstract way as a sunset or a waterfall is beautiful, and he hadn't realized how much he enjoyed looking at them.

"If you say so. I suppose you have a travel crystal. Okay. I was going to call the State Police to get here but now that I think of it, how can I press charges? What kind of crazy accounts are these gorillas going to give about what happened here?How can I explain two immortals were going to be used as blood banks? Maybe I should leave all of them here and run back to my bike while they're confused."

"That would be best," said Palisor. "I think some healing might within our ability to grant. This man who speaks to a delusion has been damaged in the mind. Cousin?"

"My pleasure." The tiny blonde woman stepped lightly over toward Peter Galliano and tapped a slim index finger to the man's forehead, with a spark crackling at the contact. The crimelord gasped and fell over on to his side to lie motionless. The Eldar woman gave Timothy the most bittersweet smile he had ever seen. "When he awakens, his mind will be whole. I only wish we could bring peace to all troubled souls."

"So that's the end of Pete and Repeat," Timothy said. "Thanks, you two. I'll be running away myself so these bozos can't chase me." He held up a hand over which a Casper hovered. "I suppose you Eldarin can see my imaginary friends?"

"Clearly," laughed Palisor. "They are charming. Take comfort in them, young Human. Even imaginary friends have real friends."

4/5/2020

"Carrying Lightning In Your Chest"

"Carrying Lightning In Your Chest"

5/11/2021

I.

"So I said to him, I can be Vietnamese AND Australian, it's not one or the other. And I'll give him credit, he put on a sober puss and says, he reckons he never really thought about that before, yer know? So, me and him talked it over...."

As Arthur Tran talked, Jocelyn felt her attention slipping away. It was such a gorgeous late afternoon in May, with a breeze and bright sunlight, and sitting at the sidewalk cafe made her feel like a cat dozing in the sun. Their plates sat empty on the wrought-iron table between them. She had eaten more than she normally did, the shells stuffed with cheese and mushrooms felt like an anchor in her stomach but she liked the unfamiliar sensation. With a conscious effort, she got back into her companion's flow of words and found he was talking about how Vietnamese families weren't really as close-knit as they seemed to others. Mostly they were nosy about each other's business and getting in the way to meddle.

In her early thirties, Jocelyn Garimara looked poised and even elegant in her tailored cream-colored pantsuit, her ankles crossed and one forearm resting on the table. She had the rich dark skin and thick straight hair of her tribe, a small Northwestern group almost extinct now. The full lips and wide nose added personality to her face. Jocelyn's eyes were large and wide-set, at the moment they had a friendly openness to them.

Seeing Arthur pause and smile, she grinned back. "Give me a second. That's a lot to take in. I'm trying to figure out your family from what you said, you have two brothers and two sisters?"

"That's right. Sorry to yammer on like that, Jocelyn, I just feel comfortable with you." A few years older, Arthur Tran was no bigger than the petite Aboriginal woman. He had narrow shoulders and a small hands, his face under the mop of glossy black hair looked almost prepubescent. But that was an expensive suit he wore and that watch on his left wrist had cost more than a casual glance would suggest. He was doing all right for himself.

"I have to get going soon," she admitted. "I'm on watch duty today."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and said, "That's funny innit? You said you work for a research organization, poking around where the paranormal is reported? What's with watch duty? That makes it sounds more like law enforcement or military work?"

This was the moment she had been dreading. How did Timothy have so many friends in the civilian world? Every time Jocelyn got to meet someone, there came this moment when she either had to be misleading and vague, or else she took a chance on freaking them out. She took a deep breath. "We investigate situations that are often mysterious, Arthur. You don't have to believe in the supernatural. I can understand that. I'm skeptical by nature myself. But my team often has to go where you can't count on civilized law, where there are hazardous conditions and vicious creatures."

"Oh, this is getting more and more interesting," Arthur grinned, leaning forward. "I work with statistics for a law firm and you couldn't make my job sound exciting no matter how creative you are. So you lot are explorers? Ghostbreakers? You're like that old TV program with the FBI agents chasings spooks?"

Now laughter escaped her in a quick burst that she managed to cut short. "I'm sorry. It's hearing it put that way, but yes. I belong to the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, we find ourselves checking out reports that turn out to be mundane and disappointing."

"Oh, but the remaining one per cent?"

Jocelyn picked up her glass of iced tea and found it was empty. All that remained that was a tiny bit of water from melted ice cubes and she took a sip to stall before answering. "Well, I'll tell you the God's honest truth, Arthur. That one per cent turns out to be truth. Hell. Bloody hell. Let me come right out with it. Yes, we find ourselves fighting monsters. Vampires, werewolves, Skinwalkers, Trolls, you name it. My life is like a trashy horror flick."

Not a trace of amusement showed in Arthur Tran's manner. Instead, he slapped his palm lightly on the table. "I knew it! Ever since I was a kid, I had a feeling there's more going on in the world than we're told. For thousands of years, people have believed in things that come out at night. So, what have you seen personally?"

"Everything. I really shouldn't be telling you this, but the worst that'll happen is you'll think I'm soft in the head. Arthur, I... I've faced creatures out of folklore and out of nightmares." She clinked her empty glass down on the table. "Maybe I've said too much. I should shove off now."

"Wait, don't think I'm not taking you seriously," he said, half rising from his chair. "I have had such a good time talking to you. When I heard you in that shop, your accent made me homesick and happy at the same time."

She tilted her head, regarding him a bit dubiously. "Same for me. I could tell you were from the far Northwest right away. Up by Darwin, maybe. I loved hearing it. Yanks in movies and TV lay on Australian accents so heavy that hearing the real thing is a delight. Come on, let's walk a bit. I have to head toward 38th Street."

"Sure, I'd like that. Nothing waiting for me in my apartment but some pathetic hanging plants and my rice cooker." They had already left money in the plastic tray to cover the bill with a tip. As they pushed back their chairs, a wave of dizziness swept over Jocelyn. Her knees got weak. Even though she tried to cover the sudden weakness, she saw Arthur give her a concerned look.

Overhead, a loud static crackling sounded. Something human-sized swooped down and hit the sidewalk with a deafening roar like lightning striking at close range. For a bare instant for soaring away again, a crimson outline of raw energy stood on two legs and turned its featureless oval of a head toward Jocelyn and Arthur. Then it was gone, leaving only a charred spot on the pavement. The Red Spectre.

( the rest of the story )

"Five of the Ugliest Crooks You Ever Saw"

"Five of the Ugliest Crooks You Ever Saw"

4/5/2012

I.

Sheng had a strong suspicion right away that Peter Galliano was completely insane. When they first met, the infamous criminal turned his head and said to his own left shoulder, "What do you think of this Argent guy?" Galliano then continued in a higher-pitched voice, "I don't trust him, Pete, I think he's trouble." Nodding, the infamous mastermind said in his normal voice, "Yeah. I think you're right, Pete."

Behind Sheng, ancient Uncle Pao muttered in Cantonese, >"Choose your words carefully, nephew. This one is even crazier than that Punster fool."<

"Ah... yes. Won't you have a seat and tell me what brings you here?" Sheng offered in the most casual voice he could muster. His own cluttered desk sat in front of a fan-shaped window that looked down on lower Canal Street, but a smaller desk had been set up for Uncle Pao to one side and slightly behind where clients sat. This was actually a useful arrangement. The old man could distract clients at appropriate times with a comment that made them turn their heads toward him, giving Sheng a moment to think or hide something or to go for a weapon. It also allowed Uncle Pao to make disrespectful faces at whatever the clients said, a pastime he enjoyed very much.

Dropping down into his swivel chair, Sheng Mo-Yuan had a feeling this was going to be a long night. He kept the unusual hours of Midnight to eight AM because of the nature of the cases he handled. He unbuttoned his light brown suit jacket as he sat and decided to loosen the knot on his tan necktie and undo the top button on his yellow shirt. For some reason, he wanted to hear what Peter Galliano had to say.

Even side from his disquieting habit of thinking his left shoulder was another person, the crime boss was not a charming presence. About forty, of average height and build, Galliano had thinnning brown hair swept straight back off a high forehead and wire-rimmed glasses on a nose that resembled a badly peeled potato. He was well dressed, but in a lower management office-drone sort of way.

Glancing toward the brute who stood filling the doorway, Uncle Pao added in Cantonese, >"I believe that man's face was pushed in with a rock and pulled back out again with pliers."< It was true that the bodyguard was exceptionally ugly but this unkind remark struck Sheng as funny. He fought down a snort and tried to disguise it as clearing his throat.

Galliano cocked his head toward his left shoulder, said, "What's that, Pete? Uh-huh." Then he jerked a thumb toward the scrawny old white-haired man seated to his side. "We don't think your friend should speak in Chinese. We don't know what he's saying. It's not polite."

"I'm sorry," Sheng said. "My uncle has not been in this country long. Now, Mr Galliano, what is that Argent Investigations can help you with?"

"May I speak freely? Without incriminating myself? Well, I am interested in a class of criminals unrelated to the racketeers and mobsters who handle gambling, drugs, human trafficking, that sort of thing. Those represent 'organized crime,' the underbelly of society. Their existence is a shame but then, their activities answer certain needs that regular citizens want filled... Excuse me." He conferred with his left shoulder in a whisper. The remarks from his shoulder came in that high-pitched squeak.

Looking past Galliano, Sheng saw Uncle Pao giving an apalled facial expression. The old man shook his head from side to side and rolled his eyes up in his head while mouthing the words 'No! No! No!'. To be honest, this was not an extreme reaction for Pao, who acted the same way when Sheng suggested they try some pizza from the all-night place down the street.

"Sorry," Galliano went on. "My partner suggests I get on with it. I'm concerned with a group of maybe a dozen independent masterminds. They plan and act on their own. Most of them hire a few strong-arm specialists to act as henchmen, some have a regular squad of shall we say thugs to handle the physical side of their heists and swindles. I'm sure you have heard of some of them. The Pelican. Casey Strangle. Pumpkin-face. Don Coyote. The Punster..."

Seeing that his guest was waiting for a reaction, Sheng hastened to say, "Of course. I am very interested. Please go on."

"Several of them meet at ten of o'clock on the first Tuesday of each month," Galliano said. "Speaking for our team of Pete and Repeat, we would like to find out what dubious activities they are up to then. I'm afraid that if your presence is detected, you would be murdered immediately."

"And considering that it's Monday night now... or actually Tuesday morning, since it's after twelve," Sheng added, "I'm not going to have much time to think this over."

( the rest of the story )

"Let Sleeping Dragons Lie"

"Let Sleeping Dragons Lie"

8/28/1987

I.

When Kwali and Gornak leaped at each other and began pounding away, the clash should have come as no surprise.

Their explosion of tempers had been building up for weeks. As Gornak's mating season neared, he grew increasingly tense and jumpy. Since there were no female Kulan in the real world and he dared not return to Fanedral to court one, he found no outlet for his reproductive urges. Gornak was unusual among Kulan in that he was able to restrain his impulses at all; back in Fanedral, most of his demon brethren were constantly being punished for their ferocious outbursts.

As for Kwali, his admittedly humorless personality had little patience for anyone taking liberties. His own marriage to his cousin Kisura had been arranged by the elders, more a part of his duties as the holder of the Cat's-Claw than a romantic relationship. Lately he had been under pressure from her and from the elders to produce offspring. His reluctance was criticized sharply, which put him in a foul mood most of the time.

More and more frequently, the two Tel Shai knights quarreled with each other. As their captain, Jeremy Bane kept an eye on them but as neither Gornak nor Kwali were short with their other teammates, he decided not to intervene yet. Then, late on a hot August afternoon, the explosion came.

"Jeremy, you'd better get up to the hangar," Cindy blurted as she rushed into the office on the first floor. As soon as she spoke, the Dire Wolf was up out from behind his desk and following her. There was no one alive he trusted more than the little blonde telepath. It was her perceptions and insights in the members' minds that made a team of such strongly independent individuals as workable as the KDF had been.

As they hopped into the high-speed elevator which shot them up to the tenth floor, Cindy turned a worried face on her longtime lover and partner. "It's the two you-know-whos at it again," she said. "Talk about cats and dogs!"

There was more truth than poetry in that expression, the Dire Wolf thought. Kwali had become strongly feline in both mind and body after wearing the potent Claw of the Black Lion day and night for years. Strikingly in a sub-Saharan African face, his irises had turned bright green. As for Gornak, the dog-headed Kulan demons did live and hunt in packs as both dogs and before them wolves did. Cindy's theory was that Gornak had subconsciously accepted Bane as his new Alpha Male pack leader, which did seem to ring true.

As the elevator reached the top floor, Bane wondered if maybe he should have taken the friction between the Kulan and the Cat's-Claw more seriously, maybe not assigned them to work as a pair so often.

The door opened onto the hangar which took up the entire top story of the headquarters building. Standing at the opposite end, its landing gear clamped down, the black stealthcopter CORBY waited under cool fluorescent lights. Banks of electronic equipment and benches loaded with tools lined the walls.

When he stepped into that hangar, Jeremy Bane was stunned to see Kwali crash upside down against a wall, scattering tools and machine parts. The big Danarakan was too agile and too resilient to be harmed even by such an impact, though. He rolled, dropped lightly to his feet and plunged directly at his opponent.

Only a handful of Humans from any realm would have dared confront an enraged Kulan as Kwali was doing. Gornak was a nightmarish figure seven feet in height, covered with a leathery red hide. His batlike wings were folded against his back, but the barbed tail whipped back and forth and the talons on his hands were fully extended. The Kulan had the head of a great hound, with upright ears and a long muzzle armed with fangs.

Gornak roared in his fury, but amazingly Kwali was not intimidated. The Danarakan warrior lunged in close and smacked a vicious backhand that slapped the demon's head to one side. Tall and muscular as he was, the African champion had no weapons and seemed to be defenseless against the formidable beast. Wearing only a plain T-shirt, dark slacks and slippers, Kwali nevertheless ducked under a swipe of one clawed hand and struck a second looping roundhouse blow to the demon's head.

"Knights of Tel Shai!" yelled the Dire Wolf from the doorway. "Both of you, freeze where you are!"

That was a tone of voice that they had never heard before from him. Gornak and Kwali indeed stopped dead and even held their poses for a second before turning to face their captain. Even as their rage toward each other faded, both were uneasy at realizing the Dire Wolf was actually angry at them. They felt as if they were unexpectedly in real danger.

When Bane stepped toward the two combatants, Cindy was more than content to fall back behind him.

"Two knights of the Order... fighting? Are you imposters? Are you under some mind control or the effects of a drug trance? Turn to face me. Brothers, your memberships in both the Kenneth Dred Foundation and the Order of Tel Shai are in jeopardy. Cindy, I want you to listen in with your full powers. Gornak, you explain first. I saw you throw your teammate against the wall with force that would be fatal to a normal Human."

The Kulan demon straightened from his feral crouch with effort. "He said that I should be neutered. Like a pet! Captain, in Fanedral I would have eaten the tongue that spoke such words."

"You are not in Fanedral now," Bane replied. "You have been given refuge with us and you agreed to live by our ways. And you, Kwali, what do you have to say?"

The big African warrior lowered his fists and unclenched them as if it was the most dificult act he had ever done. His deep baritone with the Danarak accent responded quietly, "I have endured all the affronts my honor can bear, Jeremy. Do you know what this beast asked? He wanted to know if any of the women of my tribe would be willing to mate with him! And he offered to pay in gold. Wakimbe be my judge, I have reached my limits."

Bane turned the infamous pale grey eyes on Gornak, and they had never seemed colder. "I think you MUST have known better than that. What were you thinking?!"

"Humans cannot understand," growled the demon. His wings snapped open and beat slowly behind him, great ribbed membranes like the wings of a bat. "My blood boils through my veins. My heart pounds like a bass drum in my chest. Kwali mocks me because he has a mate and I do not."

"I have not mocked you," the Cat's-Claw muttered.

"So often has he bragged how strong the women of his tribe are, what tireless runners and fierce fighters they are. Is it beyond reason that one could be undaunted by a night with me?"

"Wakimbe's Soul!" yelled Kwali. "I will not suffer such blasphemy a moment longer." He stabbed an accusing finger at Bane. "Much as I value your respect and much as I revere the Teachers of Tel Shai, I cannot sleep under the same roof as.. as a Kulan of Fanedral!"

Before Bane could respond, everyone gave a start as cold yellow flame rushed up over Gornak and the demon seemed to become Human. A tall blond man with a sardonic face stood there in a black business suit with a white shirt and knitted silk tie... or seemed to. This was an illusion granted to Gornak when he had first fled to the world.

The guise was intended to allow the Kulan to move around in public without causing panicked stampedes from people. He did not physically change, the Human form existed only in the minds of those who saw him. 'Christopher Pagan,' with his forged IDs and fictitous backstory, was a convenience that Gornak only used when he had to.

"I will inflict myself on you no longer," said Pagan in a voice not quite that of Gornak. "I was wrong to think I could be accepted by you Humans. I quit! I resign! Burn what few belongings I have gathered, for I shall never return for them."

"Hold it," Bane said. "Wait a second. You can't make a hasty decision like that...."

"I can do whatever I think best," snapped Pagan as he spun on his heel and headed for the door. "The three of you might be able to kill me. But you cannot make me stay any other way." He broke into a lope and slammed the door behind him.

Left behind in the hangar, Cindy and Kwali turned to their captain in shock. It was the first time they had seen Jeremy Bane uncertain how to react.

( the rest of the story )

"The Shark That Walks"

"The Shark That Walks"

12/3-12/5/1990

I.

At one o'clock on a sultry humid afternoon, Jeremy Bane emerged from the San Dirago airort and glanced around him with only vague interest. He was wearing his usual outfit of all black... slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, inappropriate for tropical heat. Sweat broke out in beads on his face and neck, but he didn't notice. For once, the pale grey eyes were dull and withdrawn. The Dire Wolf looked around, frowning, then turned to the little blonde standing next to him.

At five feet one and barely a hundred pounds, Cindy Brunner seemed much more comfortable but then she was wearing only a light cotton dress and sandals, with her hair pulled back in a thick pony tail and sporting oversized round sunglasses. Hanging from one shoulder was a small white handbag. The telepath gazed back up at her lover and partner for the past decade and she mustered a smile. "Awake yet?"

"I guess," Bane replied with uncharacteristic vagueness. "I must have been really out. Did I sleep the whole time?"

"You did!" she told him. "And you really needed it. Once your body accepted that it was trapped on a plane, it gave in and you were out like a light. About time."

Bane stretched and stifled a yawn. "Okay. Now you promised you'd explain this. First thing this morning, you dragged me in a taxi to Newark Airport and refused to answer any questions. Here we are. I never heard of San Dirago."

"Actually not too far from the Florida Keys," she said. Cindy lowered her shades and gave him a mischievous glance. "Closer to Cuba. I've never been here but my sister Liz came here on her honeymoon and talked about it for the next year. Come on." She took his hand and tugged him across the tarmac to the open gate in the chain link fence which encircled the rather small airport. Tourists strode happily past them, chatting and pointing at the city. A few weary businessmen trudged along, dragging their luggage on wheeled carts. A row of yellow taxis with red roofs sat idling along the street, accepting the passengers as they rushed up.

"Not for us," she declared, stepping out on the sidewalk and turning right. Guizar was the capital and largest city on San Dirago, and it looked modern enough. The biggest obvious difference from New York was that most of the people on the streets were short, stocky, with olive skin and curly black hair. The signs were in Spanish and snatches of unfamiliar Mariachi-sounding music came from cars. She saw Bane straighten up a little and take an interest in his surroundings. He began scanning the streets in his usual way, taking in details with rapid accuracy. Seeing this lifted her heart.

As they walked along in the sullen heat, Bane suddenly seemed to come back to life. "You realize we don't have any luggage, right? Just what we're wearing?"

"Exactly," she said. "You got your Trom armor under your clothes, the silver daggers under your sleeves, the usual hidden gadgets in concealed pockets. I've got our checkbook, our Platinum Visa and American Express cards and two thousand dollars in small bills in my handbag." She paused in front of a store which sold luggage and furniture. "Here. We need a knapsack for you and a little suitcase for me."

She dragged him inside, where they were enthusiastically greeted by the owner in passable English. In a few minutes, they had selected a huge knapsack with a dozen outer pockets for Bane and a small tan leather suitcase for Cindy. The owner happily accepted American dollars. Scanning his surface thoughts as they made the purchase, Cindy decided he was only overcharging them a little and she could accept that. They got out before he could start trying to sell them a dinette set.

Back out on the street, Bane slung the knapsack over one shoulder and allowed the faintest of smiles across his narrow face. For the next hour, they picked up clothing. Socks, underwear, two bras, khaki shorts for both of them and white sneakers. She bought two colorful short-sleeved blouses for herself and three plain T-shirts for Bane in white, red and green. Then a second lightweight dress for her and a white button-front shirt for him. He went along with all this in growing amusement. At a pharmacy, she rounded up toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, bars of soap and mouthwash. most of their purchases went into the knapsack.

"I think we're all set," Cindy announced finally. They had been walking the streets for two hours. "If I remember right, Hidalgo House should be a few streets over. Yep, there it is. That's where my sister and Joe stayed on their honeymoon."

They approached a twenty-story building that looked like a presidential palace. On a canopy extending out into the parking lot was HIDALGO HOUSE in golden script. A doorman in a military-style uniform, complete with white gloves and braided epaulets, watched them approach and opened the glass door for them. Bane was frowning again as they walked across a lobby with marble floors and red velvet wall hangings and a crystal chandelier. "Is this necessary?" he muttered low to her. "All we need is something simple."

"Trust me," she answered. At the desk, she spoke with the clerk and admitted they had no reservations because the trip had been a sudden necessity. Cindy's good looks and relaxed charm almost always worked wonders, and the pudgy clerk grinned ingratiatingly as he decided finding them a decent suite would not be a problem. They got rooms on the ninth floor. Cindy paid him with her American Express card, showed her passport and thanked him profusely. No, she said, they would not need a porter.

Heading up in the elevator that had brass furnishings and polished wood walls, Bane still seemed unhappy. "I don't see why we need all this."

"Jeremy, I don't think it ever sank in with you. You are filthy rich. Kenneth Dred left you an inheritance of just over one hundred million dollars. And you've amassed a war chest from defeated enemies that triples that. Heck, after the Snake War alone, we brought home truckloads of illicit cash." She laughed easily. "I've been living at headquarters and socking away my KDF stipend for the past ten years myself."

The Dire Wolf shrugged. "I never gave it much thought. It was just a way to carry on our work."

"Well, now we deserve to live a little." The door dinged open on the ninth floor and they walked down the hallway until they found their suite on the west corner. It was cool, dry and as elegant as all but the finest hotels in Manhattan could match. The iron balcony looking out over San Dirago Harbor was big enough to serve as a room itself. Cindy inspected the furnishings in the airy sitting-room, with its comfortable armchairs and a broad sofa in maroon covering. There was a sideboard that held glasses and a few assorted whiskey bottles, a walk-in tiled shower in the huge bathroom, the double bed with its silk canopy in the bedroom. She declared herself satisfied. She glanced at a painting on one wall that showed a horse rearing on a hill but had no idea if it was original or not.

Bane lowered his knapsack to the overstuffed easy chair that faced a big screen TV. "I think I know why you're doing this, Cin. Thanks. It's meant well."

"After what happened? When we lost half our team and disbanded the KDF? Yeah, I think we need to come back to life a little, hon. Not to trivialize things but that was a month ago. What have you done since the funerals and paperwork were over?"

He looked out at the ocean, sparkling in the sun almost at their feet. "Not much. I haven't taken any cases. I guess I'm retired."

"You've moped around the headquarters. Not eating much, sleeping in naps whenever you're too tired to stay awake. Ted has kept his clinic going and works two nights a week at Metro General. Gary is staying at Tel Shai to meditate, Sulak and Valera went back to Androval. We need to move on too. Our lives aren't over."

The Dire Wolf exhaled sharply. "What I need most is a hot shower. I'm all sticky, and I guess I haven't shaved for a few days."

Cindy dug through the knapsack for soap and shampoo. "I'll join you. Then we will have some serious loving and a long nap before picking a restaurant for dinner." She grinned impishly up at him. "Ah, I see that smile. Come on, Jeremy, admit I'm always right."

He shrugged off the black sport jacket in relief. "I can't argue with that."

That night, they ate at a decent restaurant overlooking a row of yachts and sailboats tied up to moorings. The Delacruz had a patio with open-work iron tables and a breeze coming in from the ocean made the night air more bearable. Cindy was wearing another light cotton dress of white with yellow flowers, belted at the waist. Bane had the black slacks on again but he wore a dress white shirt without the jacket. They had decided to try whatever jumped out at them from the menu. It turned out to be curry goat and dumplings, fried plantains and rice with kidney beans. The gaunt Bane ate enough for two husky men, his enhanced metabolism meant he was always starving.

They ordered wine but couldn't finish it. This was a side-effect of the Tagra tea regimen they had been on for a decade. At this point, their bodies healed from extensive damage quickly and their aging had slowed, but their systems also rejected poison. Evidently, by now their bodies had adapted to where the wine was difficult to swallow without immediately spitting it back up, so they had to settle for fruit punch and ice water.

Finally done, they sat for a while watching the crescent moon rise overhead. "Feeling better?" she asked.

"Sure, I was starving. That isn't what you meant, though."

"No. Look, Jeremy. You're thirty-three and I'm thirty-two. We're in perfect health, we have no kids and no resonsibiities really, and we're incredibly rich. I hereby declare that we will spend the next month or two enjoying ourselves. Concerts. Museums. Art galleries. Let's see Rome and Paris and Rio! We deserve a long vacation."

For the longest moment, Bane did not reply and she had a twinge of fear that he would reject the idea. But he nodded and said, "We've earned it. What's your plan for right now?"

"Oh, I don't know... a walk around the city tonight, then spend tomorrow swimming and lying in the sun. Maybe rent a boat."

"The Midnight War may find us," Bane said glumly. "It always does."

"Jeremy, no! Absolutely not. No Voodoo cults, no Zombies, no Midnight War at all. Let the world save itself for a while. Listen, have you ever wanted to grow a beard?"

"I...never thought of it," he answered slowly. "Why?"

Before she could answer, a tall black man in a white tropical suit came up to their table, Panama hat in hand. "Pardon me, but surely you are the Dire Wolf?"

( the rest of the story )

"The Annoying Challenge of the Punster"

"The Annoying Challenge of the Punster"

1/22-1/24/1993

I.

Jeremy Bane did not seem to even notice the sub-zero wind chill. At three-forty in the morning in late January, he got out of his Mustang and walked over to where Klein and two uniformed officers were waiting on the corner of Hart Street. Bane was wearing only a light topcoat over his sport jacket, unbuttoned, and a pair of thin black gloves. No scarf, no hat, no sign of discomfort.

In contrast, the policemen huddled around the abandoned cherry-red Carmen Ghia were bundled up until little showed except their eyes. Inspector Harold Klein in particular was hidden within a down-filled parka, wool gloves, a heavy wool hat pulled down over his ears and a scarf wrapped tightly around his face. "Goddamit, Bane, could you at least ACT human? It's ten below zero out here."

This produced no response from the Dire Wolf. He did not bother to explain that he had been on a Tagra tea regimen from Tel Shai for a dozen years. In addition to giving him enhanced healing ability and recovery from damage, Tagra gave Tel Shai knights high resistance to the elements. Bane in fact was barely aware of the bitter cold. He was surprised that Klein had brought the weather up.

Instead of mentioning any of this, the Dire Wolf simply walked up to the Carmen Ghia and peered closely at it from all angles. "I came as soon as I got your call, Inspector. What's this paper inside the windshield?"

"That's exactly what I thought you might be interested in," said Klein. "The driver was robbed at gunpoint and his keys were thrown down that storm drain over there. He's in custody right now, waiting for his lawyer."

Bane kept his voice as even and unreactive as usual. "The victim is under arrest?"

"Oh, we want to talk to him anyway about a hundred unrelated details. Leo Brueckner, sixty-three, on the surface a gem dealer for the Snyder Jewelry franchise but we've been watching him for a while. We're sure he was carrying a bag of uncut blue-white diamonds with him tonight to sell to someone from the United Arab Republic. And the diamonds themselves are illegal, those 'conflict diamonds' from South Africa."

Pressing up to the driver's side of the car, Bane had taken a powerful pencil flashlight and managed to read the yellow Post-It. "Hmm. That's a funny note."

"Yeah, it means one of the odder criminal masterminds is in the area. A tow truck is on the way to take this car to impound, where of course it will be taken apart and reassembled. But first," Klein told him slowly, "I thought you needed to see that note in its original location."

Bane came over to stand beside the inspector. Not too long ago, Klein had suspected Bane of being a violent menace to the citizens of New York. He had been doggedly trying to find some charge to lock Bane up on. Klein's attitude had changed completely after working with Bane capturing Samhain during the Astronomy Murders. Now the inspector regarded the Dire Wolf as a useful but unofficial loose cannon that could sometimes be pointed at killers too cunning or too dangerous to risk losing.

"That doesn't mean anything to me," the Dire Wolf said. "The note looks like a standard stick-up note you can buy in a million pharmacies and supermarkets. The block printing in ink disguises any handwriting traits. All it says is, 'The dog with no legs' and below that, 'THE PUNSTER' in capital letters. I'm blank. What's the deal?"

Gesturing to the two uniformed officers to stay by the car, Klein ushered Bane a few feet away, just enough that the cops could plausibly deny overhearing anything. "So. You never heard of the Punster?"

"Nope. Never."

Klein snorted and tugged his wool hat lower. "We gotta get inside. This is just ridiculous. Anyway, I guess maybe the Punster is kinda out of your area of interest. As far as we know, he has never killed anyone. The worst he's been implicated in is having two of his goons punch out a witness who was making a run for it. You mostly tackle killers and worse."

"True enough. He's a high-level thief, then?"

"Yeah." Klein broke off as a police tow truck arrived with red and blue lights alternating. He supervised the car being hooked up and taken away, then turned to the Dire Wolf. "Hang on a second. Wissock, Levin. Report back to precinct. Fill in your paperwork and go home. You're on overtime as it is."

"Lieutenant?" asked one of the cops dubiously, giving Bane a doubtful look.

"I'll be fine. I wanna ask this guy a few questions. You're dismissed." As the two men hurried to the cruiser parked just down the block, Klein shuddered, "Lord have mercy, let's get in your car. And turn the heat up."

As he got behind the wheel and started the engine, Bane complied by setting the heat to maximum. In a few seconds, the interior of the Mustang was pleasantly warm and dry.

"Aw, that's better," Klein said. "I'm just getting old for cold weather duty."

"Where are we going, inspector?"

"Tell ya what, howsabout doing a big loop? Head uptown for ten minutes, then come back here to my own car. By then I shoulda filled you in on this Punster freak."

( the rest of the story )

"Passing For Live People"

"Passing For Live People"

1/11/1995

I.

When Bane finally finished some hated paperwork at seven-fifteen, night had fallen with a vengeance. He got up gratefully from his desk and stretched, then went over to the windows that looked out at the sidewalks of East 38th Street. It was cold and dark, the holidays were over, and nobody was out on the street who didn't have to be.

Jeremy Bane was more restless and unhappy than usual. He was alone in this huge empty ten-story building which had once been alive with the hectic activity and purpose of his team of Tel Shai knights. Maybe Cindy was right. Maybe it was time to start assembling a new team. He felt like he was living in a museum....

As the Dire Wolf gazed sourly out at the street, he watched two odd men hurry past. They were mismatched, with one being tall and thin, the other a short pudgy fellow with a belly like a beach ball. They both wore tan suits, with ties neatly knotted and even matching fedoras which gave them an old-fashioned look. Whatever they were arguing about, it seemed to be a routine they were used to.

Bane saw them slow as they approached the front door of his building. Suddenly he snapped into full awareness. Clients? Business for the DIRE WOLF AGENCY? He hoped so. He turned and rushed from his office, getting out in the hall by the front door just as the doorbell rang. Good. He was so bored he had thought of prowling the bad parts of town that night looking for trouble.

Pressing the intercom, he said, "Come right in," and unlocked the outer street door with a white button. He heard the buzz and click as the two visitors were admitted into the tiny vestibule which held only a bench, a shelf with a lamp and some magazines, and a framed oil portrait of the late Kenneth Dred.

At eye level where he stood, there was a wooden panel which slid aside to reveal a monitor screen and rows of controls. As always, he activated the advanced Trom sensors in the vestibule which scanned any visitors more quickly and thoroughly than a MRI would. As he saw the bizarre readings, Bane's grey eyes narrowed with a predatory gleam. No respiration, bodies at outside air temperature. He zoomed in on one of the skeletal images and saw the sharpened upper canines...

As always, the Dire Wolf was wearing his trademark outfit of black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. As he closed the control panel, he reached up his sleeves and adjusted the matched silver daggers that were sheathed there to be sure they were ready for use. Tonight might be interesting after all. He opened the inner door and said, "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

This close, the signs of their condition were more obvious. Both men were pale, with dark circles under their eyes. Their skin looked dry and unhealthy. The short obese man took off his hat and held it in front of him humbly. "Gosh, I sure hope you can help us, mister," he began in a juvenile voice that didn't match the forty year old face. "We're in an awful jam."

"Quiet, Tubs, let me do the talking," interrupted the tall thin man. He had a neat pencil mustache under a slightly oversized nose. "Mr Bane, I hope? Jeremy Bane, of Dire Wolf fame?"

"That's me," Bane admitted. "And you...?"

"Ah, I'm Donald Flaherty and this is my bud Gene Marino. Everybody calls us Stretch and Tubs, I hope you do the same."

"Fine with me, Stretch. Would you two mind standing right over here? On this rug. You don't feel uncomfortable there? Interesting." Bane folded his arms and gazed thoughtfully at the two visitors. "There's a powerful talisman under the floor that protects against hostile gralic force. So I know that you guys are not here to attack me, at least not right at the moment."

"I don't follow," said Tubs. He turned to his partner in confusion. "What's he talking about, Stretch?"

The Dire Wolf watched the two men warily. "You guys must have just risen. You aren't aware yet. Do you know that you're both vampires?"

( the )

"Just Another Crisis"

"Just Another Crisis"

11/3-11/9/1993

I.


Late on a winter day, when shadows stretched in elongated caricatures across the ground, a stocky man in a long white coat got out of his new Honda Accord and closed the door silently. By the side of the road was a phone booth next to a power pole. Harold Craft entered the booth, and as he pulled its folding door shut, the interior light went on. A directory was fastened by a thin chain to its metal shelf. Craft surveyed the area suspiciously and waited until a pick-up truck going by passed out of sight.

Harold Craft looked as if he would be near sixty, well-dressed in a tan suit with dark brown tie that matched his short hair and deepset eyes. Satisfied he was not being observed, he dug at the spine of the phone book until the back cover peeled apart and revealed an 4x5 sheet of stiff paper. Now he had to read quickly. As the specially treated paper was exposed to air, letters in bright blue ink appeared but he knew they would only be visible for under a minute.

ASSIGNMENT FOR S.I.G. AUTHORIZATION: DIADEM. SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO
ACCEPT, YOU ARE TO ARRANGE FOR JEREMY BANE AKA DIRE WOLF, 28 EAST
38TH STREET NYC NY TO BE DISGRACED AND HIS PI LICENSE REVOKED TO
END HIS VIGILANTE ACTIVITIES. USE ANY MEANS NECESSARY. GOOD LUCK.

Craft retained the message the first time he read it, he had twenty years of training in spytrade, but he went through it again just as the blue letters faded and were gone. There was no way to make the message reappear, but he carefully folded the paper into a tiny square and started chewing on it. After a few minutes of pretending to thumb through the phone book, he left the booth and returned to his car. A mile down the highway, Craft wound down the window and spat the gummy wad to the road. His mind was turning over a hundred possible plans and rejecting them one after the other.

An hour later, he was pulling up to the house on the hill overlooking the Palisades. His home was a quiet red brick structure with an attached two-car garage and a back yard that blended into woods. Driving up to the garage, he pressed a button on his dashboard and the reinforced steel door slid smoothly up to admit him. It lowered again automatically as he got out and went through a door into the kitchen of his home.

Harold Craft had a den, with comfortable easy chairs and reading tables. Bookshelves lined the walls except for the full stocked bar. He glanced longingly at the decanter of Hennessy but regretfully had to put business first. Tossing his topcoat over a table, he dropped down into an overstuffed chair and sighed. A notepad and pen were at hand and he settled back to go through names in his mind.

Nothing in that house, in his car or anywhere on the property, contained the words STRATEGIC INTERVENTION GROUP. Nowhere could the names or likenesses of any of the specialists under his command be found. The most patient search would find nothing to contradict the idea that Harold Craft had been a hard-working realtor who had been careful with his money and who had planned for an early retirement so he could quietly drink and read Mark Twain, Charles Dickens and Tolstoy the rest of his life. Even now, writing on his own notepad, Craft did not write any names down, merely numbers. He thought of the specialists he could recruit as One through Fourteen.

As he wrote down four numbers, Craft nodded with tentative satisfaction. He did not have to do any research on the target, the man Bane. He had received his regular briefings on any people with unusual abilities who might someday be of interest to the Mandate. With a slight surprise, Craft found he was excited at the idea of targeting Bane. If only to find out how many of the stories about him were true.

( the rest of the story )

"A City Risen From Dust"

"A City Risen From Dust"

9/21/1217 DR

I.

His wounds still smarted as Romal guided the canoe through the reeds. At least blood had stopped seeping through the crude bandages wrapped around his left leg and his right arm. The Mongrel felt the jolt as his stolen craft come to a halt where the shallow mucky water lapped at the edge of the island. Still nimble despite a great weariness, he stood up and stepped ashore. For the next few minutes, he dragged the canoe up into some bushes and covered it with leafy branches he hacked free with what was left of his sword.

Except for his sharply pointed ears, Romal seemed to be a normal Human, an athletic young man in his prime. The Mongrel had a mane of coarse black hair which reached his neck, bound at the temples by a metal diadem. In a sullen, heavy-featured face, his dark blue eyes remained watchful even as he dropped down beneath a tree to check his injuries. Aside from bruises and stiffness, his main concern was a gash in one thigh and a slice across the upper bicep of one arm. Little was left of his travel cloak, so he cut fresh strips of its material and changed the dressing. He scowled as he got a better look at his wounds but reflected he had survived much worse.

Leaning back against the tree, Romal scanned the lake surface for any sign of the pursuing Reavers. On the horizon, a glowering red sun was setting under salmon-colored clouds. That damned Kuthor. The bandit chief had the unreasonable tenacity of a watchdog. Two days of pursuit. When he had been approached by the small raiding party with their one-handed battle axes and distinctive leather helmets bearing ear flaps, Romal had boldly sat up straighter in the saddle, rested one hand on his sword hilt and loudly dared Kuthor to do his worst. He owned little that was worth stealing in any case. In the flurry of brutal violence which had exploded, the Reavers had fallen back one after another with their heads split nearly in half, arms flying away severed from its socket, innards spilling out like ropes.

The Mongrel was no common mortal. Given unnatural birth by the Darthan Kjes, he combined the full strength of a fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man within his frame. His sword had whirled in a gleaming arc that drove blocking weapons aside and split helmets like dried wood. Within minutes, a circle of dead or dying bandits surrounded him as he sprang to face their chieftain.

But in Kuthor the Dark, Romal had met his match. The notorious black-haired marauder was a huge mountain of hard muscle, deeply tanned with many old scars running whitely across his body and limbs. Kuthor was nearly naked, clad in only a heavy kilt and high-strapped boots but he swung a two-handed broadsword with one hand the way a normal man handled a dagger. The bandit chief was not highly skilled in feints and strategy, he simply attacked with a direct primitive savagery that was overwhelming in its relentlessness. Despite his training on Maroch by fencing masters, Romal found he had his hands full with this opponent. Both of them received hits as they fought, shallow slashes and gouges which were more annoying than life-threatening. In a moment's ill-judgement, the Mongrel stopped an overhead blow too directly and his own blade snapped off seven inches up from the hilt.

Expecting to be slain in the next few seconds, Romal had taken advantage of a brief opening and crashed a closed fist to the side of Kuthor's head with a sound like a hammer hitting rock. The bandit leader had reeled back drunkenly, lowering his guard and Romal thrust his sword shard's jagged point for the man's broad chest but more of the Reavers came riding up the trail. Romal had shoved the dazed Kuthor directly into their path, forcing them to rein their horses in while he himself had leaped astride his own chestnut stallion to escape.

Then had come the long desperate chase. Night had fallen. Romal had lost the Reavers long enough to stealthily steal a canoe from some sleeping fishermen but he left his horse in exchange with its blanket and bridle. He had shoved off into the night, with only a vague memory guiding him that there was a forbidden island somewhere in this vast lake. Now he rested as his strength quickly returned.

The Mongrel was pleased by the vegetation he saw, recognizing plants which bore nuts and berries and even bark which was slightly nutritious. The presence of birds and squirrels in the area suggested that traps might nab him a meal or two, and their presence also hinted that drinkable water was available. This situation did not seem unsurvivable. Why was this island forbidden? he started to wonder before he remembered the ruins of Atravan. Feeling back to normal and wanting to get away from the shore, Romal started hiking inland. The soil was damp but not quite marshy, and the foliage was lush. He spotted a likely-looking branch five feet long and he snapped it loose with his considerable strength. As he continued walking, the Mongrel trimmed off a few branches, whittled away at one end with what remained of his sword and eventually had a serviceable walking stick that would also serve as a club. Looking a few thinner straight sticks that could be made into javelins occupied him as he headed up rising ground toward the center of the island.

From what he remembered of old tales, Atravan had been one of the first cities of Humans to flourish but that had been over a thousand years ago. When the Darthim came to power and crushed the other Races beneath their cruel sorcery, Atravan had fallen and was said to be under a vile curse. For the past twelve hundred years, the Darthan Kjes had exploited and abused and tormented all the other Races. The Trolls in their tunnels, the Gelydrim under the sea, the hidden Snake men hiding in their clandestine lives, even the immortal Eldarin who seldom left their island Elvedal. Darthan tyranny was a heavy burden on all living beings and yet... Recently Romal had been hearing whispers of a coming revolt. The prolific Humans had grown more numerous than all the other Races combined. Emboldened by sheer numbers and the strength of their armies and fortresses, Humans were beginning to stir with the thought of rebellion. A few had even dared breach the thought to Romal.

The hill was getting steep now as night fell, and the walking stick was a big help. From what he had been told, the last time anyone had ventured onto this island was a year ago. Soldiers had been sent from Signarm to scout the land, and they had returned saying there was nothing but ruins. Romal crested the rise. In the last glimmer of twilight, he gazed down on a valley of immense stone blocks lying in piles, of fallen columns and headless stone colossi. Temples and palaces stood with their roofs caved in.

Ruins indeed. The moon was rising and Romal felt he would soon fall asleep whether he wanted to or not. His body ached and his eyes burned with weariness. Finding a likely thicket, taking pains to leave no footprints in the soft earth, he crawled deeply up under cover and arranged loose branches to conceal himself. As soon as he curled up, he tumbled into slumber.

It seemed only moments later that the sunlight directly on his face awakened him. Romal mumbled, stirred and disentangled himself. His wounds had stopped stinging, at least, and the rest had restored his vitality. The Mongrel thought of finding water, gathering eggs from a bird nest or catching some small animal in a snare. Making a workable bow was within his skill set. He stretched, yawned and turned around, only to feel his mouth drop open. In the valley below him was an imposing wall of blue-white stone gleaming in the sunlight around a city as clean and fresh as if it had been erected that morning. Atravan.

( the rest of the story )

"The House of Leather Masks"

"The House of Leather Masks"

10/21/1923-10/27/1923


I.

The ragged ten year old in knickers held up a single paper from the bundle at his feet. "Extra! Another faceless corpse found in the Bowery! Police furious. Read about it while the ink's still wet!"

Moving around from behind him was a tall man in a lightweight tan suit which hung loosely over a gaunt frame. He handed the newsboy a nickel and took a fresh paper from the stack without saying anything. Seeing that expressionless face with the intense blue eyes burning beneath heavy brows, the boy snatched up the papers and scampered quickly up the block. A bolt of fear had run up his spine and he had no idea why, but he wanted to get away.

The man studied the NEW YORK HERALD, from its headline in enormous type to the single smudged photo on the second page of a face the city's financial wizards would recognize. His face remained emotionless as his eyes moved. Enoch Whelan was not bad-looking with his straight nose and prominent chin, the slicked-back black hair and sharp eyes behind round-lensed glasses. But something about him had frightened that urchin who lived on the streets and who was not easily alarmed.

"Whelan, old chum! There you are. I'm glad I found you in time for lunch." Approaching him was an older man with a substantial belly that stretched the front of his shirt into a circle. He also had black hair and blue eyes, but a jovial grin removed any resemblance between the two.

"Hello, Prewitt." Like the face, Whelan's voice displayed no emotion beyond a polite attempt at interest. "I take it you have heard of this latest outrage?"

"What, before lunch? I should think not. Come on, dear boy. The Crescent is around the corner and a table awaits us. Their chef is beyond reproach."

"Let's go then." Whelan placed the newspaper on the lower steps of a stoop as they passed. They strolled up to a doorway beneath an awning which read CRESCENT CLUB in ornate script and the stylized logo of a mere sliver of a moon. A uniformed black man with immense reserve held the door for them.

"Thank you, Claudius," Prewitt murmured. "You know Mr Whelan, I believe?"

"Yes suh, the gentleman has been here before."

"Good, good." The two of them passed through a foyer decorated with an original oil by Jervas and entered a dining room elegant with understated simplicity. The linen was spotless and the cutlery gleamed, the carpet was thick and the chandelier blazed overhead but it was all subdued and not garish. Prewitt and Whelan were ushered to a table under a window which looked out at a busy Park Avenue.

A carafe of ice water was placed between them and the waiter filled their tumblers before moving on. "We can have some wine if you like," Prewitt said. "That Volstead nonsense doesn't apply here, the Crescent is from a more sensible time."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary." Whelan studied the patrons of that dining room like a tiger selecting prospects from a herd of overfed lazy sheep. "You've already ordered for us both, I take it?"

"Yes, yes, I arranged everything yesterday. Enoch, what is eating at you? I never could read your damned poker face but even so, you're taut as a piano cord. Just once, lay your cards on the table, old man."

"Barely five years since the Armistice," Whelan said. "People thought the world could come back to life again, like Spring making flowers bloom once the snow has melted. It was not that simple."

"I do not pretend I know what you endured in the War," Prewitt mumbled. "I sat safely here, attending board meetings and counting my dollars while you.. you..."

"While I flew over Hell and Perdition for four years. Yes. The Czar's police the Ogpu were fiends from the pits themselves but I met them on their own terms. The horrors I saw, the horrors I committed, are nothing your life could prepare you to see, Prewitt."

"I'm grateful for that. I was spared what you went through."

Enoch Whelan's lips barely moved when he spoke. The tanned face remained passive even as that voice resonated with passion. "There is a storm coming that will scatter your house of cards, Prewitt. Your stock market and your mansions and your estates are sand csstles before a thunderstorm. You will lose everything. Dance faster, the stage is burning."

"...What?" came a baffled squeak. "Your poetry has always gone over my head.'

They both went silent as the waiter returned, wheeling a cart with plates too hot to comfortably touch. Roasted patridge, served with a light gravy from the cooking juices, filled their nostrils with its tempting aroma. The side dishes were autumn vegetables and traditional game chips, very thinly sliced potato crisps.

"We can talk in a few minutes," Whelan said, picking up his utensils.

"Yes, it'd be shame to not give this splendid grouse the appreciation it deserves," Prewitt replied.

Ten minutes went by before the older man finally ventured, "I say, Whelan. Did you know I've been to our old hometown of Brimstone? I was in El Paso on business and stopped where we grew up."

"You've been there more recently than I have, then."

"I dare say. That small West Texas town looks more like 1883 than 1923. Horses and wagons, barely a single auto. Only one telephone in the entire town, in the sheriff's office. And I saw three men with revolvers in gunbelts. Extraordinary."

Whelan had nearly finished his meal. "There are still shootists out on the dusty dry plains," he said. "We both know. I was one of them. Listen, Prewitt, you don't follow crime news but you must have heard of these Faceless Murders."

"Senational enough. The tabloids are enjoying those lurid deaths."

"I know who is behind them," Whelan said. "Only I can stop these killings." He lifted the water glass again. "But I need your help and you should know that it will place your own life in extreme peril."

( the rest of the story )

"Trouble In Just-Plain-Awful"

"Trouble In Just-Plain-Awful"

3/22/1878

I.


Johnny Packard was dozing on the porch in front of the livery and harness store, with his Stetson down over his face and his worn-down boots resting on the railing in front of him. The town of Just-Plain-Awful, barely a mile from the Mexican border, did not live down to its pessimistic name. The surrounding ranchers and the homesteaders had more or less come to terms, there were no hostile Natives activew in any numbers and the coming of the railroad to the area meant occasional visitors stayed for a spell at the town's hotel to spend some money. Even the one-room schoolhouse at the end of the main street was being expanded by volunteers.

Just-Plain-Awful was a good-sized burg with its own newspaper THE HARBINGER, there was a dentist, a barber and a carpentry shop, even a music hall with dancers and baggy-pants comedians and historians doing recitations about the late War. To Johnny Packard, a few days in Just-Plain-Awful suited his mood perfectly. Even the Brimstone Kid needed time to lick wounds and put trauma behind him. That week getting through Skinwalker territory had left him shaken.

Only in his early twenties, Johnny was a wiry youth below average size, no more than five feet four and weighing maybe a hundred and forty pounds. His beat-up outfit consisted of riding boots with no spurs, Levis, a red flannel shirt with an open black vest over it. The narrow sullen face with its thick red hair and deepset green eyes was concealed beneath the black Stetson for the moment. Tucked inside the beaded Navajo hatband was the damned sigil only one other living soul knew about- the ancient Darthan coin whose curse made the Brimstone Kid a real horror rather than a gunslinger nickname.

This was a town with a no-guns ordinance. Johnny had signed over his 1873 Peacemakers at the sheriff's office promptly on arrival. He was getting increasingly used to walking around unarmed as more and more places enacted such laws. Johnny had stabled his black horse Terror at a huge barn that served as a livery. While the stallion was rubbed down and curried, then his hooves inspected and his feed bag filled, Terror seemed to accept the situation equitably enough. He gave Johnny subdued snorting to indicate all was acceptable.

They had arrived early enough that the restaurant known on its sign as CHARLIE'S RETREAT was still serving wheat flapjacks, scrambled eggs and thick backbacon. Johnny plowed through the generous serving, gulped a mug of coffee and then took more time sipping the second one. He felt more sanguine with real food tucked behind his belt. If he ever settled down and stayed in one town, he figured it would be the availability of decent cooking that would seal the decision. His bedroll and his saddle were propped up inside the livery. Next, the Kid knew he should take a room in the town hotel or one of the boarding houses for the next few days. A hot soapy bath would do him no harm, and rinsing out some of his clothes might remove enough grime to restore their original color.

For now, he wanted only to snooze and be left in peace. Then he heard the footsteps shuffling through the dry dust of the street toward him. Scowling, Johnny thumbed up the brim of his hat to watch a middle-aged cowpoke in dusty clothing trudging nearer. The man was of medium height and build, apparently in his late fifties. From the sunken appearance of the mouth under the grey beard, not many teeth had survived those years. The man wore chaps over his trousers, a baggy light brown shirt with four big pockets on its front, and a dilapidated hat cocked to one side over long grimy hair. "How dya do, son," he greeted cheerfully enough.

"I don't believe we've met, suh," Johnny managed to reply in a civil tone.

"Heh, heh, not many folks has ever heard of me," came the answer as the older man came over to lean back against the railing. "My folks baptized me Rudolph Scott, but I answers to Scruffy. Once a buffalo hunter, once a fur trapper, one time a panhandler out in Californy. But the past ten years, I been escortin' beef on the hoof from Texas to Chicago. My and my partner Southpaw."

Despite his natural surly disposition, Johnny saw no reason to rebuff this man. He sat up straighter, planted his boots on the porch before him and said, "I figger you might have somethin' you want to tell me, suh."

"I do indeed, young feller. Oh, I heard many campfire tales about you. Forgive my impudence, but a youth with red hair and green eyes, riding by hisself on a big black hoss like the one over there that's a-watchin' us now... Wayll, I suspect you ain't no greenhorn from back East."

"Heh. Sure, some folks do call me the Brimstone Kid," Johnny replied. "But I gotta warn you right now, I ain't no crusading hero like the dime novels say. And don't believe half what's told around a fire at night. A feller of yore experience has to have learned better than that."

"True words, true words," Scruffy said, crumpling up his shapeless hat to reveal a circular bald patch on the crown of his head. "But recently I happened to have crossed paths with none other than Tom Pinto. Helped him out of an embarrassing moment, you might say, and we spent a day or two traveling the opposite way the posse was headin'. He mentioned to me that you wuz no make-believe hellraiser and to treat you with respect if'n I should meet up with ya. He warned me that you and him had seen things out on the plains that weren't natural no way."

Johnny could not hold back a snort that turned into a full laugh. "Tom Pinto again. Say your piece, then. I'm a-listening."

"Fair enough, let me add that I don't ask help fer myself. Nah. It's about my partner, Southpaw. We've moved a few herds of longhorns North together and gotten work fixin' up fences and shed building in the between seasons. Southpaw's a good man, Johnny, he's got yer back and his word is solid as steel. But the dern fool gets the craziest ideas in his haid and nothin' will dislodge them. He grew up in Baltimore, Maryland, see? Dint move out here to the real country until he was fifteen. What can I tell you? Southpaw writes...well, poetry. Yeah I said it. Also essays about the joy of Spring mornings and short stories about younguns fallin' in hopeless love. They been published, too, not that he ever gets more than pennies."

The Kid was at a loss. "As a wrangler?"

"Oh, he's aces. Good with a hoss, good with cattle. He can also make solid furniture like chairs and benches, and he ain't afraid of rattlers nor Ky-otes. Decent partner. We been ridin' together eight years now. Too bad he's got such a goddam SENS-tive soul."

"I'm calculating your friend has got himself in trouble."

"Yep." Scruffy took time to launch a vile spit of chewing tobacco that killed a horsefly in mid-air. "The darn fool is gettin' played fer a darn fool, no mistake. Southpaw is a big ol' galoot but he's got a heart soft as a sofa cushion. Not in this town an hour and he tumbled like a schoolboy for that Evangeline DePuy filly. She hooked him good with some yarn about a necklace dangler shaped like some Oriental dragon."

"That lady's name don't mean anything to me," Johnny said. "Can't say I spotted any Chinese or Jap folks round these parts, how's about you?"

"Seems I recollect a gentlemen of the Asian inclination sitting by the stage office," Scruffy said. "He was settling down with the thickest newspaper I ever did see, so it's possible he's gonna be there a spell."

Johnny hopped to his feet with the easy nimbleness of youth and glanced over toward the livery. He saw Terror resting amiably beneath some trees and his gear was stowed just inside the barn door. Involuntarily, his hands dropped to where the butts of his .45s would normally be waiting, but he caught himself in time and pretended to merely be hitching up his pants. "I suggest we start with this Oriental feller. Might be he's heard of this dragon pendant, might even be he's the rightful owner. You game?"

"Lead on, amigo. I feel a whole lot more confident with a proven scrapper by my side. These bones are gettin' too worn down fer rough stuff."

As they walked off, a curtain moved in a window on the second floor of the boarding house next to the them. A single long-lashed eye of a striking violet hue could be glimpsed as the curtain closed.

( the rest of the story )

"Three Deaths From a Gypsy's Curse"

"Three Deaths From a Gypsy Curse"
(A Trom Girl Mystery)

9/22/2007

I.

Along the back roads up near Buffalo, Archie McAllister pushed the red Jeep Wrangler a bit faster. He had no trouble keeping the white SUV with its little trailer in sight, since it wasn't going particularly fast, but Megan had asked him to draw closer.

They were a mismatched couple at first glance. At six foot two and two hundred and forty pounds, he was almost a foot taller and more than a hundred pounds heavier than his partner. Archie seemed to need a haircut, a shave and some sleep but somehow he always managed to look like that. He was wearing heavy tan work boots, corduroy pants and a denim jacket. The big, scarred hands on the steering wheel were competent and assured.

Sitting next to him, letting him drive for a change, the Trom Girl was fiddling with a gadget she had taken from a metal carrying case on the back seat. It looked much like a small radio except for the tuning fork protruding from one end. With the same seriousness she gave to nearly everything, Megan made some adjustments and showed the barest flicker of satisfaction as the device hummed and a green light flickered on and off.

"Hah! Picking up some progressive rock FM station, right?"

She presented Archie with an affectionate smile. "Oh you. This will allow us to have a conversation with that driver up ahead. Let's wait for a straight patch of road. I do not wish to cause an accident."

A mile further on seemed suitable. The Trom Girl aimed the tuning fork, turned up a dial and the hum increased in pitch until it was actively unpleasant. Ahead of them, the white SUV slowed and rolled to a stop. "Perfect," she announced. At twenty-eight, with her thin figure and foxlike inquisitive face under a mop of thick black hair, Megan looked quite a bit younger than she was and so was sometimes still asked for ID because people suspected she was a minor. She gave Archie a conspiratatorial wink. "Neatly done."

Archie pulled over behind the stalled SUV and put his own emergency flashers on. "How long until their engine starts up again?"

"Six minutes and twenty seconds from... now." Megan vaulted out of her door as nimbly as any gymnast. She had developed the habit of wearing Archie's red flannel shirts over her own clothes, their bottom edge reaching almost to her knees. Her claim was that this allowed her to conceal more Trom gizmos clamped to her belt but Archie figured she just enjoyed wearing the big shirts.

"Hi," she sang out cheerfully as she approached the two women in the SUV. Painted on the side of the vehicle in ornate red and blue lettering were the words LADY MELIKARNES with PSYCHIC READINGS- COUNSELING, PAST LIFE EXPERIENCES beneath the name. There was an abstract image of a human eye casting light down upon the planet Earth.

Megan came over to the driver's window as it slid down. "We saw you stall out. My boyfriend's a mechanic. If you pop the hood, I'm sure he'll have you back on the road in no time."

From the passenger seat, a dry elderly voice snapped, "You know there is nothing wrong, young one. It was you who caused our vehicle to stop working!" Peering out with venomous anger was a withered old woman bundled in a black fur coat with the collar up. Her white hair was done up in an elaborate bun with a silver pin holding it in place. The angular face, with its sunken cheeks, beaked nose and prominent chin almost meeting was so much like a stereotyped witch's face that it would have seemed comical except for the anger stamped deeply on it.

"What?" asked the Trom Girl, for once taken completely off guard. "I don't.. what do you...?"

From behind the steering wheel, the younger woman chimed in. She was maybe a ripe thirty, with full lips under a strong acquiline nose and oblique dark eyes. Her thick black hair fell down way past her shoulders in tight curls. The woman was wearing a frilly white off-the-shoulders peasant blouse that displayed an impressive bust which reached the steering wheel as she sat there. "What is your interest in us, hey? Maybe you are looking for trouble, little girl?"

Coming up to loom up behind Megan, Archie was an imposing bulk. He did not say anything, but just stayed next to her for support.

"Very well," the Trom Girl answered in her normal clinical tones again. "You are not Gypsies... that is, Romani. The truth is that you are members of the Calveron. Sometimes you are known as "the ones apart", descendants of Darthan servants who learned some of their masters' dark arts."

The women in the SUV exchanged startled glances before the younger one answered, "That is not common knowledge!"

"I am a Tel Shai knight," Megan answered. "And a Trom."

"I see. So? You have access to much wisdom that is dangerous to learn, then. Yes. We let normal Humans think we are only what they call Gypsies. It keeps our existence secret a little longer. But it is we, the Calveron, who truly have magick spells and powers, not the shoddy trickery of the Romani. We are, you might say, sharks hiding in a school of tuna. Wolves in a pack of sheep."

Megan placed her fists on her narrow hips, but despite her stern tones, she was not an intimidating sight. "I wanted to ask you about three brothers you encountered last week. The Felton boys. Ray, Stu and Horace. You remember them?"

"I remember what they said to me..." hissed the younger woman with her eyes almost closed.

"My Lopera is not a whore!" snapped the old woman. "To ask if she would go in the back of this car with those men, one at a time! It was a blood insult that can only be erased with blood."

The Trom Girl leaned in closer, trying not to sound antagonistic. "What they said was wrong and insulting. I know they had been drinking that night. They should never have said such a thing but still, no one deserves death for mere words." She met the burning glare of the young woman, Lopera, without flinching. "Two of them have wives, one has three little sons. It's not too late to forgive them."

"Forgive? That is not a word the Calveron know," Lopera spat at her. "Our memories are long and bitter. And the spell has been cast in any case, it cannot be undone."

"One shall die by a crown, one by a fall, one by a stone," cackled the old woman. "None of these will be what they expect!" She chuckled and hugged herself with glee.

Megan bent until her face was almost inside the vehicle. "Please. I don't know these men. I've never met them. But to die for foolish drunken words is so unjust."

The SUV motor started up again. Lopera shifted it into drive and gave Megan a final withering stare. "My pride has been fouled. It will be cleansed."

"By a crown, a fall and a stone!" the mother added wickedly. "Heh heh, let us go, my dear."

Just as the SUV started to move, Megan Salenger said, "We will meet again." And there was such quiet, unthreatening determination in her young voice that both of the Calveron gave her an uneasy glance as they roared off.

( the rest of the story )

"You Give Ugly a Bad Name"

"You Give Ugly A Bad Name"

2/1-2/6/2004

I.

He had been drifting up into consciousness and then sinking back down again for the longest time. Everything hurt. Despite the pain, despite his body wanting to remain unaware, part of his mind never gave up. Each time he regained consciousness, he tried to hold onto it longer without knowing why. He was sitting up. On a floor, with his back against something. Finally, he held on long enough to open one eye, the other one refusing to work. It was a cold dim room. Vague light come from a heavily curtained window to his left. He sank into darkness again. Finally, he stirred enough to look around. Near at hand was a gallon jug of water and he desperately wanted it. It seemed to take hours to make his arm reach for the jug, for his hands to fumble the plastic lid off, but finally he drank. Even in his dazed condition and with a ferocious thirst, he remembered enough to sip slowly until he was satisfied.

The water helped a lot. He must have been very dehydrated. Now Jeremy Bane remembered who he was and where he was. This was his secret hideout, the Chinatown apartment no other person knew about. Slowly getting to his knees, he reached over and grabbed a handful of beef jerky packets and ripped them open, chewing slowly. He was beginning to feel stronger. After a few more minutes, he tried to get up but fell back into a seated position. Finally, he settled for getting up on the beat-up old couch behind him. From there, he could reach the light switch.

The hideout looked the same. Weeks usually went by without his coming here. It was drab and unattractive, just a big room with a toilet and sink in one corner, with a tiny mirror over the sink. Jugs of water and cans of food were stacked along one wall. A radio sat on the floor, and there was a closet crammed with assorted clothing. On one wall was an old-fashioned clock whose hands said one-thirty. He figured it must be one-thirty in the morning by the dim light from the window. Bane was feeling a little better, but his body still ached all over. What had happened to him? He glanced down and saw his clothes were shredded, just strips of cloth hanging off him. The Trom metal armor on his body gleamed like wet silk in the vague light; it had not been pierced but he had obviously taken a lot of punishment. The armor was good but it wasn't perfect and some impact got through it.

Not feeling up to walking just yet, the Dire Wolf sipped more water and snagged a can of fruit cocktail, popping it open and eating the contents with his fingers. He began to take stock. All that was left in what remained of his pockets were the keys and his wallet. Could be worse, they were good item to retain, but his gun was gone and so was the Link and his watch. The two silver daggers were still strapped to his forearms, but one had a bent blade. That annoyed him. Bane finally got to his feet, swayed and stood still for a minute before slowly beginning to walk over to the sink.

His face was a mess, which did not surprise him considering how it felt. One eye was swollen shut. His nose had been broken and blood had dried on mouth and chin. The left side of his face was a purple bruise. Turning on warm water, he grabbed a washcloth and gingerly began cleaning up. Finally, he lowered his whole head into the sink and rinsed his hair to get the sweat out. Drying carefully, he studied the results sourly. It had been a long time since he had taken so much damage.

Now that his head was clearing, he walked slowly over to a round cannister on the pile of food and took out a handful of dried leaves. A mug sat on the shelf of the sink and he ran water in it until it was as hot as it would get, then crumpled the leaves in and stirred it with a finger. The Dire Wolf drained the contents in a gulp and immediately came back to normal. The tagra leaves were only available at Tel Shai. As a Tel Shai knight, he had been on a tagra diet for more than thirty years and his healing powers had been boosted past what medical science would recognize as possible.

He was almost moving at his normal pace. Bane went to check that the door and window were locked, then stripped off the armor and took a sponge bath by the sink. His body had zero fat, all long lean muscle like a runner and it was covered with bruises but now the pain had subsided to a dull ache. The Dire Wolf still could not remember what had happened to leave him in this state. He figured he had better put the Trom armor back on, so only his hands, neck and head were exposed. Discarding his ruined clothes in a corner, Bane went to the closet and dug out a pair of black jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt. There was a bag of clean socks and underwear, and two pair of boots. He got dressed almost as quickly as he normally would, with an occasional wince or grunt.

The Dire Wolf went back to the couch to think. He still had no idea what the situation was. There was no phone here, either.

All he could figure was that he had been seriously injured, almost killed, and had managed to make it here. A sudden surge of cold anger rose up inside him at the realization. He finished the water and ate some more, a cold can of beans for protein.
Bane washed his hands and went back to the closet. He had decided not to keep an arsenal here but in the pocket of a black coat was a loaded .38 revolver and a box of shells. Great, there they were. He shrugged the coat on. There was a make-up kit in the closet and he carried it over to the sink to use the mirror. In his long career, he had only used disguises a handful of times but now he thought it was a good idea. Bane applied some pancake make-up to his face, working it in until the bruising was only a faint shadow. The broken nose he couldn't do anything about at the moment. A pair of glasses with a 20% tint helped hide the swollen eye. What else? Reluctantly, he combed a solution into his hair that left numerous gray strands until the natural black was almost gone. That would have to do. Bane frowned at his reflection. Disguises felt like hiding to him, but he had to be realistic thatsometimes they were necessary. Checking his gun again, making sure that daggers on his arms were ready to slid out when needed, he turned off the lights and opened the door a crack. No one was in the hallway.

Bane trotted silently down the worn stairs to the ground floor and stood by the front door for a second. The only other exit would set off an alarm. Finally, he opened it and stepped out into a freezing night and a deserted Mott Street. Great. As far as he could tell, no one had spotted him. Bane turned north and started walking quickly uptown.

( the rest of the story )