"Colder Than Ice"
May. 17th, 2022 05:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Colder Than Ice"
(5/27/1979) [original "Cold As Ice"]
12/16/1984
The Castaways was an appealing restaurant, with decent food and a warm atmosphere. The wine list was pathetic, Griffin thought sourly, but that could be overlooked. American servings were always too large, of course, and the tea was much too sweet. Still, he thought, I rather like this place. I'm glad I won't have to kill anyone here. Across the table from him sat Inca, who was helping him devour the plate of stuffed mushrooms with parmesan cheese. She was an attractive blonde woman around thirty, with huge dark blue eyes. Inca was a bit thin, even delicate in appearance but this was deceptive. Griffin knew from experience she could be as deadly when the moment came as any operative in Her Majesty's Service and she had so many skills in languages and observation that she was invaluable.
Taking a sip of the chilled rose wine and putting the glass down with a barely audible sigh, she watched Griffin with anxiety in her expression. "Are you certain this is the right move?"
"Nothing is certain in this game," Griffin replied. He was a quiet man of average size, with a sprinkling of grey in his brown beard. His face was deeply lined. Griffin was in his forties, but years of stress and deceit had aged him quickly. He toyed with his food idly. "Inca, do you know anything more about this man?"
"Very little," she said frankly. "No one seems to have a handle on this Dire Wolf, Jeremy Bane. He is definitely an American, but with no backtrail of documentation. Seven years ago, he hired on as a field agent for Kenneth Dred. The late Kenneth Dred. Bane has collected an assortment of similar wild cards to act as his own team. There are many reports of their activities but they can't possibly be accurate. The KDF seems to investigate the paranormal, the supernatural if you like."
Griffin broke in. "I've heard that. And where they concern us is their clashes with international crime lords. Wu Lung. John Grim. Karl Eldritch. These are impressive opponents even for a national security agency, let alone a handful of amateur ghostbusters. Last summer, Bane's KDF managed to pit Wu and Grim against each other, leading to both empires being ruined. John Grim is now in a vegetative state in a Virginia hospital, and the doctors say his chances of healing are slim. Some terrible shock was given to his brain, a trauma like a lightning bolt. As for Wu Lung, he was crippled but managed to escape and go into hiding. Without his iron hand, his network of smugglers and slavers fell apart at once. How the KDF managed this, no one knows."
"I don't understand," Inca said softly. "Why is this Bane trusted with classified information? He is a loose cannon in the worst sense. I can't see why he is allowed to operate this way. Our employers do not give anything away with getting something in return."
"As best I can figure, our superiors see Bane as a useful weapon against threats they dare not challenge. I believe the American CIA has also given him information to send him against a menace, as has Department 21 Black. And we have many reports of the New York City Police Department calling in Bane and the KDF when unexplainable killings occur. All off the record, of course."
"Of course," came a third voice right at their elbows.
Both Griffin and Inca gave a start and looked up in surprise. Despite all their experience, a young man in black had entered the restaurant so silently that they had not heard him approach. The agents felt personally affronted by this.
Jeremy Bane was in his late twenties, dressed in a black turtleneck and sport jacket. His body matched his face- long, hard, uncompromising. His shaggy hair was black. From under heavy brows glittered the two coldest grey eyes either of the agents had ever seen. His war name was no accident, there was indeed a wolfish air about him. Griffin realized with a sinking feeling that he was impressed against his will, even a little intimidated. "Ah, the Dire Wolf, I guess?"
"That's right. You left me a message to come here."
"Please, join us," said Inca, gesturing to an empty chair. Bane sat down at the table. A traveller, she thought. He is originally from Manhattan but he has traveled since then. A slight Asian tinge to his vowels, she concluded.
A waitress came up but Bane dismissed her. "Nothing for me, thanks." After she left, he turned his full attention to the two agents. "Well, I'm here."
Griffin said, "My name is Stan Connelly and this is my wife Susan. We are here-"
"Hold it," Bane interrupted with an upraised hand. "Aliases are so awkward. I know who you two are. You're James Welshofer, code named Griffin and this is Adrienne Maurer, Inca. You're agents of the Mandate. My team has had problems with the Mandate before and I took the trouble to learn a little bit about the organization."
"Very well," the blonde said briskly, diverting Bane's focus toward her. "We ARE Inca and Griffin, as you say. I imagine Bane is not your real name, either?"
"Real enough. I was an orphan from the streets, I named myself." He leaned forward and said, "Let's get down to business."
"In one sentence, then. We want you to help us rescue a woman from being held and tortured," Inca whispered.
Bane said nothing, but his eyes suddenly flared with new interest. Before he had been distant, even distracted.
"There is a renegade KGB unit here in New York, Mr Bane, and they have kidnapped a young woman we were observing. The leader of the unit is a man named Rodchenko, a student of the Red Blade."
"I see," Bane said. "The Red Blade was Stalin's only terrorist who used gralic sorcery. That's why you wanted me. There is some magick involved."
"Very true," Inca put in. "As much as we hate to admit it, there does seem to be the so-called supernatural in this. Rodchenko reportedly has the ability to kill people just by touching their skin. He is referred to even by his own employers as 'the warlock.' Even worse, the unit has a freelance working for them, a man named Seth."
Bane scowled. "The Weapons Master. Seth Petrov. He's quite a joker."
"Perhaps too formidable for just Inca and myself to tackle," Griffin admitted. "We could request a back-up squad from our agency but they would not get here for hours. Perhaps not until morning. Our orders are not to involve the local police, as the fewer who know of this, the better. You are said to be reliable and discreet."
The Dire Wolf gave what they would come to recognize as a smile, just the faintest upturn of the corners of his mouth. "I've been useful to your agency. Let's not have any illusions about it, the Mandate has no respect or concern for me, but I have my uses."
"Fair enough," Griffin said, taking a last forkful of the stuffed mushrooms. "The Mandate was established to, shall we say, patrol the edges of the known and unknown. International espionage seems to cross over into your Midnight War with some frequency. But let's concern ourselves tonight with the fate of Jessica Segal."
Inca took over, "She is a student at Columbia, married to an insurance office manager, Henry Segal. They lived in Flushing. Two days ago, she did not attend her class and he did not show up for work. Her sister was concerned and called the police, but they have gotten nowhere. No leads. Our agency is aware of this because we have been observing Mrs Segal for some time now. You see, Mr Bane, she has a wild talent, some form of ESP if you like. This is what the Mandate follows. In experimental tests, she has been observed making fires go out and bringing room tempature water to near freezing. She can apparently lower the air around her by as much as fifteen degrees. No one can explain how this is done, but naturally our agency is interested. You can imagine how valuable this talent could be."
"I've seen how the Mandate can exploit people with special talents," Bane snorted angrily. "But go on."
"Pavel Rodchenko learned of Mrs segal's gift. How we don't know," said Inca. "We had one man watching the Segal house and he was taken off duty by a faked message. Another of our agents was brutally murdered in Manhattan, a showy crime which drew our attention there. Seth did this. While our people were distracted, the Segals were abducted."
"I guess you have no idea where they are now?"
"None," Inca admitted with a rueful shrug of her shoulders. "We believe they are in the metropolitan area but we can't pinpoint it further. We do not have the staff for a dragnet and policy is not to call in outside authority for security reasons."
Griffin took over, shoving the plate away from him on the table. "To be honest, there is the usual rivalry and between agencies. But you! You, Mr Bane, are an outsider. You can be called upon without stirring up jealousy from the CIA or Black 21."
"Fair enough," Bane said. He pushed back his chair, getting ready to stand up. "And I think I can add something. I know where Seth will be, and the others will likely be with him. Seth has had a house rented for the past year that he thinks is a secret."
"Really? And how do you know this?"
Bane rose. "I don't think I should tell you. It's enough that I do know." Although he was not willing to reveal it to the Mandate, the Dire Wolf had worked on several occasions with Seth's younger brother, Ethan. The two sibilings had long been bitter rivals, a situation which had degraded to outright hatred in recent years. Ethan would not challenge Seth openly, but he admitted he would not mind seeing the Dire Wolf tackle him and wondered who would survive. It was Ethan who had revealed some of Seth's hideouts to Bane. "We should get going. We'll take my car, you two can call for agents to pick you up after it's all over."
The Mandate agents also got up, Griffin leaving money on the table and a generous tip. He was unhappy with the way this loose cannon was just taking over, but he was detached enough to realize it might be for the best. If things went badly, this Dire Wolf could easily be set up to take the blame. But then, Griffin realized as he watched the intense young man, Bane had been doing this work for years and had not been made the patsy yet.
They left the Castaways, with Griffin helping Inca get into her down-filled coat. Cold night air hit them with a vengeance. it was threatening to snow, and fine ice crystals stung their eyes. Greenwich Village was almost deserted. Bane walked them to a dark blue Chevy Malibu parked at the end of the block, and unlocked the doors for them. With Inca in the passenger seat and Griffin in the back, Bane took the wheel and pulled away from the curb. The two agents gave each other brief worried glances.
II.
Seth rose impatiently from his chair and snatched up the three-foot bo staff. He was a tall, thin man in his early forties with short dark hair over a bony face. The pale blue eyes were introspective and withdrawn, without interest in others. He wore a plain white T-shirt and denim jeans, with work boots and a wide leather belt. Fastened at the small of his back were twin knife sheaths. It was hot in the house, because Rodchenko hated being cold and had cranked up the thermostat. Seth didn't care, he hardly noticed. He listened to the whimpers and crying from the bedroom, then turned placidly away and began to practice. When he spun and swung the staff, Seth became as graceful as any Olympic athlete going through a routine but his thoughts were all about killing. His skill was at the upper levels of Human ability, challenged only by his younger brother Ethan.
He knew what the warlock was doing to the Segal couple in that room and it didn't bother him a bit. It was just a job. His thoughts were on the possibility of American agents showing up in an attempt to rescue the two prisoners and that excited him. CIA or FBI, it didn't matter. He had killed a half dozen of each, perfecting his art. People were useful targets. Seth swerved and ducked, jumping in the air and crouching low, the hardwood staff whistling through the air as he dispatched imaginary opponents. There! and there! The Weapons Master's face split with a wicked grin. He was better than ever.
The bedroom door opened and Valentin Rodchenko emerged. He was known as the Black Bear for obvious reason, his huge body was covered with thick dark hair. The backs of his oversized hands bristled. His beard was short but bushy, so black it almost had blue highlights. Rodchenko wore an expensive suit, tailored to help conceal the heavy belly. "Seth," he called in Russian, "would you please bring your sword in here?"
Carefully leaning the staff against the wall, the Weapons Master went to fetch his most prized possession from its rack. In an ornate wooden sheath was the katana forged by Kozukawa himself in the 15th Century. Seth loved the perfectly balanced weapon, its edge sharper than a mere razor, and it made his pulse leap to heft the sword in his hands as he went into the bedroom. He ignored Rodchenko and the two assistants who served the Black Bear even when, as now, he was working without the knowledge of his superiors in the KGB. Rodchenko had many projects of his own underway that the Kremlin knew nothing about. Seth stepped over to the double bed.
Jessica Segal was tied face up and spread eagled on that bed. Her naked body would have been desirable, if it were not covered as it was with bruises and cuts. Surgical tape covered her mouth. Her dark brown eyes moved wildly about and Seth knew she had crossed into hysteria. A wave of light brown hair had fallen over half her face and she was shiny with sweat. He moved past her to where her husband was tied to spikes driven in the wall.
Henry Segal looked to be about thirty, slightly soft around the waist, average in every way. The marks of torture stood out on his naked body, an unbroken array of gashes, burns and bruises. Only one eye remained. His face and crotch were crusted with dried blood but the tape over his mouth kept him silent.
"Our guest is not being compliant," Rodchenko rumbled deep in his chest. "I fear that stronger measures are necessary. Kill her husband in a dramatic way to break her last resistance." The warlock was glad he had stationed his assistants downstairs, watching the front and back doors; they did not need to see this.
He had spoken in Russian but his tone was that of a judge pronouncing sentence, and Jessica caught its intent. Her bonds to the bedposts had rubbed her skin raw at wrists and ankles, where blood still glistened wetly. She tried again to wiggle loose, only causing herself more pain. Her large brown eyes pleaded desperarely with the warlock, who did not react. Jessica's body shook with sobbing but no tears came. She had cried herself out hours ago.
Henry Segal was dazed, in such shock that he did not react to Seth's entrance. He stared dully straight ahead, mouth hanging open to reveal where teeth had been broken and yanked brutally out. Rodchenko and his two thugs stepped back to watch. With the calm detachment of an artist contemplating a half-finished canvas, Seth Petrov studied his victim. Yes. This had to be done with precise timing to give the watching girl enough of a chance to follow. He moved back ten feet.
The grandson of the Red Blade spun his sheathed sword and twirled it up into the air like a baton. As the weapon left his hands, he drew both knives from the back of his belt and threw them glittering to sink deep into Segal's wrists. Even as dazed as he was, Segal responded to the new stabs of pain with a sharp cry of agony and despair. Moving in a blur, Seth
caught the sword as it came back down and drew it. Three strokes flashed in a split-second, deft and murderous. The first slash cut entirely through Segal's left wrist and the second went through the left wrist. As the man screamed through the tape over his mouth and started to fall, Seth dropped into a kneeling crouch and swung a full-power stroke that chopped entirely through Henry Segal at the thickest part of the torso. Killed instantly, the man dropped with a wet thump to the floor in two halves. His hands remained tied to the wall.
Seth let out his breath with a low, sinister rasp. He snapped his head around to glare at Rodchenko for a second. As he rose, Seth turned away to wipe his blade and retrieve his knivdes, but for that second he had let the mask slip. The ravenous fury within him had shown through in the excitement of his kill, and now it was likely that the warlock realized what a dangerous maniac he was working with.
The Black Bear was silent, watching Seth like a man near a rearing cobra. The rumours were true, he realized, the man is quite mad. As soon as they returned home, he would recommend that Seth be put away. Rodchenko remembered the Red Blade and he frowned. Even if Seth was Igor Petrov's grandson, it didn't matter. This Weapons Master was unstable. Too bad that the other Petrov brother, Ethan, had not returned to Mother Russia. FRom all reports, Ethan had more humanity and he was at least equal in skill. But Ethan would not kill on command and he had made it difficult for KGB agents to reach him. For the moment, then, the cold heartless minds in the Kremlin had concentrated on using Seth.
Wheeling to face Jessica Segal, the warlock saw she had passed out. He slapped her awake and bellowed in English, "Your husband is dead! He is dead. There is no one to save you. Talk now. Tell us how you freeze things or this will go on forever. We have the rest of your life to break you and you WILL talk."
She did not respond. Rodchenko turned awsay with a growl of disgust in his beard, crossing over to open both windows. Cold night air rushed in with a scattering of snow flakes. "You have not begun to suffer, woman," he rumbled. The warlock went into the adjoining bathroom and soaked a towel under the faucet. He returned to swab it over her naked body. "This will help. Now we will touch our minds, you and I."
Dragging over a straightback chair, Rodchenko dropped down it within arm's reach of the shivering girl. Using gralic energy for a bridge, he sent out his mind to probe for hers. Jessica was shaking from more pain and grief than she had ever known existed in the world. Freezing air blew across her wet skin, she felt her toes and fingers go numb.
Strangest of all, even through the shock of her ordeal, Jessica Segal was aware of something happening deep inside her. Like a door being closed, her sorrow seemed to be going away, hidden. A hard cold lump formed in her chest where her heart was. It was like a frozen rock, spreading cold through her body from within. She felt colder than ice.
III.
"There it is," said Bane as they approached a two-story white frame house on E. 235th Street. It had a seperate garage and a tiny front yard, and parked in front of it was a black Cadillac. "You guys follow and use your own judgement. There's no time to be subtle." Bane brought his car to a halt and leaped out. The house was dark except for two lights showing on the second floor and, strangely, one window seemed to be pulled up as open as possible.
Before Griffin and Inca could get out of the car, Bane had already crossed the front yard. They were startled by the speed with which the young man moved. The two had not believed the tales told of Jeremy Bane but now they saw him in action. Quicker than his namesake, the Dire wolf raced across the yard, jumped up onto a windowsill and leaped straight up. The momentum of his rush and the coiled strength in his body drove him up over eight feet to grasp the ledge of the second story window. Years of training and practice went into use. With an ease that looked effortless, Bane swung his legs up and over, diving neatly into the open window.
The killers inside had the barest instant of warning. They turned the heads at the soft thump from outside, just as a man in black hurtled in through the open window as if he had been thrown from a catapult. Rodchenko broke off his telepathic thrust into Jessica. On his feet as he landed, the Dire Wolf took one flashing step forward and drove out his leg to smash a lightning side kick into Seth, knocking the Weapons Master through the open door into the hall outside. Bane had never met Seth before but he had heard a lot about him and he had no intention of dealing with both that maniac and the Black Bear at the same time. As the surprised Weapons Master was propelled into the hall, Bane slammed the door shut and locked it, whirling around to face Rodchenko. He didn't have a second's grace before the warlock attacked.
The Black Bear drew back his open hand and thrust it forward in a clawing motion, dark gralic energy crackling from his fingers to hit Bane in a burst of blood-red flame. The warlock was confused as the sorcerous force swirled over the Wolf without harming him, and then the man in black was on him like a real wolf. Bane's fist actually made a whistling noise as it arced around to slam on the side of Rodchenko's bearded jaw. Spun halfway around by the impact, the warlock caught a backfist right on the chin that sent him lurching back and to the floor. Still moving, Bane lunged to slam the windows shut. The room was frigid; he could see his own breath. The Dire Wolf saw the pile of blankets and bedspreads on the floor and scooped them up to cover the quivering girl. Too bad I can't untie her and get her to safety, thought Bane, but Seth will be through that door any second.
Bane straightened and saw for the first time what had been done to Henry Segal. The body lay where it had fallen in unequal halves, with the severed hands still tied to spikes in the wall. Despite all his training in self-control, Bane felt a wave of killing fury rise up inside him. Behind him, Valentin Rodchenko was getting to his feet, hurt by those punches but far from beaten. The burly Russian sorceror was a tough, experienced fighter who had killed men with his bare hands more than once. He rose with a curse under his breath, knotting his hairy hands into huge fists.
The Dire Wolf stood with his back to Rodchenko, staring at the remains of Henry Segal. Then, faster than an untrained eye could follow, he whirled and was on top of the KGB renegade with a ten-second barrage of short hooking punches to the body. Bane threw three blows a second, each a full-power blast that broke bones under his knuckles' impact. It sounded like drumming. Rodchenko could not fall until the assault was ended; Bane's punches were keeping him up even after he was unconscious. As the Dire Wolf stepped back, lowering his fists, Rodchenko fell face down and his head bounced on the hardwood floor.
IV.
As they watched Bane leap straight up into a second story window, Griffin and Inca gave each other dumbfounded glances. It had looked as if he had hit a trampoline but he had merely hopped up onto a window ledge and shot upwards.
"Perhaps we should wait and see what happens?" Griffin asked. "A man like him... we might just get in the way."
Inca tied back her dark blonde hair with a ribbon and got out of the car. "It's tempting. I am not eager to face Seth Petrov OR Valentin Rodchenko. But I think our superiors will hold it against us if we let this man do all the work." She drew a small .32 revolver from inside her jacket and put a cartridge into the empty chamber so that it held six shots.
"Yes." Griffin was strangely reluctant. He was no coward, he had proved that many times. But at that moment he had a feeling of doom he could not explain. With Inca beside him, he strode briskly up the short paved walkway to the front door. There was no porch, the door stood at ground level with a tiny wooden box of earth next to it... a garden for spring. Griffin and Inca had rehearsed this before. He pulled his own sidearm, a .45 Colt automatic, and turned sideways to give the door a good hard kick. It flew inward and his partner dove inside, rolling across the dark room with her pistol in both hands. Griffin followed, just as the flash of a gun inside exploded. He sighted a big man in a tan suit and he snapped off two shots. The Russian doubled up and dropped to his knees. Griffin wheeled in a semi-circle, saw the other thug just as Inca fired from the floor. Her bullet caught the man in the throat. It had all taken place in a second or two. Inca was getting to her feet, scanning the room, as Griffin stepped to flick on the lights. The man he had shot managed to get off another round before falling face down. Griffin heard a twang as the bullet passed close by and he saw with horror Inca catching the slug right in the center of her chest. She dropped her gun as she crumbled up. For one more second, Griffin had to confirm that the man who had shot her was out of action, but he was lying face up with his eyes open. Stepping over, Griffin kicked him in the side of the head hard but got no response.
Only then could Griffin go to his partner. He lifted Inca and saw her eyes were open and unmoving. Even though he knew with a dreadful certainty she was dead, he pressed a finger to the side of her throat and felt no pulse. Griffin slowly rose. Ten years in military intelligence, three in MI 6 before being sent to work for the Mandate, he had seen more than his share of violent death and he had watched a partner die before. It didn't help. He told himself he had hardly known Inca, had never met her until a week ago. They had never been lovers, not even friends really. It didn't help. Nothing did. This was the blow too far that broke him. Griffin sank to his knees and lowered his head and struggled to catch his breath. He felt like a great weight was pressing on his chest.
V.
Jessica had lost all feeling in her body, and even her emotions were numb and distant. A few seconds ago, she had been on the brink of comprehending what was happening to her, but then the flow of rich gralic energy from Rodchenko's mind to her had broken off. Her eyes were open and she saw Bane's violent entry into the room. No matter, she realized calmly. The process was under way and it could not be stopped now.
She no longer suffered. Frost formed on her body, on the blankets which had been thrown over her. White crystals glittered on her face. She was free of terror or sorrow, knowing only a pressing need to avenge. The grisly sight of her husband's corpse registered as from a distance but it meant nothing to her now. That was over. Her life as a loving human woman was now history. Her first step must be to give herself freedom of motion. The woman who had been Jessica Segal concentrated on the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. Intuitively, without knowing how, she lowered the air around the ropes nearly to absolute zero. Using gralic energy awakened by the warlock's intrusion into her mind, Jessica siphoned away all heat from the ropes so suddenly that they became brittle.
Even as those ropes broke off, Jeremy Bane sent Valentin Rodchenko to the floor with a dozen fractures, including a broken collarbone and three ribs. The Dire Wolf's face was ferocious with an anger he had not allowed himself to feel in years. Even his toughened hands felt sore from the pounding he had given the Black Bear. Calm down you fool, he told himself. Control. Discipline.
It had only been a few seconds since he had shoved Ethan out into the hall and Bane knew the man would crash back in. Reaching behind him, he drew his dart pistol and clicked its mechanism. Suddenly he wished he had brought a good old-fashioned gun that shot real bullets. He had read Shiro's report of a duel with the Weapons Master and if Shiro Mitsuru had had his hands full, Bane did not want to take any chances. As he raised the dart gun, the door crashed inward and Seth burst back into the room, sword in hand.
The first clash between Bane and Seth only lasted a few seconds. The Dire Wolf extended the dart pistol and Seth struck the gun itself, slapping it away with its barrel sliced in half. Even as his weapon spun to one side, Bane plunged forward and threw a backfist that cracked against Seth's cheek with a noise like a hammer hitting rock. The Weapons Master backpaced a few steps, twirling the sword in a defensive figure 8 pattern. The two men glared at each other with new respect.
Damn, thought Bane, he's ruined the dart gun. Those things were expensive. The Dire Wolf was wearing his street clothes and not the full field suit with its heavier armor and helmet, so he did not have the full range of weapons and gadgets on him. He had sacrificed some firepoower to look less conspicuous in the restaurant. He still felt no fear at all, merely a professional interest in how he was going to beat this maniac.
Seth moved one feet an inch, shifting his grip on the katana's hilt. To someone with Bane's training, those tiny movements announced the Weapons Master's intentions like a bugle call. Even through the Trom foil armor under his clothes, Bane could feel the room had gotten much colder in the last few seconds. That was odd because he had closed the windows and the door was open to the rest of the house. That bedroom should have gotten warmer but it was below freezing. There was no time to think about that now, though.
For one last instant, Bane and Seth looked each other in the eyes, gauging, analyzing. There was hatred in the Weapon Master's eyes, a gleeful anticipation of killing. On the surface, Bane's face was calm and confident, but the fierce gleam in those grey eyes gave him away.
In one lightning movement, Bane shrugged off his jacket and flung it right into his opponent's face. Seth was not caught that easily, of course. With the back of his blade, he sent the garment flying to one side. But he was exposed for that split-second, which was all the Dire Wolf wanted. Bane blasted a high side kick in the chest, throwing him back against the wall directly behind him. Still charging, Bane came in for the deciding punch and almost ran into the point of the sword that seemed to come up from nowhere. Using his own momentum, the Dire Wolf spun to stand alongside his enemy and drove a savage elbow to the stomach. The following backfist only cracked plaster off the wall as the Weapons Master dove away. He's sure fast for a Human, Bane thought. He leaped backwards as he sensed an opening in his own defenses and the sword sliced across his chest.
Once again, the two masters had clashed for a second and then drew back to analyze the flurry of fighting. Bane knew that his three connecting blows had hurt Ethan but not done any real damage. That backfist had only hit the wall; it had been a long time since any enemy had been able to dodge his punches. Bane touched his chest and felt that the turtleneck had a diagonal slash across it, exposing the dark gleam of the flexible armor beneath. Seth saw that metallic glint and included it in his plan. Armor, perhaps a sophisticated bulletproof vest. No matter, thought the Weapons Master-- head and hands were still exposed, which would be more than good enough.
Despite his better judgement, Bane felt compelled to glance over at Jessica Segal. He was stunned to see that she was trying to get up and that the entire bed was coated with a thick layer of frost. The Dire Wolf shuddered at the realization of how incredibly cold that room had become. Without thinking, he dropped to one knee just as that katana hummed through the air where his head had been. Get me while I'm not looking, eh? he thought as he leaped up and forward. The Weapons Master's blade came hissing at him in the return stroke and Bane blocked it with his forearm. The ancient Samurai sword rebounded off the Trom armor beneath the black sleeve and the muscular arm beneath the armor. Seth lost the advantage as he had to bring the sword back in line, leaving himself open. Bane drove his fist deep into his enemy's stomach like a steel piston, then shifted to blast an uppercut with all his strength. Tough as he was, not even Seth could shrug off those blows. Bane's conditioned fists could break bricks like brittle china.
Backing against the wall, Seth wove a complicated web of razor-edged steel in front of him. Trying to get in close, Bane felt sharp stinging pain in his face and he was shocked to realize blood was running down the side of his neck. He was cut across the cheek. He couldn't believe it. Seth had cut him.
Watching his wounded opponent, the Weapons Master leered in satisfaction. It was a mere scratch, true, just a shallow wound across the left cheek which would bleed freely but not impair ability. But he figured it would immobilize his enemy. Once a victim realized he was injured, he would usually lose the will to carry on. Seth expected this so-called Dire Wolf to begin looking for escape.
Just out of reach, Bane gingerly touched the wound and saw his fingers wet with his own blood. In that instant, Seth was doomed. The Wolf lunged forward. Fingers strong as steel closed tight around the Russian's wrist, pulling the man's arm out straight. With his other hand, Bane pried open the Weapons Master's clawlike fingers and got the hilt free. What happened next was too fast for any observer to have followed. As the sword fell out of Seth's grasp, Bane shifted his weight and threw a reverse crescent kick that whipped his boot in a tight circle. The sword spun away, end over end, to stick deep in the wall on the other side of the room. During the split-second in which this happened, a wave of arctic wind swept over the room and a chilling mist hung in the air. Neither fighter noticed it. They were locked in the final stage of their duel.
Bane was holding Seth's right wrist with his own left hand, which had allowed him to get the sword away but which left him open. Trying to break that painful grip, the Russian killer drew his dagger with his left hand and stabbed right at his enemy's throat. His hand stopped short in mid-air. Seth's maniacal eyes softened with the first hint of uncertainty. Bane had caught that attack with his other hand and now he held both of Seth's wrists in grips so tight that their circulation was cut off. Bane could not have spoken at that moment. All his awareness was focussed into a fighting machine, drawing on long years of Kumundu training under Teacher Chael. The Dire Wolf's eyes were so pale they seemed like frozen steel.
Struggling, Seth glanced over at the dresser near him. Anything there could become a deadly weapon once in his hands- lamp, hairbrush, mirror. Anything. But it was all just out of reach and he knew with a sick certainty that it all might as well be miles away. Bane flung the man's arm down violently and launched his final attack. Before the Weapons Master could react, the Wolf smashed a dozen punches, alternating left and right, crushing full-power straight blows that slammed forward into the man's torso and face. One tooth came out, slicing open the knuckle that had broken it. Blood spurted from the crushed nose and both eyes swelled shut. Yet, even in his fury, Bane did not throw the killing stroke. Even though he wanted to kill, part of him knew that this man was too valuable for that.
Seth's head dropped and Bane held his fist. The Weapons Master slumped to the floor. Stepping back, the Dire Wolf swayed and almost staggered before straightening up. He has to live, he thought, Seth has knowledge of the Red blade and Karl Eldritch and the White Web. We need that information. Turning stiffly, Bane picked up his jacket from the floor and located an antiseptic gauze pad from an inner pocket. It was self-adhesive and he pressed it over the gash in his cheek. He still couldn't believe Seth had cut him like that. Seth was good, yes, but he was still only a human being. For the first time in years, he wondered if there were other Humans who could match his enhanced speed and perhaps even surpass it. But there was no time for that now. He managed to get into his jacket.
It suddenly struck him just how cold that room had gotten. It was worse than being locked in a meat freezer. Bane straightened his jacket with sore hands and slowly turned to stare at what had happened to Jessica Segal.
VI.
She had gotten free. The ropes binding her had frozen and broken into chips. Naked but unaffected by the freezing air in that room, she stood motionless on the bed. A faint glistening layer of frost covered her skin. Her hair seemed lighter than it had been when Bane had first seen her just a few minutes earlier.
In one corner of the room, Valentin Rodchenko lurched to his knees, still disoriented by the beating he had received. The Black Bear knew he was badly hurt, he needed medical attention and was unable to summon his gralic powers. In fascinated horror, he had watched Bane defeat Seth. The American fighter was a whirlwind of destruction. Rodchenko tried to get to his feet and couldn't make it. He fought down vomit. In despair, he realized his career was over, whether the CIA got hold of him or whether his own organization claimed him and punished him for his transgressions. He managed to get up on one knee and tried to pull himself to his feet when he heard an eerie voice call out, "Turn."
Rodchenko managed to turn around, his ribs aching as he breathed and he stopped short as he saw his former victim on the bed. Jessica stood like a statue, staring down at the warlock with the finality of an executioner. Her eyes were a pale crystal blue, less human, and her fine-textured hair was an ash-blonde that was almost white. She looked like a strange ice goddess from some mythological past. Her gaze was detached, calm and without any trace of pity.
"You killed my husband," she said barely above a whisper. "You killed ME." Jessica raised one small hand and waved it in a dismissive gesture, sending out a wave of invisible gralic force that struck Rodchenko like a superchilled blast from outer space. The man died instantly as his body froze solid and he toppled over to hit the wooden floor with a clunk.
Jessica felt no triumph. It had been necessary to avenge, but Henry's death seemed remote and long ago. Even her hatred over all that had been done to her was muted. This man and his thugs had beaten and tortured and molested her but it hardly seemed to matter anymore. She felt neutral inside, colder than ice and just as untouched. In a strange way, she was glad she had gone through this transformation because it had changed her so completely that she might as well have been anew person.
For a long moment, she stared at the man in black who had come to rescue her and who now watched her with concern in his face. It was an important moment as her last traces of gratitude and sentiment fixed on the Dire Wolf. He had saved her, she realized, because it was his entrance which had broken off the warlock's invasion of her mind. This man had beaten the warlock and the swordsman so that her metamorphosis could complete itself without interruption. Before the final vestige of emotion left her, Jessica realized she owed her life to the stranger.
With years of experience in the Midnight War, Bane realized what had happened. He stepped closer. "Listen. My name is Jeremy. I am here to help you. If you can turn down your new power, do so. Later you can experiment, but right now you could drain yourself. Here," he struggled with stiffening hands to unfasten the tiny Eldar talisman from his jacket. It was an arrow of white gold on a fine chain, and it was this which had dissipated Rodchenko's gralic bolts which would otherwise have killed him. Bane managed to lower the chain around her neck. At once, it soothed and calmed Jessica's still untrained gralic transformation. She sighed in relief and lost the menacing aspect.
"Good. Come on, let's get you out of here." He found Rodchenko's heavy overcoat draped on a chair and put it around her shoulders. It reached past her knees. "Can you walk? Good. Come with me." Bane led her from that room. The woman never glanced back at the gruesome remains of her husband but gazed calmly straight ahead. Giving Seth a wary glare, Bane wanted to tie him up, with strips of blankets or with his own belt, but by now his hands had swollen so he could hardly use them. No matter how conditioned they became, hands were not designed by Nature to take punishment like that and he knew he was in for a few days of clumsiness.
At the top of the steps they met Griffin, just coming up. "Inca's dead," he told Bane quietly.
"I'm sorry," the Dire Wolf said. "I didn't really know her."
"It's the game we choose to play," the Mandate agent sighed. "It could just as easily have been me. Maybe next time it will be."
"Griffin! Listen. Go in there and secure Seth. Tie him up proper. I'd do it but my hands are useless now. We'll wait for you." As the agent complied, the Wolf adjusted the coat on Jessica. "Feel better? You've been through a lot, Mrs Segal."
"There is no Mrs Segal, not any more. She is dead," the woman said in low tones. "I need a new name. Call me... Frost. Jessica Frost."
"All right, if that's what you want. Listen, I want to take you to Tel Shai. The Teachers are wise, they will know how to heal you."
"I will NOT be changed back," she said with certainty. "I was a weak human woman, fearful and helpless, easily moved by lust or hunger or insecurity. All that is changed. I am in your debt, Jeremy. Ask and I shall serve in any way."
Bane realized her thinking processes had been changed by the metamorphosis. "I don't want you to serve me. Just come with me so the Teachers can help you."
Jessica Frost fixed those unblinking blue eyes on him with deadly calm. "I will follow you, Jeremy, paying my debt. Make me a knight of Tel Shai if you will, but my mind is set and I will not be changed."
"Okay then," he gave in. Griffin emerged from the room, saying "I have Seth secured. He's not going anywhere. And neither is Rodchenko. He's a block of ice!"
"I don't know how you're going to explain all this," Bane said. "Well, your agency knows that Rodchenko was a warlock."
"What a slaughterhouse," Griffin muttered. "Rodchenko dead, with his two goons. Henry Segal cut in half. Poor Inca! I asked for her as my partner on this case. So many deaths."
"It's a dirty game. I wish I knew something to say that would help." He touched Jessica Frost by the arm and she stepped closer to him. "Griffin, I'm leaving you to take custody of Seth. Call your agency to have a clean-up detail come here. I have to take Jessica here for medical treatment."
For the first time, Griffin seemed to realize how different the woman looked. "You- you've changed."
"More than you know," she answered.
3/31/2013
(5/27/1979) [original "Cold As Ice"]
12/16/1984
The Castaways was an appealing restaurant, with decent food and a warm atmosphere. The wine list was pathetic, Griffin thought sourly, but that could be overlooked. American servings were always too large, of course, and the tea was much too sweet. Still, he thought, I rather like this place. I'm glad I won't have to kill anyone here. Across the table from him sat Inca, who was helping him devour the plate of stuffed mushrooms with parmesan cheese. She was an attractive blonde woman around thirty, with huge dark blue eyes. Inca was a bit thin, even delicate in appearance but this was deceptive. Griffin knew from experience she could be as deadly when the moment came as any operative in Her Majesty's Service and she had so many skills in languages and observation that she was invaluable.
Taking a sip of the chilled rose wine and putting the glass down with a barely audible sigh, she watched Griffin with anxiety in her expression. "Are you certain this is the right move?"
"Nothing is certain in this game," Griffin replied. He was a quiet man of average size, with a sprinkling of grey in his brown beard. His face was deeply lined. Griffin was in his forties, but years of stress and deceit had aged him quickly. He toyed with his food idly. "Inca, do you know anything more about this man?"
"Very little," she said frankly. "No one seems to have a handle on this Dire Wolf, Jeremy Bane. He is definitely an American, but with no backtrail of documentation. Seven years ago, he hired on as a field agent for Kenneth Dred. The late Kenneth Dred. Bane has collected an assortment of similar wild cards to act as his own team. There are many reports of their activities but they can't possibly be accurate. The KDF seems to investigate the paranormal, the supernatural if you like."
Griffin broke in. "I've heard that. And where they concern us is their clashes with international crime lords. Wu Lung. John Grim. Karl Eldritch. These are impressive opponents even for a national security agency, let alone a handful of amateur ghostbusters. Last summer, Bane's KDF managed to pit Wu and Grim against each other, leading to both empires being ruined. John Grim is now in a vegetative state in a Virginia hospital, and the doctors say his chances of healing are slim. Some terrible shock was given to his brain, a trauma like a lightning bolt. As for Wu Lung, he was crippled but managed to escape and go into hiding. Without his iron hand, his network of smugglers and slavers fell apart at once. How the KDF managed this, no one knows."
"I don't understand," Inca said softly. "Why is this Bane trusted with classified information? He is a loose cannon in the worst sense. I can't see why he is allowed to operate this way. Our employers do not give anything away with getting something in return."
"As best I can figure, our superiors see Bane as a useful weapon against threats they dare not challenge. I believe the American CIA has also given him information to send him against a menace, as has Department 21 Black. And we have many reports of the New York City Police Department calling in Bane and the KDF when unexplainable killings occur. All off the record, of course."
"Of course," came a third voice right at their elbows.
Both Griffin and Inca gave a start and looked up in surprise. Despite all their experience, a young man in black had entered the restaurant so silently that they had not heard him approach. The agents felt personally affronted by this.
Jeremy Bane was in his late twenties, dressed in a black turtleneck and sport jacket. His body matched his face- long, hard, uncompromising. His shaggy hair was black. From under heavy brows glittered the two coldest grey eyes either of the agents had ever seen. His war name was no accident, there was indeed a wolfish air about him. Griffin realized with a sinking feeling that he was impressed against his will, even a little intimidated. "Ah, the Dire Wolf, I guess?"
"That's right. You left me a message to come here."
"Please, join us," said Inca, gesturing to an empty chair. Bane sat down at the table. A traveller, she thought. He is originally from Manhattan but he has traveled since then. A slight Asian tinge to his vowels, she concluded.
A waitress came up but Bane dismissed her. "Nothing for me, thanks." After she left, he turned his full attention to the two agents. "Well, I'm here."
Griffin said, "My name is Stan Connelly and this is my wife Susan. We are here-"
"Hold it," Bane interrupted with an upraised hand. "Aliases are so awkward. I know who you two are. You're James Welshofer, code named Griffin and this is Adrienne Maurer, Inca. You're agents of the Mandate. My team has had problems with the Mandate before and I took the trouble to learn a little bit about the organization."
"Very well," the blonde said briskly, diverting Bane's focus toward her. "We ARE Inca and Griffin, as you say. I imagine Bane is not your real name, either?"
"Real enough. I was an orphan from the streets, I named myself." He leaned forward and said, "Let's get down to business."
"In one sentence, then. We want you to help us rescue a woman from being held and tortured," Inca whispered.
Bane said nothing, but his eyes suddenly flared with new interest. Before he had been distant, even distracted.
"There is a renegade KGB unit here in New York, Mr Bane, and they have kidnapped a young woman we were observing. The leader of the unit is a man named Rodchenko, a student of the Red Blade."
"I see," Bane said. "The Red Blade was Stalin's only terrorist who used gralic sorcery. That's why you wanted me. There is some magick involved."
"Very true," Inca put in. "As much as we hate to admit it, there does seem to be the so-called supernatural in this. Rodchenko reportedly has the ability to kill people just by touching their skin. He is referred to even by his own employers as 'the warlock.' Even worse, the unit has a freelance working for them, a man named Seth."
Bane scowled. "The Weapons Master. Seth Petrov. He's quite a joker."
"Perhaps too formidable for just Inca and myself to tackle," Griffin admitted. "We could request a back-up squad from our agency but they would not get here for hours. Perhaps not until morning. Our orders are not to involve the local police, as the fewer who know of this, the better. You are said to be reliable and discreet."
The Dire Wolf gave what they would come to recognize as a smile, just the faintest upturn of the corners of his mouth. "I've been useful to your agency. Let's not have any illusions about it, the Mandate has no respect or concern for me, but I have my uses."
"Fair enough," Griffin said, taking a last forkful of the stuffed mushrooms. "The Mandate was established to, shall we say, patrol the edges of the known and unknown. International espionage seems to cross over into your Midnight War with some frequency. But let's concern ourselves tonight with the fate of Jessica Segal."
Inca took over, "She is a student at Columbia, married to an insurance office manager, Henry Segal. They lived in Flushing. Two days ago, she did not attend her class and he did not show up for work. Her sister was concerned and called the police, but they have gotten nowhere. No leads. Our agency is aware of this because we have been observing Mrs Segal for some time now. You see, Mr Bane, she has a wild talent, some form of ESP if you like. This is what the Mandate follows. In experimental tests, she has been observed making fires go out and bringing room tempature water to near freezing. She can apparently lower the air around her by as much as fifteen degrees. No one can explain how this is done, but naturally our agency is interested. You can imagine how valuable this talent could be."
"I've seen how the Mandate can exploit people with special talents," Bane snorted angrily. "But go on."
"Pavel Rodchenko learned of Mrs segal's gift. How we don't know," said Inca. "We had one man watching the Segal house and he was taken off duty by a faked message. Another of our agents was brutally murdered in Manhattan, a showy crime which drew our attention there. Seth did this. While our people were distracted, the Segals were abducted."
"I guess you have no idea where they are now?"
"None," Inca admitted with a rueful shrug of her shoulders. "We believe they are in the metropolitan area but we can't pinpoint it further. We do not have the staff for a dragnet and policy is not to call in outside authority for security reasons."
Griffin took over, shoving the plate away from him on the table. "To be honest, there is the usual rivalry and between agencies. But you! You, Mr Bane, are an outsider. You can be called upon without stirring up jealousy from the CIA or Black 21."
"Fair enough," Bane said. He pushed back his chair, getting ready to stand up. "And I think I can add something. I know where Seth will be, and the others will likely be with him. Seth has had a house rented for the past year that he thinks is a secret."
"Really? And how do you know this?"
Bane rose. "I don't think I should tell you. It's enough that I do know." Although he was not willing to reveal it to the Mandate, the Dire Wolf had worked on several occasions with Seth's younger brother, Ethan. The two sibilings had long been bitter rivals, a situation which had degraded to outright hatred in recent years. Ethan would not challenge Seth openly, but he admitted he would not mind seeing the Dire Wolf tackle him and wondered who would survive. It was Ethan who had revealed some of Seth's hideouts to Bane. "We should get going. We'll take my car, you two can call for agents to pick you up after it's all over."
The Mandate agents also got up, Griffin leaving money on the table and a generous tip. He was unhappy with the way this loose cannon was just taking over, but he was detached enough to realize it might be for the best. If things went badly, this Dire Wolf could easily be set up to take the blame. But then, Griffin realized as he watched the intense young man, Bane had been doing this work for years and had not been made the patsy yet.
They left the Castaways, with Griffin helping Inca get into her down-filled coat. Cold night air hit them with a vengeance. it was threatening to snow, and fine ice crystals stung their eyes. Greenwich Village was almost deserted. Bane walked them to a dark blue Chevy Malibu parked at the end of the block, and unlocked the doors for them. With Inca in the passenger seat and Griffin in the back, Bane took the wheel and pulled away from the curb. The two agents gave each other brief worried glances.
II.
Seth rose impatiently from his chair and snatched up the three-foot bo staff. He was a tall, thin man in his early forties with short dark hair over a bony face. The pale blue eyes were introspective and withdrawn, without interest in others. He wore a plain white T-shirt and denim jeans, with work boots and a wide leather belt. Fastened at the small of his back were twin knife sheaths. It was hot in the house, because Rodchenko hated being cold and had cranked up the thermostat. Seth didn't care, he hardly noticed. He listened to the whimpers and crying from the bedroom, then turned placidly away and began to practice. When he spun and swung the staff, Seth became as graceful as any Olympic athlete going through a routine but his thoughts were all about killing. His skill was at the upper levels of Human ability, challenged only by his younger brother Ethan.
He knew what the warlock was doing to the Segal couple in that room and it didn't bother him a bit. It was just a job. His thoughts were on the possibility of American agents showing up in an attempt to rescue the two prisoners and that excited him. CIA or FBI, it didn't matter. He had killed a half dozen of each, perfecting his art. People were useful targets. Seth swerved and ducked, jumping in the air and crouching low, the hardwood staff whistling through the air as he dispatched imaginary opponents. There! and there! The Weapons Master's face split with a wicked grin. He was better than ever.
The bedroom door opened and Valentin Rodchenko emerged. He was known as the Black Bear for obvious reason, his huge body was covered with thick dark hair. The backs of his oversized hands bristled. His beard was short but bushy, so black it almost had blue highlights. Rodchenko wore an expensive suit, tailored to help conceal the heavy belly. "Seth," he called in Russian, "would you please bring your sword in here?"
Carefully leaning the staff against the wall, the Weapons Master went to fetch his most prized possession from its rack. In an ornate wooden sheath was the katana forged by Kozukawa himself in the 15th Century. Seth loved the perfectly balanced weapon, its edge sharper than a mere razor, and it made his pulse leap to heft the sword in his hands as he went into the bedroom. He ignored Rodchenko and the two assistants who served the Black Bear even when, as now, he was working without the knowledge of his superiors in the KGB. Rodchenko had many projects of his own underway that the Kremlin knew nothing about. Seth stepped over to the double bed.
Jessica Segal was tied face up and spread eagled on that bed. Her naked body would have been desirable, if it were not covered as it was with bruises and cuts. Surgical tape covered her mouth. Her dark brown eyes moved wildly about and Seth knew she had crossed into hysteria. A wave of light brown hair had fallen over half her face and she was shiny with sweat. He moved past her to where her husband was tied to spikes driven in the wall.
Henry Segal looked to be about thirty, slightly soft around the waist, average in every way. The marks of torture stood out on his naked body, an unbroken array of gashes, burns and bruises. Only one eye remained. His face and crotch were crusted with dried blood but the tape over his mouth kept him silent.
"Our guest is not being compliant," Rodchenko rumbled deep in his chest. "I fear that stronger measures are necessary. Kill her husband in a dramatic way to break her last resistance." The warlock was glad he had stationed his assistants downstairs, watching the front and back doors; they did not need to see this.
He had spoken in Russian but his tone was that of a judge pronouncing sentence, and Jessica caught its intent. Her bonds to the bedposts had rubbed her skin raw at wrists and ankles, where blood still glistened wetly. She tried again to wiggle loose, only causing herself more pain. Her large brown eyes pleaded desperarely with the warlock, who did not react. Jessica's body shook with sobbing but no tears came. She had cried herself out hours ago.
Henry Segal was dazed, in such shock that he did not react to Seth's entrance. He stared dully straight ahead, mouth hanging open to reveal where teeth had been broken and yanked brutally out. Rodchenko and his two thugs stepped back to watch. With the calm detachment of an artist contemplating a half-finished canvas, Seth Petrov studied his victim. Yes. This had to be done with precise timing to give the watching girl enough of a chance to follow. He moved back ten feet.
The grandson of the Red Blade spun his sheathed sword and twirled it up into the air like a baton. As the weapon left his hands, he drew both knives from the back of his belt and threw them glittering to sink deep into Segal's wrists. Even as dazed as he was, Segal responded to the new stabs of pain with a sharp cry of agony and despair. Moving in a blur, Seth
caught the sword as it came back down and drew it. Three strokes flashed in a split-second, deft and murderous. The first slash cut entirely through Segal's left wrist and the second went through the left wrist. As the man screamed through the tape over his mouth and started to fall, Seth dropped into a kneeling crouch and swung a full-power stroke that chopped entirely through Henry Segal at the thickest part of the torso. Killed instantly, the man dropped with a wet thump to the floor in two halves. His hands remained tied to the wall.
Seth let out his breath with a low, sinister rasp. He snapped his head around to glare at Rodchenko for a second. As he rose, Seth turned away to wipe his blade and retrieve his knivdes, but for that second he had let the mask slip. The ravenous fury within him had shown through in the excitement of his kill, and now it was likely that the warlock realized what a dangerous maniac he was working with.
The Black Bear was silent, watching Seth like a man near a rearing cobra. The rumours were true, he realized, the man is quite mad. As soon as they returned home, he would recommend that Seth be put away. Rodchenko remembered the Red Blade and he frowned. Even if Seth was Igor Petrov's grandson, it didn't matter. This Weapons Master was unstable. Too bad that the other Petrov brother, Ethan, had not returned to Mother Russia. FRom all reports, Ethan had more humanity and he was at least equal in skill. But Ethan would not kill on command and he had made it difficult for KGB agents to reach him. For the moment, then, the cold heartless minds in the Kremlin had concentrated on using Seth.
Wheeling to face Jessica Segal, the warlock saw she had passed out. He slapped her awake and bellowed in English, "Your husband is dead! He is dead. There is no one to save you. Talk now. Tell us how you freeze things or this will go on forever. We have the rest of your life to break you and you WILL talk."
She did not respond. Rodchenko turned awsay with a growl of disgust in his beard, crossing over to open both windows. Cold night air rushed in with a scattering of snow flakes. "You have not begun to suffer, woman," he rumbled. The warlock went into the adjoining bathroom and soaked a towel under the faucet. He returned to swab it over her naked body. "This will help. Now we will touch our minds, you and I."
Dragging over a straightback chair, Rodchenko dropped down it within arm's reach of the shivering girl. Using gralic energy for a bridge, he sent out his mind to probe for hers. Jessica was shaking from more pain and grief than she had ever known existed in the world. Freezing air blew across her wet skin, she felt her toes and fingers go numb.
Strangest of all, even through the shock of her ordeal, Jessica Segal was aware of something happening deep inside her. Like a door being closed, her sorrow seemed to be going away, hidden. A hard cold lump formed in her chest where her heart was. It was like a frozen rock, spreading cold through her body from within. She felt colder than ice.
III.
"There it is," said Bane as they approached a two-story white frame house on E. 235th Street. It had a seperate garage and a tiny front yard, and parked in front of it was a black Cadillac. "You guys follow and use your own judgement. There's no time to be subtle." Bane brought his car to a halt and leaped out. The house was dark except for two lights showing on the second floor and, strangely, one window seemed to be pulled up as open as possible.
Before Griffin and Inca could get out of the car, Bane had already crossed the front yard. They were startled by the speed with which the young man moved. The two had not believed the tales told of Jeremy Bane but now they saw him in action. Quicker than his namesake, the Dire wolf raced across the yard, jumped up onto a windowsill and leaped straight up. The momentum of his rush and the coiled strength in his body drove him up over eight feet to grasp the ledge of the second story window. Years of training and practice went into use. With an ease that looked effortless, Bane swung his legs up and over, diving neatly into the open window.
The killers inside had the barest instant of warning. They turned the heads at the soft thump from outside, just as a man in black hurtled in through the open window as if he had been thrown from a catapult. Rodchenko broke off his telepathic thrust into Jessica. On his feet as he landed, the Dire Wolf took one flashing step forward and drove out his leg to smash a lightning side kick into Seth, knocking the Weapons Master through the open door into the hall outside. Bane had never met Seth before but he had heard a lot about him and he had no intention of dealing with both that maniac and the Black Bear at the same time. As the surprised Weapons Master was propelled into the hall, Bane slammed the door shut and locked it, whirling around to face Rodchenko. He didn't have a second's grace before the warlock attacked.
The Black Bear drew back his open hand and thrust it forward in a clawing motion, dark gralic energy crackling from his fingers to hit Bane in a burst of blood-red flame. The warlock was confused as the sorcerous force swirled over the Wolf without harming him, and then the man in black was on him like a real wolf. Bane's fist actually made a whistling noise as it arced around to slam on the side of Rodchenko's bearded jaw. Spun halfway around by the impact, the warlock caught a backfist right on the chin that sent him lurching back and to the floor. Still moving, Bane lunged to slam the windows shut. The room was frigid; he could see his own breath. The Dire Wolf saw the pile of blankets and bedspreads on the floor and scooped them up to cover the quivering girl. Too bad I can't untie her and get her to safety, thought Bane, but Seth will be through that door any second.
Bane straightened and saw for the first time what had been done to Henry Segal. The body lay where it had fallen in unequal halves, with the severed hands still tied to spikes in the wall. Despite all his training in self-control, Bane felt a wave of killing fury rise up inside him. Behind him, Valentin Rodchenko was getting to his feet, hurt by those punches but far from beaten. The burly Russian sorceror was a tough, experienced fighter who had killed men with his bare hands more than once. He rose with a curse under his breath, knotting his hairy hands into huge fists.
The Dire Wolf stood with his back to Rodchenko, staring at the remains of Henry Segal. Then, faster than an untrained eye could follow, he whirled and was on top of the KGB renegade with a ten-second barrage of short hooking punches to the body. Bane threw three blows a second, each a full-power blast that broke bones under his knuckles' impact. It sounded like drumming. Rodchenko could not fall until the assault was ended; Bane's punches were keeping him up even after he was unconscious. As the Dire Wolf stepped back, lowering his fists, Rodchenko fell face down and his head bounced on the hardwood floor.
IV.
As they watched Bane leap straight up into a second story window, Griffin and Inca gave each other dumbfounded glances. It had looked as if he had hit a trampoline but he had merely hopped up onto a window ledge and shot upwards.
"Perhaps we should wait and see what happens?" Griffin asked. "A man like him... we might just get in the way."
Inca tied back her dark blonde hair with a ribbon and got out of the car. "It's tempting. I am not eager to face Seth Petrov OR Valentin Rodchenko. But I think our superiors will hold it against us if we let this man do all the work." She drew a small .32 revolver from inside her jacket and put a cartridge into the empty chamber so that it held six shots.
"Yes." Griffin was strangely reluctant. He was no coward, he had proved that many times. But at that moment he had a feeling of doom he could not explain. With Inca beside him, he strode briskly up the short paved walkway to the front door. There was no porch, the door stood at ground level with a tiny wooden box of earth next to it... a garden for spring. Griffin and Inca had rehearsed this before. He pulled his own sidearm, a .45 Colt automatic, and turned sideways to give the door a good hard kick. It flew inward and his partner dove inside, rolling across the dark room with her pistol in both hands. Griffin followed, just as the flash of a gun inside exploded. He sighted a big man in a tan suit and he snapped off two shots. The Russian doubled up and dropped to his knees. Griffin wheeled in a semi-circle, saw the other thug just as Inca fired from the floor. Her bullet caught the man in the throat. It had all taken place in a second or two. Inca was getting to her feet, scanning the room, as Griffin stepped to flick on the lights. The man he had shot managed to get off another round before falling face down. Griffin heard a twang as the bullet passed close by and he saw with horror Inca catching the slug right in the center of her chest. She dropped her gun as she crumbled up. For one more second, Griffin had to confirm that the man who had shot her was out of action, but he was lying face up with his eyes open. Stepping over, Griffin kicked him in the side of the head hard but got no response.
Only then could Griffin go to his partner. He lifted Inca and saw her eyes were open and unmoving. Even though he knew with a dreadful certainty she was dead, he pressed a finger to the side of her throat and felt no pulse. Griffin slowly rose. Ten years in military intelligence, three in MI 6 before being sent to work for the Mandate, he had seen more than his share of violent death and he had watched a partner die before. It didn't help. He told himself he had hardly known Inca, had never met her until a week ago. They had never been lovers, not even friends really. It didn't help. Nothing did. This was the blow too far that broke him. Griffin sank to his knees and lowered his head and struggled to catch his breath. He felt like a great weight was pressing on his chest.
V.
Jessica had lost all feeling in her body, and even her emotions were numb and distant. A few seconds ago, she had been on the brink of comprehending what was happening to her, but then the flow of rich gralic energy from Rodchenko's mind to her had broken off. Her eyes were open and she saw Bane's violent entry into the room. No matter, she realized calmly. The process was under way and it could not be stopped now.
She no longer suffered. Frost formed on her body, on the blankets which had been thrown over her. White crystals glittered on her face. She was free of terror or sorrow, knowing only a pressing need to avenge. The grisly sight of her husband's corpse registered as from a distance but it meant nothing to her now. That was over. Her life as a loving human woman was now history. Her first step must be to give herself freedom of motion. The woman who had been Jessica Segal concentrated on the ropes holding her wrists and ankles. Intuitively, without knowing how, she lowered the air around the ropes nearly to absolute zero. Using gralic energy awakened by the warlock's intrusion into her mind, Jessica siphoned away all heat from the ropes so suddenly that they became brittle.
Even as those ropes broke off, Jeremy Bane sent Valentin Rodchenko to the floor with a dozen fractures, including a broken collarbone and three ribs. The Dire Wolf's face was ferocious with an anger he had not allowed himself to feel in years. Even his toughened hands felt sore from the pounding he had given the Black Bear. Calm down you fool, he told himself. Control. Discipline.
It had only been a few seconds since he had shoved Ethan out into the hall and Bane knew the man would crash back in. Reaching behind him, he drew his dart pistol and clicked its mechanism. Suddenly he wished he had brought a good old-fashioned gun that shot real bullets. He had read Shiro's report of a duel with the Weapons Master and if Shiro Mitsuru had had his hands full, Bane did not want to take any chances. As he raised the dart gun, the door crashed inward and Seth burst back into the room, sword in hand.
The first clash between Bane and Seth only lasted a few seconds. The Dire Wolf extended the dart pistol and Seth struck the gun itself, slapping it away with its barrel sliced in half. Even as his weapon spun to one side, Bane plunged forward and threw a backfist that cracked against Seth's cheek with a noise like a hammer hitting rock. The Weapons Master backpaced a few steps, twirling the sword in a defensive figure 8 pattern. The two men glared at each other with new respect.
Damn, thought Bane, he's ruined the dart gun. Those things were expensive. The Dire Wolf was wearing his street clothes and not the full field suit with its heavier armor and helmet, so he did not have the full range of weapons and gadgets on him. He had sacrificed some firepoower to look less conspicuous in the restaurant. He still felt no fear at all, merely a professional interest in how he was going to beat this maniac.
Seth moved one feet an inch, shifting his grip on the katana's hilt. To someone with Bane's training, those tiny movements announced the Weapons Master's intentions like a bugle call. Even through the Trom foil armor under his clothes, Bane could feel the room had gotten much colder in the last few seconds. That was odd because he had closed the windows and the door was open to the rest of the house. That bedroom should have gotten warmer but it was below freezing. There was no time to think about that now, though.
For one last instant, Bane and Seth looked each other in the eyes, gauging, analyzing. There was hatred in the Weapon Master's eyes, a gleeful anticipation of killing. On the surface, Bane's face was calm and confident, but the fierce gleam in those grey eyes gave him away.
In one lightning movement, Bane shrugged off his jacket and flung it right into his opponent's face. Seth was not caught that easily, of course. With the back of his blade, he sent the garment flying to one side. But he was exposed for that split-second, which was all the Dire Wolf wanted. Bane blasted a high side kick in the chest, throwing him back against the wall directly behind him. Still charging, Bane came in for the deciding punch and almost ran into the point of the sword that seemed to come up from nowhere. Using his own momentum, the Dire Wolf spun to stand alongside his enemy and drove a savage elbow to the stomach. The following backfist only cracked plaster off the wall as the Weapons Master dove away. He's sure fast for a Human, Bane thought. He leaped backwards as he sensed an opening in his own defenses and the sword sliced across his chest.
Once again, the two masters had clashed for a second and then drew back to analyze the flurry of fighting. Bane knew that his three connecting blows had hurt Ethan but not done any real damage. That backfist had only hit the wall; it had been a long time since any enemy had been able to dodge his punches. Bane touched his chest and felt that the turtleneck had a diagonal slash across it, exposing the dark gleam of the flexible armor beneath. Seth saw that metallic glint and included it in his plan. Armor, perhaps a sophisticated bulletproof vest. No matter, thought the Weapons Master-- head and hands were still exposed, which would be more than good enough.
Despite his better judgement, Bane felt compelled to glance over at Jessica Segal. He was stunned to see that she was trying to get up and that the entire bed was coated with a thick layer of frost. The Dire Wolf shuddered at the realization of how incredibly cold that room had become. Without thinking, he dropped to one knee just as that katana hummed through the air where his head had been. Get me while I'm not looking, eh? he thought as he leaped up and forward. The Weapons Master's blade came hissing at him in the return stroke and Bane blocked it with his forearm. The ancient Samurai sword rebounded off the Trom armor beneath the black sleeve and the muscular arm beneath the armor. Seth lost the advantage as he had to bring the sword back in line, leaving himself open. Bane drove his fist deep into his enemy's stomach like a steel piston, then shifted to blast an uppercut with all his strength. Tough as he was, not even Seth could shrug off those blows. Bane's conditioned fists could break bricks like brittle china.
Backing against the wall, Seth wove a complicated web of razor-edged steel in front of him. Trying to get in close, Bane felt sharp stinging pain in his face and he was shocked to realize blood was running down the side of his neck. He was cut across the cheek. He couldn't believe it. Seth had cut him.
Watching his wounded opponent, the Weapons Master leered in satisfaction. It was a mere scratch, true, just a shallow wound across the left cheek which would bleed freely but not impair ability. But he figured it would immobilize his enemy. Once a victim realized he was injured, he would usually lose the will to carry on. Seth expected this so-called Dire Wolf to begin looking for escape.
Just out of reach, Bane gingerly touched the wound and saw his fingers wet with his own blood. In that instant, Seth was doomed. The Wolf lunged forward. Fingers strong as steel closed tight around the Russian's wrist, pulling the man's arm out straight. With his other hand, Bane pried open the Weapons Master's clawlike fingers and got the hilt free. What happened next was too fast for any observer to have followed. As the sword fell out of Seth's grasp, Bane shifted his weight and threw a reverse crescent kick that whipped his boot in a tight circle. The sword spun away, end over end, to stick deep in the wall on the other side of the room. During the split-second in which this happened, a wave of arctic wind swept over the room and a chilling mist hung in the air. Neither fighter noticed it. They were locked in the final stage of their duel.
Bane was holding Seth's right wrist with his own left hand, which had allowed him to get the sword away but which left him open. Trying to break that painful grip, the Russian killer drew his dagger with his left hand and stabbed right at his enemy's throat. His hand stopped short in mid-air. Seth's maniacal eyes softened with the first hint of uncertainty. Bane had caught that attack with his other hand and now he held both of Seth's wrists in grips so tight that their circulation was cut off. Bane could not have spoken at that moment. All his awareness was focussed into a fighting machine, drawing on long years of Kumundu training under Teacher Chael. The Dire Wolf's eyes were so pale they seemed like frozen steel.
Struggling, Seth glanced over at the dresser near him. Anything there could become a deadly weapon once in his hands- lamp, hairbrush, mirror. Anything. But it was all just out of reach and he knew with a sick certainty that it all might as well be miles away. Bane flung the man's arm down violently and launched his final attack. Before the Weapons Master could react, the Wolf smashed a dozen punches, alternating left and right, crushing full-power straight blows that slammed forward into the man's torso and face. One tooth came out, slicing open the knuckle that had broken it. Blood spurted from the crushed nose and both eyes swelled shut. Yet, even in his fury, Bane did not throw the killing stroke. Even though he wanted to kill, part of him knew that this man was too valuable for that.
Seth's head dropped and Bane held his fist. The Weapons Master slumped to the floor. Stepping back, the Dire Wolf swayed and almost staggered before straightening up. He has to live, he thought, Seth has knowledge of the Red blade and Karl Eldritch and the White Web. We need that information. Turning stiffly, Bane picked up his jacket from the floor and located an antiseptic gauze pad from an inner pocket. It was self-adhesive and he pressed it over the gash in his cheek. He still couldn't believe Seth had cut him like that. Seth was good, yes, but he was still only a human being. For the first time in years, he wondered if there were other Humans who could match his enhanced speed and perhaps even surpass it. But there was no time for that now. He managed to get into his jacket.
It suddenly struck him just how cold that room had gotten. It was worse than being locked in a meat freezer. Bane straightened his jacket with sore hands and slowly turned to stare at what had happened to Jessica Segal.
VI.
She had gotten free. The ropes binding her had frozen and broken into chips. Naked but unaffected by the freezing air in that room, she stood motionless on the bed. A faint glistening layer of frost covered her skin. Her hair seemed lighter than it had been when Bane had first seen her just a few minutes earlier.
In one corner of the room, Valentin Rodchenko lurched to his knees, still disoriented by the beating he had received. The Black Bear knew he was badly hurt, he needed medical attention and was unable to summon his gralic powers. In fascinated horror, he had watched Bane defeat Seth. The American fighter was a whirlwind of destruction. Rodchenko tried to get to his feet and couldn't make it. He fought down vomit. In despair, he realized his career was over, whether the CIA got hold of him or whether his own organization claimed him and punished him for his transgressions. He managed to get up on one knee and tried to pull himself to his feet when he heard an eerie voice call out, "Turn."
Rodchenko managed to turn around, his ribs aching as he breathed and he stopped short as he saw his former victim on the bed. Jessica stood like a statue, staring down at the warlock with the finality of an executioner. Her eyes were a pale crystal blue, less human, and her fine-textured hair was an ash-blonde that was almost white. She looked like a strange ice goddess from some mythological past. Her gaze was detached, calm and without any trace of pity.
"You killed my husband," she said barely above a whisper. "You killed ME." Jessica raised one small hand and waved it in a dismissive gesture, sending out a wave of invisible gralic force that struck Rodchenko like a superchilled blast from outer space. The man died instantly as his body froze solid and he toppled over to hit the wooden floor with a clunk.
Jessica felt no triumph. It had been necessary to avenge, but Henry's death seemed remote and long ago. Even her hatred over all that had been done to her was muted. This man and his thugs had beaten and tortured and molested her but it hardly seemed to matter anymore. She felt neutral inside, colder than ice and just as untouched. In a strange way, she was glad she had gone through this transformation because it had changed her so completely that she might as well have been anew person.
For a long moment, she stared at the man in black who had come to rescue her and who now watched her with concern in his face. It was an important moment as her last traces of gratitude and sentiment fixed on the Dire Wolf. He had saved her, she realized, because it was his entrance which had broken off the warlock's invasion of her mind. This man had beaten the warlock and the swordsman so that her metamorphosis could complete itself without interruption. Before the final vestige of emotion left her, Jessica realized she owed her life to the stranger.
With years of experience in the Midnight War, Bane realized what had happened. He stepped closer. "Listen. My name is Jeremy. I am here to help you. If you can turn down your new power, do so. Later you can experiment, but right now you could drain yourself. Here," he struggled with stiffening hands to unfasten the tiny Eldar talisman from his jacket. It was an arrow of white gold on a fine chain, and it was this which had dissipated Rodchenko's gralic bolts which would otherwise have killed him. Bane managed to lower the chain around her neck. At once, it soothed and calmed Jessica's still untrained gralic transformation. She sighed in relief and lost the menacing aspect.
"Good. Come on, let's get you out of here." He found Rodchenko's heavy overcoat draped on a chair and put it around her shoulders. It reached past her knees. "Can you walk? Good. Come with me." Bane led her from that room. The woman never glanced back at the gruesome remains of her husband but gazed calmly straight ahead. Giving Seth a wary glare, Bane wanted to tie him up, with strips of blankets or with his own belt, but by now his hands had swollen so he could hardly use them. No matter how conditioned they became, hands were not designed by Nature to take punishment like that and he knew he was in for a few days of clumsiness.
At the top of the steps they met Griffin, just coming up. "Inca's dead," he told Bane quietly.
"I'm sorry," the Dire Wolf said. "I didn't really know her."
"It's the game we choose to play," the Mandate agent sighed. "It could just as easily have been me. Maybe next time it will be."
"Griffin! Listen. Go in there and secure Seth. Tie him up proper. I'd do it but my hands are useless now. We'll wait for you." As the agent complied, the Wolf adjusted the coat on Jessica. "Feel better? You've been through a lot, Mrs Segal."
"There is no Mrs Segal, not any more. She is dead," the woman said in low tones. "I need a new name. Call me... Frost. Jessica Frost."
"All right, if that's what you want. Listen, I want to take you to Tel Shai. The Teachers are wise, they will know how to heal you."
"I will NOT be changed back," she said with certainty. "I was a weak human woman, fearful and helpless, easily moved by lust or hunger or insecurity. All that is changed. I am in your debt, Jeremy. Ask and I shall serve in any way."
Bane realized her thinking processes had been changed by the metamorphosis. "I don't want you to serve me. Just come with me so the Teachers can help you."
Jessica Frost fixed those unblinking blue eyes on him with deadly calm. "I will follow you, Jeremy, paying my debt. Make me a knight of Tel Shai if you will, but my mind is set and I will not be changed."
"Okay then," he gave in. Griffin emerged from the room, saying "I have Seth secured. He's not going anywhere. And neither is Rodchenko. He's a block of ice!"
"I don't know how you're going to explain all this," Bane said. "Well, your agency knows that Rodchenko was a warlock."
"What a slaughterhouse," Griffin muttered. "Rodchenko dead, with his two goons. Henry Segal cut in half. Poor Inca! I asked for her as my partner on this case. So many deaths."
"It's a dirty game. I wish I knew something to say that would help." He touched Jessica Frost by the arm and she stepped closer to him. "Griffin, I'm leaving you to take custody of Seth. Call your agency to have a clean-up detail come here. I have to take Jessica here for medical treatment."
For the first time, Griffin seemed to realize how different the woman looked. "You- you've changed."
"More than you know," she answered.
3/31/2013
