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"Fear Has Many Faces"
"Fear Has Many Faces"
October 3, 1979-
I.
At ten minutes after eight, Jeremy Bane stepped into the conference room. He was wearing the black turtleneck and sport jacket and slacks which were his trademark. So much had to be done here yet. The long polished oak table had been there when he took ownership of the building, as had been the ten heavy straight back chairs that lined it. One wall was taken up with reference books and filing cabinets; another had two tall windows looking down on East 38th Street. There were two lockers he had brought up to hold his field suits, and a refrigerated cabinet at the far end held drinks and snacks. But he wanted to add more equipment, particularly communication equipment.
The Dire Wolf moved to the windows and held the heavy curtains aside. it was raining. He stood looking down at traffic, thinking that Kenneth Dred had been dead for barely two months now. It had been an uneventful passing, an old man's heart stopping in his sleep. They had already discussed what would happen, the will had been made out and transfer of property had been uncontested because there was no family. Bane was now wealthy, but it did not register. He now had millions in his bank account, when two years earlier he had owned only what he could carry. The Dire Wolf folded his arms, lost in thought. He did not grieve for Kenneth Dred as much as he had thought he would, but maybe it had not sunk in yet. Maybe he was just unfeeling. The old man had been failing for the past year. Perhaps that was another reason he had taken Bane on as a protege and heir.
At only twenty-two, the grim young man with pale eyes and cold demanor had taken on a huge responsibility. He was glad, though, it felt like something he had always been meant to do. The more he learned about the Midnight War, the more he was determined to assemble a group that could handle its menace. As an orphan of the streets, he had been offered membership in various gangs of thugs and racketeers but had always declined and worked alone. Now he would have his own gang, but one like nothing this city had ever seen.
Standing there, he felt a vague tickling in his thoughts that he was coming to recognize. He turned his head and saw Cindy in the doorway. A pretty blonde a little more than a year younger than himself, she had an impudent face, dark blue eyes and a wide grin. Cindy was dressed much more formally than usual, wearing navy blue slacks, an off-white blouse and a thin blue cardigan. Bane nodded to her, "Good morning."
"The BEST morning," she answered. "Don't try to hide your excitement, you've got a telepath in your life now."
"We agreed, no mind-reading without permission."
She came over to stand next to him, almost leaning up against his shoulder. "I know. I'll be good. Oh, I love my room. It's twice as big as my apartment down on Crampton Street, that was almost a closet."
"Here they start to come," said Bane, pointing outside. She leaned over to look out the window, deliberately pressing one soft breast against his arm. Down in the street, two men were walking up to the front door. They let themselves in and a moment later ascended to the stairs to the second floor and came into the conference room. Michael Hawk was the only KDF member known to the general public, a famous criminologist and manhunter from a family of crimefighters. Now hitting sixty, there was grey in his brown hair and his square face was lined but he still moved with confidence and authority. He was wearing a neat topcoat over a black business suit, with white shirt and dark maroon tie. "Hi, you two."
"Mike. Ted. Glad to see you."
Entering with Hawk was a tall black man with a sad heavy face and short beard. He wore a beige raincoat over a plain white dress shirt and dark slacks. Ted Wright was a Blue Guide, master of the Tel Shai healing art, and a man who took everything too seriously for his own good. He nodded to Bane and Cindy.
The blonde telepath came over to held them hang up their coats. She was helpful and gregarious by nature. "You guys look like you're freezing. Don't you think coffee is a good idea?" She seized Ted Wright by the arm and dragged him downstairs to the kitchen. "Come on, I need help not to burn it."
Left with Hawk, Bane said, "Mike, thanks again for helping me get my PI license. It'll be a big help."
Hawk grinned his crooked smile and came over to look out the window with him. "You had no documentation, Jeremy. Nothing. Not even a library card. I got you what you need but it's up to you to hold onto them. Not the first forged IDs I've created but I hope you put them to good use."
"Oh, I will," said the Dire Wolf. "You won't be sorry. Mr Dred told me you were the master in the fields of crimefighting and I should learn everything you want to teach."
Before Hawk could answer, Cindy and Wright entered with two pewter trays of mugs, sugar, milk and a huge coffee pot. Wright was smiling and more relaxed than when he had tentatively entered that building. Cindy had that effect. As they moved over to the conference table and started pouring and drinking, Bane was the one who abstained. With his enhanced metabolism, he needed to avoid caffeine.
Leonard Slade appeared in the doorway. He was very well dressed in a tailored dark blue suit. Slade was a Trom, without emotion but more intelligent than Humans in a scientific sense. His greeting was formal and polite, as he took a seat and waited. Bane watched him thoughtfully. He had met Slade not long earlier and they worked well together because they had common goals. But the Trom were sure cold fish.
Now it was nearly nine. A taxi door slammed outside in the street, they heard footsteps up the stairs and Dr Lawrence Taper hurried in, habitually late, his topcoat over one arm. "Hello! Hello, everybody!" Taper was not as imposing or dignified as the other KDf members. He was maybe five foot ten and solid in build, with a roundish face and short dark brown hair. Sometimes he had his glasses on but not now.
"Well, that just leaves Khang-" Bane started to say. He was interrupted by an explosion of white light in the hall outside and a peal of thunder. As the members jumped and one or two cursed at the sudden surprise, a huge form filled the doorway. Khang stood well over seven feet tall, bundled in a long coat, with a wide-brimmed slouch hat, wraparound sunglasses and muffler hiding as much as possible. Yet a gleam of silver could be spotted here and there when he moved.
"We are well met, my comrades," he rumbled in a deep voice that seemed to come from every direction. "Honored I am to join such illustrious knights."
"Glad to have you," said the Dire Wolf. He moved over to the head of the table. "Now if everyone will take a seat, we can begin. I call the first meeting of the Kenneth Dred Foundation to order."
II.
At dusk that day, with traffic at its worst, Larry Taper managed to snag a taxi. He asked to be taken to Worthington Lane, down at the end of the financial district. The skyscrapers that loomed up over Wall Street and gave the feeling of being in a canyon had dwindled down and were succeeded by small office buildings and restaurants and apartment complexes. Taper got out, paid the driver and walked briskly down the street. He was almost giddy with excitement. Just a year earlier, he had been nothing but a mid-level anthropology professor at an upstate university, a boring bachelor with no love life and a man starting to wonder where he had missed out. That was before the Silver Skull. Once he had accepted that responsibility, every day veered from wonder to nightmare. As it got dark and the streetlights came on, Taper found what he was looking for. The Mount Calvary Lutheran Church, closed for years and just waiting for legal clearance to be torn down. It was small, with room for no more than fifty or sixty parishioners at a service. One window was broken out, shingles were hanging loose and the belfry door was missing. But, Taper knew, the children of the night loved best places that once were holy.
Taper walked around the building, watchful and wary. It had been a long day at the meeting. There were no papers to be signed, all that red tape would be handled later. The Kenneth Dred Foundation was a voluntary organization. Its members were there because they wanted to be there. Membership in the Order of Tel Shai, with its ancient secrets of otherwise lost mystic knowledge, was the main benefit. To be one of the knights of Tel Shai, though, they had to agree to follow their new captain, Jeremy Bane. The Silver Skull paused and went across the street where a small cafe was open. He reflected about the new teammates he had made that day. Bane was as fierce and driven as his Dire Wolf code name, but Taper concluded he was basically sound. Cindy was a firecracker, stirring things up and already uniting them into a team through her understated telepathy. Slade he had already known. Hawk was a celebrity in his own right, a steady reliable man. The healer, Ted Wright, seemed decent enough, perhaps a bit too self-absorbed with responsibility. It was Khang he was having trouble dealing with. He had thought the man was wearing some sort of metal armor, but apparently not. He was what he seemed to be.
Taper got a bagel with cream cheese and munched it as he stood by a wrought-iron table outside the cafe. As he watched, a bat whipped overhead and went straight into the empty aperture of the church belfry. That was his cue. With rising tension, he stepped across the street and walked up to the front door of the church. There was a painted wooden plaque that still listed service times. Taper tried the door and found it unlocked, and he stepped through the vestibule. A stench poured out that would keep any casual trespasser away. It was not even the smell of something dead but a stink much worse. Despite himself, the Silver Skull flinched and drew back, then stepped forward again.
The interior was dimly lit by outside streetlights coming through the stained glass. Most of the pews had been broken up and piled as loose lumber, and on the open space were arrayed three coffins. He had expected no less. In his short career, he had already seen many cliches and stereotypes proven true. It was better that the human race think that tales of the supernatural were just tales.
Standing before the altar was Lord Julian Gable. In his old-fashioned formal dress, with a vest and gloves and even spats, he gave away how old he really was. Gable had been a vampire so long he hardly looked Human any more. The skin was white and bloodless, the black hair lank and limp. The fiend's nose was an upturned stump over a wide mouth in which two razor canines pointed down, and those red eyes flashed with a gleam all their own. "Who are you?" he hissed like a cat.
"Nobody special," said Taper. He stepped into the fouled church, seeing that the coffins were still closed.
"Few of the Breathing can enter a den like this. More than your life is at risk here, fool." Gable put down a fountain pen and closed a ledger with a dusty slam. He stepped around the altar and moved his taloned fingers hungrily.
Standing his ground despite a pulse that pounded loudly, Taper tried to show no fear. Flesh and blood were not meant to stare down the Undead. "It is not even you that I want," he said. "It is your new leader."
"Rise!" shrilled the master vampire and at that signal, three lids slammed off the coffins and three unliving forms sat up. Taper knew they were not alive. Nothing in that church but him drew a breath, nothing but his own body was warm. Two men and a woman stood and climbed over the coffin edges to start walking toward him.
Gable inhaled so he could speak. "I think you would be wise to offer us whatever you want. While you can."
"To you, I can offer only what the Silver Skull has always offered- justice!"
In a flurry of air moving around him, Taper's clothes were gone and he was wearing a black leather uniform over steel armor. A round shield was strapped to his left arm, a straight four-foot sword was in a scabbard at his left hip. And on his head was a glistening helmet crafted in the semblance of a stern, unsmiling skull. Even the Undead were stalled for a moment, then they rushed him. Taper swept out the shield to crash hard at the first vampire, knocking him away. The second fiend ran into the return swing on the shield and was struck down. As the burnished metal hit the Undead, steam hissed from their cold bodies and they screamed.
The woman-thing grabbed for him. In life, she may have been good-looking, warm and caring but now she was only a shell animated by forbidden magick. The Skull drew his sword and plunged it deep into the center of her chest, sticking its point out between her shoulder blades with not a speck of blood. The sword Chalcemar had been ensorcelled by Malberon ages ago and would not harm an innocent being. Most Humans survived its strike. But the vampire fell apart into goo and filth as he tugged the blade free. He was none too soon getting the sword loose, either, as the other two Undead plunged at him. Striking right and left, he clove them open and they collapsed into gelatinous muck. Taper shook the blade clean. He felt like yelling in triumph. Once he became the Skull, his body seemed to come alive for the first time.
Lord Julian Gable seemed almost comical in his surprise. His jaw hung down and he waved his hands in confusion. "The Silver Skull? No. You are only a legend."
"That's funny, that's exactly what Men say of you," laughed Taper. In the uniform, all fear had left him. He felt invincible. "I want to know your new chief. Who is joining your three clans together?"
The ancient vampire snarled and drew himself up. "As if you deserve to know. We will meet again, Breather." With that, the bony figure dwindled and reshaped, becoming a small winged form that flapped its wings and headed straight for the open door. To get there, though, he had to pass his enemy and if he thought he could rely on a Human being startled by the bat transformation, he made his last error in judgement. The sword whirled in a glittering arc and the vampire bat spun with its head lopped cleanly off. The Silver Skull sheathed his sword and watched the final transformation. It was a race between turning back to human semblance and dissolving into a gummy mass, but Gable looked vaguely human before he dissolved.
Letting out a deep breath, Taper relinquished the role. The black uniform and armor were gone and his street clothes reappeared on his body. Where they went until needed, no one knew. It was a mystery of Jordyn. With a vague disappointment, the latest Silver skull realized he had not gotten the information he wanted, but at least this warren had been cleaned up. The air smelled fresh again.
III.
Through the dark night sped a silent craft. The CORBY was nearly soundless in operation. Instead of a tail rotor, it had just two short vertical vanes on the end of the tail which sprayed air upward or to the side to aid in steering. The main rotors turned over rapidly on top of the aircraft but made little noise and could not be heard at all from the ground. Add to that the way the CORBY flew without external lights in violation of a dozen FAA regulations, and you had a helicopter which was seldom spotted or reported at night.
Seated in the dim blue-lit cockpit were two new team-mates. Leonard Slade was at the controls, one hand on each control stick, eyes moving smoothly from dial to dial. He wore a black jumpsuit of some tough material, studded with pouches and flaps, and on his head was a visored helmet. The Trom looked vaguely Mediterranean with his olive skin and regular features, but that had been planned so he could fit in a variety of cultures where his assignments might take him.
Next to him, Cindy Brunner stared out through the front windscreen. She was wearing the new field suit which had been tailored for her: black boots, pants and snug waist-length jacket, all with numerous small pockets holding an assortment of tools and weapons. Her dark blonde hair was bound in a ponytail inside a helmet identical to that which Slade wore. She felt comfortable in the field suit, even with the silk-thin flexible body armor beneath it. Slade had presented similar outfits to the members of the KDF, explaining that his function in the team was to provide Trom technology. The blonde telepath glanced over at him with a rueful expression. There was no sense in trying to read that disciplined, fast-running mind; it was like trying to crawl on hands and knees onto a multi-lane highway packed with speeding cars. All the thoughts she had managed to intercept were on different topics simultaneously running and it made her draw back in dizziness.
Gazing down at the roads and neighborhoods of Long Island spinning past, Cindy said out loud, "Hey, Len?"
The Trom had not objected to the nickname and he had himself immediately returned a first name basis. "Yes, Cindy?"
"I have a few questions. If you don't mind. Out in New Mexico, you supervise that HCE base we went to last month. I know you are busy doing wild Mad Scientist experiments and so forth, and that's where you built this jetcopter. And you had these suits made up and you crafted individual dart guns and body armor for us."
"There is no question in your statement."
"What I'm leading up to, I guess, is what do you get out of it?"
"Tel Shai membership. Jeremy has arranged for us to become knights of Tel Shai. This means access to knowledge and training available nowhere else in any realm. The Trom have long wanted to learn some of the secrets of Tel Shai."
"Oh, I see," she said. Below, she saw the flashing lights of some traffic accident, gone behind them in an instant. "So it's a fair trade."
"We also share many values that the Order of Tel Shai represents." Slade did not turn toward her but his voice took on a more accessible tone. "You must be wondering just who the Trom are?"
"Well, yeah. Sure."
Slade brought the CORBY down lower, and slowed its airspeed. "We are a Cousin Race of Men, originally Human but modified long ago for greater intelligence. We value logic and reason and have tried to breed emotion out of our thinking, with some success."
"Okay. I guess. I mean, I'll figure it all out as we go along."
The Trom did not smile but he did put a modulation in his voice that expressed sympathy. He was good at that. His voice carried undertones with great precision. "We both have much to learn, Cindy."
"Tell me about it. Are you getting ready to land?"
"Yes. Sit back, please." There was a feeling of descent and the engines turned off. She could just hear the rotors overhead slow and stop but there had been no sensation of impact with the ground. "You mean, that's it?"
"Yes." Slade ran through a checklist of turning off switches and the cabin powered down. "Disengage," he said as he unbuckled the straps which held him in his seat and she did the same. The cabin doors hissed open as air pressure was released, and she climbed out, swinging down to the dirt. They were in an empty field miles from nowhere, and the Corby had come down almost touching a huge old willow tree over a pond. Cindy slid the visor of her helmet down and sure enough, the night vision enhancers clicked on. She saw everything in bright shades of green as if it were noon.
"I could get used to these gadgets," she whispered. "Jeremy said we were here to track down someone named Mardigail and his Great Pack. Look, I know what werewolves are. I've been to the movies, and I can accept that there are such things after what I've already seen. But if there are a pack of those things around here, shouldn't we be armed to the teeth? With machine guns that fire silver bullets, for example?"
Slade slid open a storage compartment on the left rear and took out a camouflage tarp. He draped it over the CORBY as Cindy basically stayed out of his way. "We could do that. But your dart gun is loaded with a clip of extra heavy anesthetic. You should be able to render a howler unconscious with every shot, and I have my own devices." He stepped back and inspected the concealed helicopter. "That is not perfect but it will have to do."
Cindy interrupted. "There are a dozen minds active in that direction," she pointed. "Mean, aggressive minds. Like animals but smarter. Oh my God, they ARE werewolves!" She grabbed him by the arm and he did not move away or react at all. "They are so vicious. I've read pit bulls and badgers and a tiger, and none of them were like these things."
"They are not natural animals with normal behavior," said Slade. "These are Humans who have chosen to assume bestial forms because they want to kill. Think of them as psychotics in animal bodies."
Cindy drew her dart gun and clicked its mechanism. "That's a big help, Leonard Slade. Okay. I'm calming down. The howlers are a mile in that direction. Toward that hill. But two of them are coming this way, you know?"
The Trom started walking in the direction she had indicated, and she trotted alongside his long strides. He reached up to the right ear pod of his helmet. "I'm picking them up now. They are running at attack speed. Be ready."
"Yeah right, like I wasn't already worked up," she answered. A few seconds later, the sound of panting and the drumming of paws on the hard earth could be heard. Two large dark forms came hurtling out of the night at them. Cindy turned down her telepathic perception before the savage minds overwhelmed her. Extending her arm full length, she fired twice. The air-driven pistol gave a soft cough and instantly her chosen howler yelped in pain and tumbled to the grass to lie still. A second later, the other werewolf skidded on its nose to the ground as Slade returned an electronic device to its holder plate on his belt.
"Say, that wasn't so bad," she breathed, lowering the dart gun. One of the howlers twitched as if dreaming while asleep. "Bagged my first werewolf before I'm twenty-one." She stepped closer. "They don't look at all alike."
This was true. One of the monsters was bigger than the other, more humanoid in arms and legs, while the other seemed more lupine in form. Both bristled with thick fur and both had fangs and claws larger than nature would provide. "What's the deal with that?"
Slade examined the sleeping brutes. "My theory is that their shapes are influenced by their subconscious minds. They take forms close to how they see themselves taking form. I need more data and a larger sample to work with." He took a flat plastic case from a leg pouch, removed disposable syringes and injected each of the beasts with a clear solution.
"NOW what? You know, you could just explain what you're doing instead of playing 20 Questions!"
"This is actually our captain's suggestion," Slade answered blandly. "A year ago, he handled a werewolf on his own. He wanted to subdue the howler without killing it because its human form was an ally. Jeremy solved the problem by shooting the beast in the arm or rather foreleg." The Trom tucked the used syringes in the back compartment of the case. "It seems to have worked. Dr West was not killed but his transformations have stopped. I have just introduced a colloidal silver solution into their systems. We will see how well it works."
"Boy, Jeremy is really something, huh?"
Slade stood up. "I see you desire to mate with him and become his partner."
"Hey! Knock off personal remarks like that," she said, then added, "I guess it's obvious."
On the hill, lights in a farmhouse showed against the night sky. "Do you sense any further attackers?"
Cindy frowned and half closed her eyes. "No. No, I don't. But there are more of these critters up in that house."
The Trom began walking briskly, almost a run and she had to keep up. Cindy holstered her dart gun at her right hip and tried not to break into a trot. As they got closer, a musky heavy scent became apparent. Slade kept to what cover the scattered trees provided. Soon, they saw leaping, twirling figures against a bonfire. They got as close as they dared, and saw what few lived to tell of. The Dance of the Werewolves. In a circle around a fire, a dozen shaggy forms spun and jumped in the air, moving clockwise quicker than a man could run. They were panting and grumbling but otherwise silent. It was an eerie sight. A small green light winked on Slade's helmet as he began recording the scene.
From inside the house, a massive man stalked out imperiously. In the flickering light, he could be seen to be wearing only a long apron of dark material and high leggings. The man had grizzled hair on his chest and arms, and a thick beard shot with grey. He was built like a blacksmith, and as he stepped forward, the werewolves stopped short and began to howl.
"Tonight is OUR night!" the man cried out, silencing them with raised arms. "Hunting will be good, my children. Our pact with the children of the twilight is all but sealed. We will work together, we brethren of the wolf united with the drinkers of blood and the vengeful dead to divide up this land into territories."
The werewolves bayed again, hopping about restlessly in their eagerness. Jamil Mardigail pointed back to the house. "I have brought us prey. Three children, stolen today from under the stupid noses of their parents. This estate extends for miles until the ocean. After I release the brats, we will wait for my signal and then you will pursue. Those who brings back the remains will be high in rank."
"Oh no, you don't!" Cindy yelled, surprising herself. "No one's hunting kids tonight. You sickos." She walked toward the stunned Pack as they watched her emerge from the night. With all his knowledge, Slade did not seen this coming and for once, he followed her.
Mardigail was dumbfounded. "What? How dare-? Are you insane?"
"Could be," she said. "But you are not chasing any children through the woods."
The leader of the pack roared and the dozen howlers dropped to all fours and loped forward eagerly. Cindy did not draw her gun nor move back a step. Hands at her sides, she narrowed her eyes and her head moved forward slightly. One werewolf grunted and tumbled to the ground, with the one close behind getting tangled. Then another fell. The Pack slowed and hesitated. Cindy gave a vicious glare to another, and that one also dropped to the dirt.
Half turning to Slade, she said, "Just being a telepath. I needed to learn this when I started dating." She stunned another one with an unseen thrust of mental force that shut down its awareness. The werewolves snarled and barked and tried to spread out to encircle her. Then, together they galloped forward. Cindy knocked another one out with a telepathic bolt but the nearest werewolf leaped from ten feet away right at her throat.
In midair, that beast was struck by an open hand that cracked against its neck like a hatchet. The sound of bone breaking was low but decisive. As the howler fell to one side in death, Leonard Slade drew back his hand and unclipped the projector device from his belt. Setting it to neural shock, he flickered a pale beam out like a spotlight, and every werewolf touched fell to the ground.
Now only four were left. They whimpered and drew back for all the world like frightened dogs.
"Not so eager to chase little kids now, are you?" demanded Cindy. She stunned another one with a blast of invisible telepathic force. She was actually shorting out their nervous systems by forcing in conflicting commands. In fact, she really had learned to do this in her early teens against a boy with roaming hands but she had not ever struck a Human half as hard as she slammed these monsters.
The leader of the pack regained his composure. Seen closer, Jamil Mardigail was a daunting sight. His arms and legs were thick columns of muscle and his torso was a hard mass. The wide leonine nose and dark eyes under bristling eyebrows did not make him look more friendly. He slowly advanced until he was almost at arm's length, shifting his gaze from Cindy to Slade and back again. "So. You are police, yes? You come for the brats? Take them. And be gone."
"It will not be that easy for you," Slade said. "Our goal is to break your Dark Alliance. We know about your pack joining with the warren of Lord Julian Gable and the walking dead of Anastasia. We want to know who is behind the union."
"You do, eh?" snarled the king howler. He leaned his head forward and Slade was ready to listen. Despite his caution, the Trom was taken enough off-guard that Mardigail was upon him in a heartbeat before he could react. The hand which held the electronic weapon was seized and drawn out straight, as the huge brute slammed him down. The visor on Slade's helmet was retracted and Mardigail's hot breath steamed onto his face. The fangs opened-
And both men rose sharply straight up twenty feet into the air. Spinning, the Trom flung Mardigail off him, to hurtle hard against the side of the nearby house. The impact was brutal. The leader of the werewolf pack moaned and did not get up right away. As Leonard Slade touched controls built into his cuffs, he descended evenly to land lightly on his feet.
"You didn't tell me you could FLY!" Cindy said. "What the hell, dude?"
Slade was watching the stunned howler. "It is the gravity shield I wear on my back. We will learn more of each other." He stepped over and played the neural shock beam over Mardigail, then opened the pack of syringes and injected the beast with colloidal silver. "He is more dangerous than I anticipated. Evidently, even in Human form he retains wolfish speed and agility."
Cindy was heading for the house. "I want to check on those children. There are young minds in there but they seem drugged. Maybe Mardigail has them tranquilized until it was time for his sick game." As she went in, Slade surveyed the howlers who had been injected with the solution. All seemed human again, lying naked on the ground and snoring. They still had not learned the name of the mastermind behind the Dark Alliance but he followed Cindy into the house to check on the intended prey.
IV.
The thunder was muted and the flash not as blinding. Khang was learning how to moderate his power. They were standing on a long paved drive leading up to a wide mansion with an L-shape and a servant's house behind it. Lights showed in a few windows. Khang lowered his arms and turned to his teammate.
Ted Wright had dropped almost to one knee when they had appeared here in White Plains. He was new to traveling by god-gates and it would take some getting used to. There was an instant of heat and unsteadiness, and then one often found himself standing half an inch above the landing spot for some reason, leading to a stumbling arrival. The Blue Guide caught himself. Khang himself was disorienting just by being there. Wright's skills involved mostly perception of lifeforce in others. He could tell where its flow was blocked or sluggish, he could stimulate it or slow it down. It was how he did his healing. When Wright looked at Khang, he perceived a blazing fireball of gralic energy that hurt to see directly. The bundled long coat and scarf and slouch hat did no good to shield Wright's reception.
"Are you all right?" came the rumble from all directions. That was another strange thing about the silver man. His voice did not come right from his head but seemed to originate from every point at once. It was like being at a concert and hearing announcements from high speakers. Wright shook his head angrily. He would get used to it. He had seen many strange things since going to Tel Shai.
"I'm fine," he muttered. He tugged down the waist-length field suit jacket and straightened it where his arrival had twisted it. He did not like wearing the metal-film armor under his clothes and he did not like carrying so many weapons. He felt they interfered with his gralic balance. Maybe he would have to talk to Bane about this. He was more a medic than a soldier, it was inappropriate for him to be so armed. "Where are we, Khang?"
"Windsor Drive in White Plains,"said the silver man. "We are in Westchester now. I am not always sure how I know these things. My memories are clouded. Yet this estate looks so familiar..."
"We need time to talk. There is so much I don't know about you." Wright held out an open hand. "Do you mean you don't remember who you used to be?"
"I do not! Vague images and echoes are all I have. And yet, I feel certain that I agreed to be placed in this gralic form. Perhaps I was old or dying. I don't know."
Wright surprised himself by placing his hand on the giant's sleeve. The material felt hot to the touch. "We'll get some answers for you. I promise you that."
The heavy head turned, but nothing of the face was visible. "You are a good man, Ted. I will come to count on you."
"Fair enough," Wright said. "Well, we have a job to do. Our captain did not give us much to go on. He got a report from someone who calls himself 'Bleak,' who said that he heard rumors that some new mastermind was organizing a Dark Alliance of the children of the night. Werewolves, vampires, zombies, who knows what else.. all united into an empire that can prey on mankind without retribution. It sounds crazy. It IS crazy. But then I've seen a lot I thought was crazy."
Khang began to stride up the drive toward the house. They saw headlights go out by the front door and knew someone had arrived just before they had. Wright lowered the helmet over his head but kept the visor up. He trusted his own perception more than any electronic sensors. Before they got halfway to the house, he felt they were being surrounded. "Khang. Do you see them?"
"My senses are not like yours," said the silver man. "Yes. They encircle us."
In the light from the windows of the house up on the hill, long shadows stretched across the neat lawn. Ragged figures lurched and stumbled, almost falling. They moved with a grotesque stiffness. Ted Wright could see them but he could not sense the warmth of lifeforce. There was only a chill thin prodding that drove them on. He looked back over his shoulder. These were not living creatures. They were the puppets of dead bodies being manipulated without their consent.
"Zombies..." he growled. They were not making any threatening moves, just approaching in a circle from behind to herd them toward the house. Well, thought the Blue Guide, we are going that way in any case. if my old friends could see me now, he thought. Wright had packed his life with what seemed to be nothing but study. The US Navy Medical Corps. Columbia University. His internship at Mount Sinai Hospital, his own brief practice. Then discovering the Order of Tel Shai, being sponsored there by John Robert Chase, learning Kerwandu. Now, joining this Kenneth Dred Foundation because the Teachers at Tel Shai had confided he would be needed among them to balance their warlike spirit with mercy.
Sometimes he figured that when he got elderly, he would turn into a wild, dirty old man full of carousing and unseemly behavior. Just to make up for the way he had spent the first thirty-odd years of his life studying.
The zombies were starting to crowd them. He could smell them now. With normal living Humans, Wright could siphon off lifeforce to make the most berserk drug addict docile or the most violent thug drowsy enough to be harmless. He was not at all sure he could do that with these unnatural things, though. Maybe he would need Khang to do some head-breaking.
In the open doorway of the house, light streamed out and silhouetted in it was a tall, voluptuous woman. The zombies shuffled listlessly around her. As they got closer, Wright could see she had been beautiful not long earlier and was still striking. She had bright yellow hair drawn up in an elaborate swirl, and she wore a white evening gown with a gauze top over the low-cut bodice. She held a cigarette in one hand but did not draw on it. "Come, come, gentlemen! I have been expecting you."
Wright scoffed as he drew within reach. "And just how did you know we were coming here?"
"Anastasia has her ways," the woman announced. She waved the zombies away with a dismissive gesture.
"Not THE Anastasia, I suppose?" Wright asked.
"You are bold for living men surrounded by such as serve me. Few would not be afraid in your position."
Khang spoke for the first time, making Wright jump at the unexpected booming voice coming out of the air. "It is your own life that hangs by a thread, sorceress. For I am the avenging sword come to bring retribution."
"Are you now?" she replied. "I suppose. Come in and we shall talk."
The knights of Tel Shai followed. They had been expecting resistance and confrontation and this compliance took them off-guard. Anastasia led them through a foyer into a grand ballroom, lit by a crystal chandelier and decorated with paintings and antique furniture. The floor was polished marble, the walls gleaming dark wood. Yet the servants who awkwardly went about their chores were decaying horrors from which bits of flesh hung and fell off. Anastasia moved slowly, even stiffly as she made her way to the dining room. The table was set with silver and china, goblets of wine were laid out and courses of fine food were left untouched. She sat at the head of the table, lowering herself on the chair.
In the bright lights, she was older than she had first seemed. Her skin was dry and unhealthy-looking. When her light blue eyes turned on the visitors, they seemed distant and distracted. "What is it you wish of me?" she breathed.
Wright glanced over at Khang, who had remained standing and he decided against seating himself. "You must know that this is one of the Five Forbidden Arts. Necromancy, zombies, voodoo, all are outlawed."
"Because the old codgers at Tel Shai say so? Who are they to dictate to me? I do as I will."
A near-skeleton with scraps of flesh fell to the floor and could not rise. Two newer zombies tenderly bent to pick up their fallen brother and carry him away.
"There is much you do not know," the woman said. "Suppose that a wealthy man dies suddenly. No one knows. During the night, before he is even discovered, he rises again and writes out a check for a sizable amount- to me. After it clears, his body is found but I was a hundred miles away the whole time."
"This has been done before. There is no sin that is new," snorted Wright. "I see you live in luxury. You have fine cuisine, a posh mansion, servants of every type. Whatever you want will be handed to you. Yet it is wrong, deadly wrong, and we will stop you but first we must know the name of your master."
Anastasia lit another cigarette but she had not drawn on the first, merely let it burn out. "Threatening me? You are amusing." The blonde woman picked up a goblet of white wine and put it down again untouched.She held out her hand palm up and waved her fingers toward herself. A half dozen of the walking dead stopped their slow chores and swung around to approach the table. "I have already let you live too long."
As the undead shuffled within reach, Khang tugged off his gloves. His hands seemed to be made of burnished silver, moving naturally and yet gleaming like metal. He raised one hand and a shattering blast of white force roared out to blast a zombie to shreds. Pieces flew like leaves, and the bolt went on to char a hole in the wall.
"I am still using more power than is needed," Khang admitted ruefully. He struck again with a finer, lesser flare that blew two more zombies into pieces small as dust. A distant thunder echoed.
Anastasia half rose and sat down again. Already pale, she now seemed white as the undead around her. The cigarette fell unnoticed from her fingers.
"Send them back," the silver giant complied. Anastasia got to her feet and pushed the chair back behind her. For someone so elegant in dress and coiffure, she seemed clumsy. Without a word, she reached out and seized Ted Wright by the throat. He was not expecting it, nor would he have thought she would have such an iron grip. Years of training took over and rather than try to break her grip by force, he drew on gralir and siphoned off her lifeforce. He hoped she would grow weak and dizzy, perhaps faint, and then they could take her prisoner.
Instead, Anastasia fell apart in front of him. Her limbs dropped off, her head fell backwards and rolled across the floor. The stink was heavy. With a wet plop, the decaying body sagged to the floor in front of him.
Eyes somber, Wright stared around as all the zombies collapsed into mulch in all directions. He thought he had seen dreadful sights in the Navy but nothing like this. The Blue Guide looked down sadly. "I knew, of course. I could see her life force was stolen and not her own."
"Of course," Khang said slowly. "You notice she did not inhale her smoke, she held a wine glass but did not drink-"
"Because she couldn't!" continued Wright. "She was one of them."
V.
The beat-up old Dodge pick-up sped over the bridge into New Jersey. Bane must have shown some surprise at seeing it because Hawk had lifted the hood to expose a gleaming new motor. Then he showed the row of toggle switches under the dash that fired the smoke screens or turned on the blinding spotlight in the back bumper or ten other gimmicks. The Dire Wolf studied them with his usual humorless intensity; for the KDF, he was planning to buy a few cars and have them armored. Many of Hawk's gadgets had originated with his uncle Robert, who had been the Sting in the 1940s. The anesthetic dart guns were a Sting trademark and Hawk had given Bane permission to duplicate them for the new team.
"Let's go, son," said Hawk, climbing up into the driver's seat.
"Don't call me son," Bane snapped, and then softened his tone, "Just as a favor, okay? Listen, Michael. I want the KDF to take whatever works from heroes of the past. We're not too proud to borrow. What else comes to mind?"
Hawk turned down a ramp and went along the main drive through Jersey City. It was still early enough that there was considerable traffic and he drove skillfully if fast. "I'll think it over. I don't know if you realize it, Jeremy, but two earlier generations assembled at that table where we sat this morning."
"I only know bits and pieces. I know Dr Vitarius built the place in the 19th Century. He was an alchemist. In 1937, he sold it to Mr Dred and left the country. And I have seen comments that people like the Monk and Mark Drum met there."
"Ah. Well, in the 1930s, a team of heroes got together at that building. Dr Vitarius was in charge. Let's see... there was the Monk, Prince Duran, Mark Drum, my uncle and his partner Chen Lee Sun. Sulak. Then in the 1940s, another group was asked to help fight saboteurs and spies. They were a colorful bunch. The Victory Eagle, Red Devil, the Sceptre, Archangel. I must have notes and letters stored somewhere."
They had passed through the more developed areas and started seeing individual houses with yards. Looking out the window, Bane said, "I don't expect us to be like firemen always on call. Each of us has a life of his own, but I do want to be able to deal with any occult threats that turn up. I really would like to have a few more members lined up, but they are hard to find."
"That's another area I may be able to help with," Hawk said. In the glow from the dashboard, he looked older and more weathered than he had in daylight. Michael Hawk had brown hair mixed with liberal amounts of grey and a square, weathered face. His eyes were hazel. He was not a big man, but he moved with the nimbleness and energy of a teenager. On the job, he wore almost a cowboy outfit of boots, jeans, work shirt and a denim jacket. Now, he glanced over at the intense youngster riding next to him. "I know one or two who might be interested. Andrew Steel and his partner Golden Sun. Sulak is still active. Then there's the Black Angel."
"You've been a big help already." Bane tugged at the dagger hilts sheathed to his forearms under his jacket sleeves. "Did I tell you where I got the tip about this Dark Alliance?"
"No."
"A guy called Bleak. He used to be a priest until his family was killed by Lord Julian Gable. He lost his faith. For a while he became a vampire hunter himself but eventually he contented himself with being a sort of spy on the creatures of the night. He's given me good information but he does charge for it."
"Man's got to eat," Hawk said. He slowed as they approached a sign that read HARRISONVILLE 9 MILES. "Here's a town with a history. More than a few weird things have happened here."
"I haven't heard about it." Bane stirred in his seat. His hyperactive metabolism made it hard for him to hold still. "We must be almost there by now."
"I can give you one pointer. Take lessons in everything. Hire experts and have them teach you. How to pick a lock, how to imitate someone's voice, how to dive into shallow water. Any skill might be useful. I can make some introductions."
"You've been brought up to be an expert in everything, so I hear. You were raised by a board to produce the perfect crimefighter. Is that right?"
"More or less," Hawk said. "When my father died, my uncle Robert took over. He spent his fortune having me taught everything useful for a criminologist. I was home-schooled but I also traveled the world being taught by experts. An Apache showed me how to track, a South Seas pearl diver told me how to hold my breath. Things like that."
"There's Harrisonville," the Dire Wolf interrupted. He perked up at the prospect of action. "Sleepy little town."
Sitting near the river, Harrisonville indeed seemed quiet as a painting of the stereotype small village, with a church at one end of the main street, rows of neat white houses with immaculate lawns, a general store, a post office. Bane regarded it with as much suspicion as he did nearly everything. Who knew what was going on behind those drawn curtains even now?
Hawk reached the outskirts of town, where the houses were further apart and woods started to take over. He eased to the side of the road and turned off the engine. A gravel path led up into an area covered with undergrowth and trees. Hawk slid out of the pick-up and buckled on a gun-belt with two holsters. Bane watched with interest. The gun on the left was an air pistol that shot the anesthetic darts but the gun in the right holster was a huge .357 Magnum. Hawk saw his gaze and smiled, "This one is for when darts don't speak loud enough."
When Bane got out, he put the helmet on but left the visor up. He was wearing one of the field suits himself, but his seemed to carry an extra ominous air. Maybe it depended on who was wearing it. "We better do some sneaking around first. Bleak said there was a shack up there by itself and I generally trust his information but it's always good to check twice." He pointed right. "You go that way, I'll go the other and we'll meet behind the shack if nothing happens."
For a moment, Michael Hawk did not respond. He was used to being in charge. He started to say something, then kept his mouth shut. Bane caught this and said, "I know you're the best. You're an experienced veteran and I'm a kid. But there can only be one captain on a team, Mike."
"I reckon you're right. And this is your sort of case, I've dealt with kidnappers, hit men, terrorists. Human bad boys. Werewolves and vampires are something new to my way of thinking."
"Let's go then." They started up the gravel and had just separated when there was a stir in the bushes. Three naked manlike creatures plunged at them with a piercing scream. They seemed to have dead-white leprous skin and muzzles full of wide teeth. The monsters ran headlong at the intruders and were struck down almost simultaneously. Sharp cracking noises sounded, the creatures were flying to one side or face down in the dirt, and Bane lowered his fists. Hawk had not even caught the action, despite his experience.
"Say, you ARE a quick sort of fellow," he said. "What do you call these varmints?"
Bane knelt beside one of the creatures. This one was dead, he had run right into a straight punch that had bent his head back so far that his neck broke. The Dire Wolf examined the unhealthy white skin on a hairless body, the long rubbery arms, the spatulate fingers, the protruding muzzle. "These are Ghouls," he said. "Children of Damozar. Eaters of the dead."
"Nice." Hawk shivered visibly."Where do they come from?"
"They start as regular Humans. A decade or so of eating Human flesh turns thems like this."
"Can't be. There are tribes who are cannibals all their lives and they don't look like this."
Bane stood up. "This is a deliberate process. The Ghouls draw vestiges of lifeforce from Human flesh. They are like vampires on a lesser scale. These things are alive, though. Flesh and blood, not Undead. And they sometimes live in warrens of twenty or so, let's be alert."
"I hear you," Hawk answered as he trotted up the hill to the right.
Bane took the other direction. In his black warsuit, he was almost invisible in the gloom of the crescent moon. Ghouls! Of course they reminded him of one of his very first encounters with the Midnight War. That colony of Ghouls that Mr Dred had sent him to observe. The slaughter when he was caught and fought his way out. It was only two years ago but so much had happened since then. He glided silently through the night, making a circle and came upon a waist-high stone wall fence. It was in disrepair. Bane followed it, starting to spot tombstones and crosses. This was a cemetery. He froze still. The hill held an old, unused cemetery and the presence of Ghouls meant there would be tunnels and connections under his feet right now.
He drew his dart gun and raced faster around the stone wall, thinking he should meet up with Hawk to share this new disturbing revelation. Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye and he spun as a white lanky form vaulted the low wall and dived right on him. Bane's free fist cracked like a hammer on the Ghoul's head, driving him down into the dirt. Landing with a knee in the creature's back, Bane pinned him down. "I need you to do some talking."
But the monster only made babbling sounds, even when the Dire Wolf flipped him over and gave him a hard backhand slap. There was not much intelligence left in those deep-set hollow eyes. Disgusted, Bane let him have a dart in the arm and left the sleeping maneater snoring by the fence. He was worried about Hawk. The guy might be the world's greatest manhunter but these were not anything he would be familiar with. Circling the stone wall, he caught glimpses of pale forms loping through the darkness between the gravestones. Ugh, he thought. What could be worse than these vermin?
In a moment, he spotted a dim yellow light that was the window of a one-room shack. Getting closer, he saw it was patched together from random boards and tar paper and clay in the chinks. Rusted tools and a long-unused lawnmower stood nearby. This may have been for a caretaker generations ago. Stealthy as he could, the Dire Wolf slowly crept up on the shack and peered cautiously in the lower corner of that one window. Inside was a hulking brute like he had never seen before.
The monster was dressed in what remained of a black suitcoat and trousers, tattered and ripped, with a white shirt underneath. He was closer to seven feet tall than six, wide enough that a normal man could stand behind him and be hidden. He stood on the side of the shack opposite the window, next to an open door. Over a low wooden table which held a feeble oil lamp, the creature was studying a talisman. When the monster sensed a presence, his head jerked around and up. He was hideous, a white-skinned brute with lank black hair on a misshapen skull, a protruding brow ledge over two mismatched eyes with one higher than the other. His nose was a peg set up almost between the eyes.
Bane had never met him, but he recognized the thing from descriptions. There was only one Quilt.
The monster had seen nothing but he remained suspicious. He took the talisman, a round amulet of the coppery Gremthom metal, and hung it by its chain near the door. He lurched spastically and went to the window. By that time, Bane had gone around the shack and walked boldly through the open door. "Hey, ugly! Over here!"
The huge brute swung around with a roar. He seemed to fill the single room. As Bane stepped in, he gave the amulet a passing glance but could not take his attention off the monster. "I've heard all about you. Quilt. The Patchwork Zombie. Parts of seven corpses sewn together and given your so-called life. Quite a trick."
"And I believe I know you," Quilt said in a startlingly smooth, polished voice. Bane had expected a rasp or a hiss, but the monster was soft-spoken. "Dire Wolf, I believe. You are known to the children of the night."
Bane stood with his arms folded in front of him, apparently relaxed and unconcerned. "This Dark Alliance nonsense is all your idea, right? You sold the other undead leaders on the idea of joining together for security. But from what I hear, your interest begins with what is your interest."
"You are perceptive for a Human," Quilt said. "What is it you think you know?"
"I've done my homework. Anastasia has been seen in the metropolitan area. Her and her zombies. Jamil Mardigail and Lord Julian Gable are around. Right there you have the three major species of bad boy in Midnight War. And now I find you palling around with a colony of Ghouls. What's next? Mummies? Trolls?"
"I was thinking of the Deep Ones," spoke Quilt in the voice of a BBC radio announcer. "Gill-Men. There are still a few. They can be bred. And you know, I think you can be of help to me."
Bane had not moved although the monster was edging closer, gradually, in tiny stages. "Me help you? In your dreams."
"You can be a go-between. Messages to the Human authorities will need a liaison." One eye worked better than the other, which moved lazily as he glared with a vicious smile. "You can save lives on both sides."
The Dire Wolf looked up at the brute that stood a head taller and a foot wider. "I can save lives, all right. But you won't like how I'm going to do it."
"Death has many doors to let out life! Fear has many faces," Quilt roared. "Do not think you will see dawn if you cross me."
Still not moving, Bane asked casually, "There's a lot of Ghouls wandering around out there. How did you get control of them?"
For a second, Quilt's head turned toward the gremthom amulet on the wall by the half-open door. Then he caught himself. "Listen closely, living fool. You will go to your Teachers and give them our demands. The Dark Alliance needs land of its own-"
"I'll give you what you need," said Bane. He swung his arms outward with a silver-bladed dagger in each hand and launched himself. He was faster than a real wolf. One blade slammed to the hilt in the Patchwork Zombie's hard chest and he tugged it out, slashing the other knife across Quilt's throat. The Monster bellowed but did not seem hurt and he swung a huge open hand down from overhead that caught Bane across the top of his helmet. The helmet cracked, a chip flew off and Bane fell to his knees. Rolling, he got away and came up with a high side kick that crashed right in the front of Quilt's throat. The monster caught that leg by the ankle, despite all odds, and Bane spun to bring his other foot around to thump hard to the Zombie's face. He got loose and drew back.
The Dire Wolf was taken aback. He had only started his Kumundu training too recently for it to be of any use, but he had taken boxing lessons as a teenager and had been in fights all his life. He expected his inborn enhanced speed to be all the advantage he could ever need and he was dismayed. "You're a cute one," he muttered. He dove in, slashed left and right with both daggers, gouging out chunks of undead flesh. He left himself open, expecting the beast to be killed, and took a punch right to the chest that threw him back over the low wooden table. Bane hit the floor and scuttled back a few feet before getting up. He still had not let go of his knives.
Quilt touched his chest, where flaps of skin hung loose and two holes gaped inches deep. "I can FEEL that," he wondered. "Your weapons hurt me.. perhaps you could even slay me if I let you. But I have only to say, 'Attack' and my Ghouls will rip to gobbets. The Amulet of Damozar will finish you."
"In. Your. Dreams," snapped the Dire Wolf. He suddenly threw the dagger in his left hand and it punched home right in the monster's right eye socket. Quilt screamed the hollow shriek of the damned and groped for it, and in that instant, Bane was in close, cutting him to tatters with the other knife. Half the monster's face was gone when he got hold of his smaller adversary by the throat and swung him from side to side like a dog with a rat in its jaws. Quilt smashed Bane to the shack floor with murderous impact and kicked him. Now the Wolf had lost both weapons. Hurt, he rolled away and got up, nearly falling again.
The Patchwork Zombie yanked the silver dagger from his eye and threw it to one side. "Silver?! Ah, that explains it. No matter. Everything will grow back. I can not be destroyed!" He swayed and took an ominous step toward the Dire Wolf.
From the doorway, a commanding voice shouted, "ATTACK!"
Quilt and Bane both snapped their heads around to look. Standing there was Michael Hawk, holding the Amulet of Damozar in both hands as it shimmered with a lurid light. Ghouls appeared behind him, crowding past to climb up on Quilt's huge bulk. More of the leprous creatures shoved Hawk aside to get at their former master. Quilt struck them down and flung them aside but more came until the cabin began to fill with them. Hawk repeated, "ATTACK! Rip him apart!"
Bane retrieved his dagger from where he had dropped it, got past the struggling mass of inhuman bodies and found the other knife. It was sticking point down in the floor. He sheathed them and made it to the door. "Good work, Mike. I wondered what happened to you."
Michael Hawk lowered the seething magickal amulet. "I was at the door when I heard him mention this trinket. Neither of you saw me, you were tangling. So I reached in and snagged it." He grinned. "When you get older, you'd rather use tricks and ruses than just punch it out." By now, no more Ghouls could fit inside the cabin and Quilt could be heard roaring in pain and rage. More of the maneaters were loping up the hill, long arms reaching to the ground.
"Amulet or not, I don't trust those fellers," Hawk said. "I think we had best make ourselves scarce."
"I think you're right. Let's come back later and see what's left." Bane was touching his chest gingerly, trying not to show pain. Hawk noticed and said, "No matter how tough you are, you can count on meeting someone tougher."
4/13/2013
October 3, 1979-
I.
At ten minutes after eight, Jeremy Bane stepped into the conference room. He was wearing the black turtleneck and sport jacket and slacks which were his trademark. So much had to be done here yet. The long polished oak table had been there when he took ownership of the building, as had been the ten heavy straight back chairs that lined it. One wall was taken up with reference books and filing cabinets; another had two tall windows looking down on East 38th Street. There were two lockers he had brought up to hold his field suits, and a refrigerated cabinet at the far end held drinks and snacks. But he wanted to add more equipment, particularly communication equipment.
The Dire Wolf moved to the windows and held the heavy curtains aside. it was raining. He stood looking down at traffic, thinking that Kenneth Dred had been dead for barely two months now. It had been an uneventful passing, an old man's heart stopping in his sleep. They had already discussed what would happen, the will had been made out and transfer of property had been uncontested because there was no family. Bane was now wealthy, but it did not register. He now had millions in his bank account, when two years earlier he had owned only what he could carry. The Dire Wolf folded his arms, lost in thought. He did not grieve for Kenneth Dred as much as he had thought he would, but maybe it had not sunk in yet. Maybe he was just unfeeling. The old man had been failing for the past year. Perhaps that was another reason he had taken Bane on as a protege and heir.
At only twenty-two, the grim young man with pale eyes and cold demanor had taken on a huge responsibility. He was glad, though, it felt like something he had always been meant to do. The more he learned about the Midnight War, the more he was determined to assemble a group that could handle its menace. As an orphan of the streets, he had been offered membership in various gangs of thugs and racketeers but had always declined and worked alone. Now he would have his own gang, but one like nothing this city had ever seen.
Standing there, he felt a vague tickling in his thoughts that he was coming to recognize. He turned his head and saw Cindy in the doorway. A pretty blonde a little more than a year younger than himself, she had an impudent face, dark blue eyes and a wide grin. Cindy was dressed much more formally than usual, wearing navy blue slacks, an off-white blouse and a thin blue cardigan. Bane nodded to her, "Good morning."
"The BEST morning," she answered. "Don't try to hide your excitement, you've got a telepath in your life now."
"We agreed, no mind-reading without permission."
She came over to stand next to him, almost leaning up against his shoulder. "I know. I'll be good. Oh, I love my room. It's twice as big as my apartment down on Crampton Street, that was almost a closet."
"Here they start to come," said Bane, pointing outside. She leaned over to look out the window, deliberately pressing one soft breast against his arm. Down in the street, two men were walking up to the front door. They let themselves in and a moment later ascended to the stairs to the second floor and came into the conference room. Michael Hawk was the only KDF member known to the general public, a famous criminologist and manhunter from a family of crimefighters. Now hitting sixty, there was grey in his brown hair and his square face was lined but he still moved with confidence and authority. He was wearing a neat topcoat over a black business suit, with white shirt and dark maroon tie. "Hi, you two."
"Mike. Ted. Glad to see you."
Entering with Hawk was a tall black man with a sad heavy face and short beard. He wore a beige raincoat over a plain white dress shirt and dark slacks. Ted Wright was a Blue Guide, master of the Tel Shai healing art, and a man who took everything too seriously for his own good. He nodded to Bane and Cindy.
The blonde telepath came over to held them hang up their coats. She was helpful and gregarious by nature. "You guys look like you're freezing. Don't you think coffee is a good idea?" She seized Ted Wright by the arm and dragged him downstairs to the kitchen. "Come on, I need help not to burn it."
Left with Hawk, Bane said, "Mike, thanks again for helping me get my PI license. It'll be a big help."
Hawk grinned his crooked smile and came over to look out the window with him. "You had no documentation, Jeremy. Nothing. Not even a library card. I got you what you need but it's up to you to hold onto them. Not the first forged IDs I've created but I hope you put them to good use."
"Oh, I will," said the Dire Wolf. "You won't be sorry. Mr Dred told me you were the master in the fields of crimefighting and I should learn everything you want to teach."
Before Hawk could answer, Cindy and Wright entered with two pewter trays of mugs, sugar, milk and a huge coffee pot. Wright was smiling and more relaxed than when he had tentatively entered that building. Cindy had that effect. As they moved over to the conference table and started pouring and drinking, Bane was the one who abstained. With his enhanced metabolism, he needed to avoid caffeine.
Leonard Slade appeared in the doorway. He was very well dressed in a tailored dark blue suit. Slade was a Trom, without emotion but more intelligent than Humans in a scientific sense. His greeting was formal and polite, as he took a seat and waited. Bane watched him thoughtfully. He had met Slade not long earlier and they worked well together because they had common goals. But the Trom were sure cold fish.
Now it was nearly nine. A taxi door slammed outside in the street, they heard footsteps up the stairs and Dr Lawrence Taper hurried in, habitually late, his topcoat over one arm. "Hello! Hello, everybody!" Taper was not as imposing or dignified as the other KDf members. He was maybe five foot ten and solid in build, with a roundish face and short dark brown hair. Sometimes he had his glasses on but not now.
"Well, that just leaves Khang-" Bane started to say. He was interrupted by an explosion of white light in the hall outside and a peal of thunder. As the members jumped and one or two cursed at the sudden surprise, a huge form filled the doorway. Khang stood well over seven feet tall, bundled in a long coat, with a wide-brimmed slouch hat, wraparound sunglasses and muffler hiding as much as possible. Yet a gleam of silver could be spotted here and there when he moved.
"We are well met, my comrades," he rumbled in a deep voice that seemed to come from every direction. "Honored I am to join such illustrious knights."
"Glad to have you," said the Dire Wolf. He moved over to the head of the table. "Now if everyone will take a seat, we can begin. I call the first meeting of the Kenneth Dred Foundation to order."
II.
At dusk that day, with traffic at its worst, Larry Taper managed to snag a taxi. He asked to be taken to Worthington Lane, down at the end of the financial district. The skyscrapers that loomed up over Wall Street and gave the feeling of being in a canyon had dwindled down and were succeeded by small office buildings and restaurants and apartment complexes. Taper got out, paid the driver and walked briskly down the street. He was almost giddy with excitement. Just a year earlier, he had been nothing but a mid-level anthropology professor at an upstate university, a boring bachelor with no love life and a man starting to wonder where he had missed out. That was before the Silver Skull. Once he had accepted that responsibility, every day veered from wonder to nightmare. As it got dark and the streetlights came on, Taper found what he was looking for. The Mount Calvary Lutheran Church, closed for years and just waiting for legal clearance to be torn down. It was small, with room for no more than fifty or sixty parishioners at a service. One window was broken out, shingles were hanging loose and the belfry door was missing. But, Taper knew, the children of the night loved best places that once were holy.
Taper walked around the building, watchful and wary. It had been a long day at the meeting. There were no papers to be signed, all that red tape would be handled later. The Kenneth Dred Foundation was a voluntary organization. Its members were there because they wanted to be there. Membership in the Order of Tel Shai, with its ancient secrets of otherwise lost mystic knowledge, was the main benefit. To be one of the knights of Tel Shai, though, they had to agree to follow their new captain, Jeremy Bane. The Silver Skull paused and went across the street where a small cafe was open. He reflected about the new teammates he had made that day. Bane was as fierce and driven as his Dire Wolf code name, but Taper concluded he was basically sound. Cindy was a firecracker, stirring things up and already uniting them into a team through her understated telepathy. Slade he had already known. Hawk was a celebrity in his own right, a steady reliable man. The healer, Ted Wright, seemed decent enough, perhaps a bit too self-absorbed with responsibility. It was Khang he was having trouble dealing with. He had thought the man was wearing some sort of metal armor, but apparently not. He was what he seemed to be.
Taper got a bagel with cream cheese and munched it as he stood by a wrought-iron table outside the cafe. As he watched, a bat whipped overhead and went straight into the empty aperture of the church belfry. That was his cue. With rising tension, he stepped across the street and walked up to the front door of the church. There was a painted wooden plaque that still listed service times. Taper tried the door and found it unlocked, and he stepped through the vestibule. A stench poured out that would keep any casual trespasser away. It was not even the smell of something dead but a stink much worse. Despite himself, the Silver Skull flinched and drew back, then stepped forward again.
The interior was dimly lit by outside streetlights coming through the stained glass. Most of the pews had been broken up and piled as loose lumber, and on the open space were arrayed three coffins. He had expected no less. In his short career, he had already seen many cliches and stereotypes proven true. It was better that the human race think that tales of the supernatural were just tales.
Standing before the altar was Lord Julian Gable. In his old-fashioned formal dress, with a vest and gloves and even spats, he gave away how old he really was. Gable had been a vampire so long he hardly looked Human any more. The skin was white and bloodless, the black hair lank and limp. The fiend's nose was an upturned stump over a wide mouth in which two razor canines pointed down, and those red eyes flashed with a gleam all their own. "Who are you?" he hissed like a cat.
"Nobody special," said Taper. He stepped into the fouled church, seeing that the coffins were still closed.
"Few of the Breathing can enter a den like this. More than your life is at risk here, fool." Gable put down a fountain pen and closed a ledger with a dusty slam. He stepped around the altar and moved his taloned fingers hungrily.
Standing his ground despite a pulse that pounded loudly, Taper tried to show no fear. Flesh and blood were not meant to stare down the Undead. "It is not even you that I want," he said. "It is your new leader."
"Rise!" shrilled the master vampire and at that signal, three lids slammed off the coffins and three unliving forms sat up. Taper knew they were not alive. Nothing in that church but him drew a breath, nothing but his own body was warm. Two men and a woman stood and climbed over the coffin edges to start walking toward him.
Gable inhaled so he could speak. "I think you would be wise to offer us whatever you want. While you can."
"To you, I can offer only what the Silver Skull has always offered- justice!"
In a flurry of air moving around him, Taper's clothes were gone and he was wearing a black leather uniform over steel armor. A round shield was strapped to his left arm, a straight four-foot sword was in a scabbard at his left hip. And on his head was a glistening helmet crafted in the semblance of a stern, unsmiling skull. Even the Undead were stalled for a moment, then they rushed him. Taper swept out the shield to crash hard at the first vampire, knocking him away. The second fiend ran into the return swing on the shield and was struck down. As the burnished metal hit the Undead, steam hissed from their cold bodies and they screamed.
The woman-thing grabbed for him. In life, she may have been good-looking, warm and caring but now she was only a shell animated by forbidden magick. The Skull drew his sword and plunged it deep into the center of her chest, sticking its point out between her shoulder blades with not a speck of blood. The sword Chalcemar had been ensorcelled by Malberon ages ago and would not harm an innocent being. Most Humans survived its strike. But the vampire fell apart into goo and filth as he tugged the blade free. He was none too soon getting the sword loose, either, as the other two Undead plunged at him. Striking right and left, he clove them open and they collapsed into gelatinous muck. Taper shook the blade clean. He felt like yelling in triumph. Once he became the Skull, his body seemed to come alive for the first time.
Lord Julian Gable seemed almost comical in his surprise. His jaw hung down and he waved his hands in confusion. "The Silver Skull? No. You are only a legend."
"That's funny, that's exactly what Men say of you," laughed Taper. In the uniform, all fear had left him. He felt invincible. "I want to know your new chief. Who is joining your three clans together?"
The ancient vampire snarled and drew himself up. "As if you deserve to know. We will meet again, Breather." With that, the bony figure dwindled and reshaped, becoming a small winged form that flapped its wings and headed straight for the open door. To get there, though, he had to pass his enemy and if he thought he could rely on a Human being startled by the bat transformation, he made his last error in judgement. The sword whirled in a glittering arc and the vampire bat spun with its head lopped cleanly off. The Silver Skull sheathed his sword and watched the final transformation. It was a race between turning back to human semblance and dissolving into a gummy mass, but Gable looked vaguely human before he dissolved.
Letting out a deep breath, Taper relinquished the role. The black uniform and armor were gone and his street clothes reappeared on his body. Where they went until needed, no one knew. It was a mystery of Jordyn. With a vague disappointment, the latest Silver skull realized he had not gotten the information he wanted, but at least this warren had been cleaned up. The air smelled fresh again.
III.
Through the dark night sped a silent craft. The CORBY was nearly soundless in operation. Instead of a tail rotor, it had just two short vertical vanes on the end of the tail which sprayed air upward or to the side to aid in steering. The main rotors turned over rapidly on top of the aircraft but made little noise and could not be heard at all from the ground. Add to that the way the CORBY flew without external lights in violation of a dozen FAA regulations, and you had a helicopter which was seldom spotted or reported at night.
Seated in the dim blue-lit cockpit were two new team-mates. Leonard Slade was at the controls, one hand on each control stick, eyes moving smoothly from dial to dial. He wore a black jumpsuit of some tough material, studded with pouches and flaps, and on his head was a visored helmet. The Trom looked vaguely Mediterranean with his olive skin and regular features, but that had been planned so he could fit in a variety of cultures where his assignments might take him.
Next to him, Cindy Brunner stared out through the front windscreen. She was wearing the new field suit which had been tailored for her: black boots, pants and snug waist-length jacket, all with numerous small pockets holding an assortment of tools and weapons. Her dark blonde hair was bound in a ponytail inside a helmet identical to that which Slade wore. She felt comfortable in the field suit, even with the silk-thin flexible body armor beneath it. Slade had presented similar outfits to the members of the KDF, explaining that his function in the team was to provide Trom technology. The blonde telepath glanced over at him with a rueful expression. There was no sense in trying to read that disciplined, fast-running mind; it was like trying to crawl on hands and knees onto a multi-lane highway packed with speeding cars. All the thoughts she had managed to intercept were on different topics simultaneously running and it made her draw back in dizziness.
Gazing down at the roads and neighborhoods of Long Island spinning past, Cindy said out loud, "Hey, Len?"
The Trom had not objected to the nickname and he had himself immediately returned a first name basis. "Yes, Cindy?"
"I have a few questions. If you don't mind. Out in New Mexico, you supervise that HCE base we went to last month. I know you are busy doing wild Mad Scientist experiments and so forth, and that's where you built this jetcopter. And you had these suits made up and you crafted individual dart guns and body armor for us."
"There is no question in your statement."
"What I'm leading up to, I guess, is what do you get out of it?"
"Tel Shai membership. Jeremy has arranged for us to become knights of Tel Shai. This means access to knowledge and training available nowhere else in any realm. The Trom have long wanted to learn some of the secrets of Tel Shai."
"Oh, I see," she said. Below, she saw the flashing lights of some traffic accident, gone behind them in an instant. "So it's a fair trade."
"We also share many values that the Order of Tel Shai represents." Slade did not turn toward her but his voice took on a more accessible tone. "You must be wondering just who the Trom are?"
"Well, yeah. Sure."
Slade brought the CORBY down lower, and slowed its airspeed. "We are a Cousin Race of Men, originally Human but modified long ago for greater intelligence. We value logic and reason and have tried to breed emotion out of our thinking, with some success."
"Okay. I guess. I mean, I'll figure it all out as we go along."
The Trom did not smile but he did put a modulation in his voice that expressed sympathy. He was good at that. His voice carried undertones with great precision. "We both have much to learn, Cindy."
"Tell me about it. Are you getting ready to land?"
"Yes. Sit back, please." There was a feeling of descent and the engines turned off. She could just hear the rotors overhead slow and stop but there had been no sensation of impact with the ground. "You mean, that's it?"
"Yes." Slade ran through a checklist of turning off switches and the cabin powered down. "Disengage," he said as he unbuckled the straps which held him in his seat and she did the same. The cabin doors hissed open as air pressure was released, and she climbed out, swinging down to the dirt. They were in an empty field miles from nowhere, and the Corby had come down almost touching a huge old willow tree over a pond. Cindy slid the visor of her helmet down and sure enough, the night vision enhancers clicked on. She saw everything in bright shades of green as if it were noon.
"I could get used to these gadgets," she whispered. "Jeremy said we were here to track down someone named Mardigail and his Great Pack. Look, I know what werewolves are. I've been to the movies, and I can accept that there are such things after what I've already seen. But if there are a pack of those things around here, shouldn't we be armed to the teeth? With machine guns that fire silver bullets, for example?"
Slade slid open a storage compartment on the left rear and took out a camouflage tarp. He draped it over the CORBY as Cindy basically stayed out of his way. "We could do that. But your dart gun is loaded with a clip of extra heavy anesthetic. You should be able to render a howler unconscious with every shot, and I have my own devices." He stepped back and inspected the concealed helicopter. "That is not perfect but it will have to do."
Cindy interrupted. "There are a dozen minds active in that direction," she pointed. "Mean, aggressive minds. Like animals but smarter. Oh my God, they ARE werewolves!" She grabbed him by the arm and he did not move away or react at all. "They are so vicious. I've read pit bulls and badgers and a tiger, and none of them were like these things."
"They are not natural animals with normal behavior," said Slade. "These are Humans who have chosen to assume bestial forms because they want to kill. Think of them as psychotics in animal bodies."
Cindy drew her dart gun and clicked its mechanism. "That's a big help, Leonard Slade. Okay. I'm calming down. The howlers are a mile in that direction. Toward that hill. But two of them are coming this way, you know?"
The Trom started walking in the direction she had indicated, and she trotted alongside his long strides. He reached up to the right ear pod of his helmet. "I'm picking them up now. They are running at attack speed. Be ready."
"Yeah right, like I wasn't already worked up," she answered. A few seconds later, the sound of panting and the drumming of paws on the hard earth could be heard. Two large dark forms came hurtling out of the night at them. Cindy turned down her telepathic perception before the savage minds overwhelmed her. Extending her arm full length, she fired twice. The air-driven pistol gave a soft cough and instantly her chosen howler yelped in pain and tumbled to the grass to lie still. A second later, the other werewolf skidded on its nose to the ground as Slade returned an electronic device to its holder plate on his belt.
"Say, that wasn't so bad," she breathed, lowering the dart gun. One of the howlers twitched as if dreaming while asleep. "Bagged my first werewolf before I'm twenty-one." She stepped closer. "They don't look at all alike."
This was true. One of the monsters was bigger than the other, more humanoid in arms and legs, while the other seemed more lupine in form. Both bristled with thick fur and both had fangs and claws larger than nature would provide. "What's the deal with that?"
Slade examined the sleeping brutes. "My theory is that their shapes are influenced by their subconscious minds. They take forms close to how they see themselves taking form. I need more data and a larger sample to work with." He took a flat plastic case from a leg pouch, removed disposable syringes and injected each of the beasts with a clear solution.
"NOW what? You know, you could just explain what you're doing instead of playing 20 Questions!"
"This is actually our captain's suggestion," Slade answered blandly. "A year ago, he handled a werewolf on his own. He wanted to subdue the howler without killing it because its human form was an ally. Jeremy solved the problem by shooting the beast in the arm or rather foreleg." The Trom tucked the used syringes in the back compartment of the case. "It seems to have worked. Dr West was not killed but his transformations have stopped. I have just introduced a colloidal silver solution into their systems. We will see how well it works."
"Boy, Jeremy is really something, huh?"
Slade stood up. "I see you desire to mate with him and become his partner."
"Hey! Knock off personal remarks like that," she said, then added, "I guess it's obvious."
On the hill, lights in a farmhouse showed against the night sky. "Do you sense any further attackers?"
Cindy frowned and half closed her eyes. "No. No, I don't. But there are more of these critters up in that house."
The Trom began walking briskly, almost a run and she had to keep up. Cindy holstered her dart gun at her right hip and tried not to break into a trot. As they got closer, a musky heavy scent became apparent. Slade kept to what cover the scattered trees provided. Soon, they saw leaping, twirling figures against a bonfire. They got as close as they dared, and saw what few lived to tell of. The Dance of the Werewolves. In a circle around a fire, a dozen shaggy forms spun and jumped in the air, moving clockwise quicker than a man could run. They were panting and grumbling but otherwise silent. It was an eerie sight. A small green light winked on Slade's helmet as he began recording the scene.
From inside the house, a massive man stalked out imperiously. In the flickering light, he could be seen to be wearing only a long apron of dark material and high leggings. The man had grizzled hair on his chest and arms, and a thick beard shot with grey. He was built like a blacksmith, and as he stepped forward, the werewolves stopped short and began to howl.
"Tonight is OUR night!" the man cried out, silencing them with raised arms. "Hunting will be good, my children. Our pact with the children of the twilight is all but sealed. We will work together, we brethren of the wolf united with the drinkers of blood and the vengeful dead to divide up this land into territories."
The werewolves bayed again, hopping about restlessly in their eagerness. Jamil Mardigail pointed back to the house. "I have brought us prey. Three children, stolen today from under the stupid noses of their parents. This estate extends for miles until the ocean. After I release the brats, we will wait for my signal and then you will pursue. Those who brings back the remains will be high in rank."
"Oh no, you don't!" Cindy yelled, surprising herself. "No one's hunting kids tonight. You sickos." She walked toward the stunned Pack as they watched her emerge from the night. With all his knowledge, Slade did not seen this coming and for once, he followed her.
Mardigail was dumbfounded. "What? How dare-? Are you insane?"
"Could be," she said. "But you are not chasing any children through the woods."
The leader of the pack roared and the dozen howlers dropped to all fours and loped forward eagerly. Cindy did not draw her gun nor move back a step. Hands at her sides, she narrowed her eyes and her head moved forward slightly. One werewolf grunted and tumbled to the ground, with the one close behind getting tangled. Then another fell. The Pack slowed and hesitated. Cindy gave a vicious glare to another, and that one also dropped to the dirt.
Half turning to Slade, she said, "Just being a telepath. I needed to learn this when I started dating." She stunned another one with an unseen thrust of mental force that shut down its awareness. The werewolves snarled and barked and tried to spread out to encircle her. Then, together they galloped forward. Cindy knocked another one out with a telepathic bolt but the nearest werewolf leaped from ten feet away right at her throat.
In midair, that beast was struck by an open hand that cracked against its neck like a hatchet. The sound of bone breaking was low but decisive. As the howler fell to one side in death, Leonard Slade drew back his hand and unclipped the projector device from his belt. Setting it to neural shock, he flickered a pale beam out like a spotlight, and every werewolf touched fell to the ground.
Now only four were left. They whimpered and drew back for all the world like frightened dogs.
"Not so eager to chase little kids now, are you?" demanded Cindy. She stunned another one with a blast of invisible telepathic force. She was actually shorting out their nervous systems by forcing in conflicting commands. In fact, she really had learned to do this in her early teens against a boy with roaming hands but she had not ever struck a Human half as hard as she slammed these monsters.
The leader of the pack regained his composure. Seen closer, Jamil Mardigail was a daunting sight. His arms and legs were thick columns of muscle and his torso was a hard mass. The wide leonine nose and dark eyes under bristling eyebrows did not make him look more friendly. He slowly advanced until he was almost at arm's length, shifting his gaze from Cindy to Slade and back again. "So. You are police, yes? You come for the brats? Take them. And be gone."
"It will not be that easy for you," Slade said. "Our goal is to break your Dark Alliance. We know about your pack joining with the warren of Lord Julian Gable and the walking dead of Anastasia. We want to know who is behind the union."
"You do, eh?" snarled the king howler. He leaned his head forward and Slade was ready to listen. Despite his caution, the Trom was taken enough off-guard that Mardigail was upon him in a heartbeat before he could react. The hand which held the electronic weapon was seized and drawn out straight, as the huge brute slammed him down. The visor on Slade's helmet was retracted and Mardigail's hot breath steamed onto his face. The fangs opened-
And both men rose sharply straight up twenty feet into the air. Spinning, the Trom flung Mardigail off him, to hurtle hard against the side of the nearby house. The impact was brutal. The leader of the werewolf pack moaned and did not get up right away. As Leonard Slade touched controls built into his cuffs, he descended evenly to land lightly on his feet.
"You didn't tell me you could FLY!" Cindy said. "What the hell, dude?"
Slade was watching the stunned howler. "It is the gravity shield I wear on my back. We will learn more of each other." He stepped over and played the neural shock beam over Mardigail, then opened the pack of syringes and injected the beast with colloidal silver. "He is more dangerous than I anticipated. Evidently, even in Human form he retains wolfish speed and agility."
Cindy was heading for the house. "I want to check on those children. There are young minds in there but they seem drugged. Maybe Mardigail has them tranquilized until it was time for his sick game." As she went in, Slade surveyed the howlers who had been injected with the solution. All seemed human again, lying naked on the ground and snoring. They still had not learned the name of the mastermind behind the Dark Alliance but he followed Cindy into the house to check on the intended prey.
IV.
The thunder was muted and the flash not as blinding. Khang was learning how to moderate his power. They were standing on a long paved drive leading up to a wide mansion with an L-shape and a servant's house behind it. Lights showed in a few windows. Khang lowered his arms and turned to his teammate.
Ted Wright had dropped almost to one knee when they had appeared here in White Plains. He was new to traveling by god-gates and it would take some getting used to. There was an instant of heat and unsteadiness, and then one often found himself standing half an inch above the landing spot for some reason, leading to a stumbling arrival. The Blue Guide caught himself. Khang himself was disorienting just by being there. Wright's skills involved mostly perception of lifeforce in others. He could tell where its flow was blocked or sluggish, he could stimulate it or slow it down. It was how he did his healing. When Wright looked at Khang, he perceived a blazing fireball of gralic energy that hurt to see directly. The bundled long coat and scarf and slouch hat did no good to shield Wright's reception.
"Are you all right?" came the rumble from all directions. That was another strange thing about the silver man. His voice did not come right from his head but seemed to originate from every point at once. It was like being at a concert and hearing announcements from high speakers. Wright shook his head angrily. He would get used to it. He had seen many strange things since going to Tel Shai.
"I'm fine," he muttered. He tugged down the waist-length field suit jacket and straightened it where his arrival had twisted it. He did not like wearing the metal-film armor under his clothes and he did not like carrying so many weapons. He felt they interfered with his gralic balance. Maybe he would have to talk to Bane about this. He was more a medic than a soldier, it was inappropriate for him to be so armed. "Where are we, Khang?"
"Windsor Drive in White Plains,"said the silver man. "We are in Westchester now. I am not always sure how I know these things. My memories are clouded. Yet this estate looks so familiar..."
"We need time to talk. There is so much I don't know about you." Wright held out an open hand. "Do you mean you don't remember who you used to be?"
"I do not! Vague images and echoes are all I have. And yet, I feel certain that I agreed to be placed in this gralic form. Perhaps I was old or dying. I don't know."
Wright surprised himself by placing his hand on the giant's sleeve. The material felt hot to the touch. "We'll get some answers for you. I promise you that."
The heavy head turned, but nothing of the face was visible. "You are a good man, Ted. I will come to count on you."
"Fair enough," Wright said. "Well, we have a job to do. Our captain did not give us much to go on. He got a report from someone who calls himself 'Bleak,' who said that he heard rumors that some new mastermind was organizing a Dark Alliance of the children of the night. Werewolves, vampires, zombies, who knows what else.. all united into an empire that can prey on mankind without retribution. It sounds crazy. It IS crazy. But then I've seen a lot I thought was crazy."
Khang began to stride up the drive toward the house. They saw headlights go out by the front door and knew someone had arrived just before they had. Wright lowered the helmet over his head but kept the visor up. He trusted his own perception more than any electronic sensors. Before they got halfway to the house, he felt they were being surrounded. "Khang. Do you see them?"
"My senses are not like yours," said the silver man. "Yes. They encircle us."
In the light from the windows of the house up on the hill, long shadows stretched across the neat lawn. Ragged figures lurched and stumbled, almost falling. They moved with a grotesque stiffness. Ted Wright could see them but he could not sense the warmth of lifeforce. There was only a chill thin prodding that drove them on. He looked back over his shoulder. These were not living creatures. They were the puppets of dead bodies being manipulated without their consent.
"Zombies..." he growled. They were not making any threatening moves, just approaching in a circle from behind to herd them toward the house. Well, thought the Blue Guide, we are going that way in any case. if my old friends could see me now, he thought. Wright had packed his life with what seemed to be nothing but study. The US Navy Medical Corps. Columbia University. His internship at Mount Sinai Hospital, his own brief practice. Then discovering the Order of Tel Shai, being sponsored there by John Robert Chase, learning Kerwandu. Now, joining this Kenneth Dred Foundation because the Teachers at Tel Shai had confided he would be needed among them to balance their warlike spirit with mercy.
Sometimes he figured that when he got elderly, he would turn into a wild, dirty old man full of carousing and unseemly behavior. Just to make up for the way he had spent the first thirty-odd years of his life studying.
The zombies were starting to crowd them. He could smell them now. With normal living Humans, Wright could siphon off lifeforce to make the most berserk drug addict docile or the most violent thug drowsy enough to be harmless. He was not at all sure he could do that with these unnatural things, though. Maybe he would need Khang to do some head-breaking.
In the open doorway of the house, light streamed out and silhouetted in it was a tall, voluptuous woman. The zombies shuffled listlessly around her. As they got closer, Wright could see she had been beautiful not long earlier and was still striking. She had bright yellow hair drawn up in an elaborate swirl, and she wore a white evening gown with a gauze top over the low-cut bodice. She held a cigarette in one hand but did not draw on it. "Come, come, gentlemen! I have been expecting you."
Wright scoffed as he drew within reach. "And just how did you know we were coming here?"
"Anastasia has her ways," the woman announced. She waved the zombies away with a dismissive gesture.
"Not THE Anastasia, I suppose?" Wright asked.
"You are bold for living men surrounded by such as serve me. Few would not be afraid in your position."
Khang spoke for the first time, making Wright jump at the unexpected booming voice coming out of the air. "It is your own life that hangs by a thread, sorceress. For I am the avenging sword come to bring retribution."
"Are you now?" she replied. "I suppose. Come in and we shall talk."
The knights of Tel Shai followed. They had been expecting resistance and confrontation and this compliance took them off-guard. Anastasia led them through a foyer into a grand ballroom, lit by a crystal chandelier and decorated with paintings and antique furniture. The floor was polished marble, the walls gleaming dark wood. Yet the servants who awkwardly went about their chores were decaying horrors from which bits of flesh hung and fell off. Anastasia moved slowly, even stiffly as she made her way to the dining room. The table was set with silver and china, goblets of wine were laid out and courses of fine food were left untouched. She sat at the head of the table, lowering herself on the chair.
In the bright lights, she was older than she had first seemed. Her skin was dry and unhealthy-looking. When her light blue eyes turned on the visitors, they seemed distant and distracted. "What is it you wish of me?" she breathed.
Wright glanced over at Khang, who had remained standing and he decided against seating himself. "You must know that this is one of the Five Forbidden Arts. Necromancy, zombies, voodoo, all are outlawed."
"Because the old codgers at Tel Shai say so? Who are they to dictate to me? I do as I will."
A near-skeleton with scraps of flesh fell to the floor and could not rise. Two newer zombies tenderly bent to pick up their fallen brother and carry him away.
"There is much you do not know," the woman said. "Suppose that a wealthy man dies suddenly. No one knows. During the night, before he is even discovered, he rises again and writes out a check for a sizable amount- to me. After it clears, his body is found but I was a hundred miles away the whole time."
"This has been done before. There is no sin that is new," snorted Wright. "I see you live in luxury. You have fine cuisine, a posh mansion, servants of every type. Whatever you want will be handed to you. Yet it is wrong, deadly wrong, and we will stop you but first we must know the name of your master."
Anastasia lit another cigarette but she had not drawn on the first, merely let it burn out. "Threatening me? You are amusing." The blonde woman picked up a goblet of white wine and put it down again untouched.She held out her hand palm up and waved her fingers toward herself. A half dozen of the walking dead stopped their slow chores and swung around to approach the table. "I have already let you live too long."
As the undead shuffled within reach, Khang tugged off his gloves. His hands seemed to be made of burnished silver, moving naturally and yet gleaming like metal. He raised one hand and a shattering blast of white force roared out to blast a zombie to shreds. Pieces flew like leaves, and the bolt went on to char a hole in the wall.
"I am still using more power than is needed," Khang admitted ruefully. He struck again with a finer, lesser flare that blew two more zombies into pieces small as dust. A distant thunder echoed.
Anastasia half rose and sat down again. Already pale, she now seemed white as the undead around her. The cigarette fell unnoticed from her fingers.
"Send them back," the silver giant complied. Anastasia got to her feet and pushed the chair back behind her. For someone so elegant in dress and coiffure, she seemed clumsy. Without a word, she reached out and seized Ted Wright by the throat. He was not expecting it, nor would he have thought she would have such an iron grip. Years of training took over and rather than try to break her grip by force, he drew on gralir and siphoned off her lifeforce. He hoped she would grow weak and dizzy, perhaps faint, and then they could take her prisoner.
Instead, Anastasia fell apart in front of him. Her limbs dropped off, her head fell backwards and rolled across the floor. The stink was heavy. With a wet plop, the decaying body sagged to the floor in front of him.
Eyes somber, Wright stared around as all the zombies collapsed into mulch in all directions. He thought he had seen dreadful sights in the Navy but nothing like this. The Blue Guide looked down sadly. "I knew, of course. I could see her life force was stolen and not her own."
"Of course," Khang said slowly. "You notice she did not inhale her smoke, she held a wine glass but did not drink-"
"Because she couldn't!" continued Wright. "She was one of them."
V.
The beat-up old Dodge pick-up sped over the bridge into New Jersey. Bane must have shown some surprise at seeing it because Hawk had lifted the hood to expose a gleaming new motor. Then he showed the row of toggle switches under the dash that fired the smoke screens or turned on the blinding spotlight in the back bumper or ten other gimmicks. The Dire Wolf studied them with his usual humorless intensity; for the KDF, he was planning to buy a few cars and have them armored. Many of Hawk's gadgets had originated with his uncle Robert, who had been the Sting in the 1940s. The anesthetic dart guns were a Sting trademark and Hawk had given Bane permission to duplicate them for the new team.
"Let's go, son," said Hawk, climbing up into the driver's seat.
"Don't call me son," Bane snapped, and then softened his tone, "Just as a favor, okay? Listen, Michael. I want the KDF to take whatever works from heroes of the past. We're not too proud to borrow. What else comes to mind?"
Hawk turned down a ramp and went along the main drive through Jersey City. It was still early enough that there was considerable traffic and he drove skillfully if fast. "I'll think it over. I don't know if you realize it, Jeremy, but two earlier generations assembled at that table where we sat this morning."
"I only know bits and pieces. I know Dr Vitarius built the place in the 19th Century. He was an alchemist. In 1937, he sold it to Mr Dred and left the country. And I have seen comments that people like the Monk and Mark Drum met there."
"Ah. Well, in the 1930s, a team of heroes got together at that building. Dr Vitarius was in charge. Let's see... there was the Monk, Prince Duran, Mark Drum, my uncle and his partner Chen Lee Sun. Sulak. Then in the 1940s, another group was asked to help fight saboteurs and spies. They were a colorful bunch. The Victory Eagle, Red Devil, the Sceptre, Archangel. I must have notes and letters stored somewhere."
They had passed through the more developed areas and started seeing individual houses with yards. Looking out the window, Bane said, "I don't expect us to be like firemen always on call. Each of us has a life of his own, but I do want to be able to deal with any occult threats that turn up. I really would like to have a few more members lined up, but they are hard to find."
"That's another area I may be able to help with," Hawk said. In the glow from the dashboard, he looked older and more weathered than he had in daylight. Michael Hawk had brown hair mixed with liberal amounts of grey and a square, weathered face. His eyes were hazel. He was not a big man, but he moved with the nimbleness and energy of a teenager. On the job, he wore almost a cowboy outfit of boots, jeans, work shirt and a denim jacket. Now, he glanced over at the intense youngster riding next to him. "I know one or two who might be interested. Andrew Steel and his partner Golden Sun. Sulak is still active. Then there's the Black Angel."
"You've been a big help already." Bane tugged at the dagger hilts sheathed to his forearms under his jacket sleeves. "Did I tell you where I got the tip about this Dark Alliance?"
"No."
"A guy called Bleak. He used to be a priest until his family was killed by Lord Julian Gable. He lost his faith. For a while he became a vampire hunter himself but eventually he contented himself with being a sort of spy on the creatures of the night. He's given me good information but he does charge for it."
"Man's got to eat," Hawk said. He slowed as they approached a sign that read HARRISONVILLE 9 MILES. "Here's a town with a history. More than a few weird things have happened here."
"I haven't heard about it." Bane stirred in his seat. His hyperactive metabolism made it hard for him to hold still. "We must be almost there by now."
"I can give you one pointer. Take lessons in everything. Hire experts and have them teach you. How to pick a lock, how to imitate someone's voice, how to dive into shallow water. Any skill might be useful. I can make some introductions."
"You've been brought up to be an expert in everything, so I hear. You were raised by a board to produce the perfect crimefighter. Is that right?"
"More or less," Hawk said. "When my father died, my uncle Robert took over. He spent his fortune having me taught everything useful for a criminologist. I was home-schooled but I also traveled the world being taught by experts. An Apache showed me how to track, a South Seas pearl diver told me how to hold my breath. Things like that."
"There's Harrisonville," the Dire Wolf interrupted. He perked up at the prospect of action. "Sleepy little town."
Sitting near the river, Harrisonville indeed seemed quiet as a painting of the stereotype small village, with a church at one end of the main street, rows of neat white houses with immaculate lawns, a general store, a post office. Bane regarded it with as much suspicion as he did nearly everything. Who knew what was going on behind those drawn curtains even now?
Hawk reached the outskirts of town, where the houses were further apart and woods started to take over. He eased to the side of the road and turned off the engine. A gravel path led up into an area covered with undergrowth and trees. Hawk slid out of the pick-up and buckled on a gun-belt with two holsters. Bane watched with interest. The gun on the left was an air pistol that shot the anesthetic darts but the gun in the right holster was a huge .357 Magnum. Hawk saw his gaze and smiled, "This one is for when darts don't speak loud enough."
When Bane got out, he put the helmet on but left the visor up. He was wearing one of the field suits himself, but his seemed to carry an extra ominous air. Maybe it depended on who was wearing it. "We better do some sneaking around first. Bleak said there was a shack up there by itself and I generally trust his information but it's always good to check twice." He pointed right. "You go that way, I'll go the other and we'll meet behind the shack if nothing happens."
For a moment, Michael Hawk did not respond. He was used to being in charge. He started to say something, then kept his mouth shut. Bane caught this and said, "I know you're the best. You're an experienced veteran and I'm a kid. But there can only be one captain on a team, Mike."
"I reckon you're right. And this is your sort of case, I've dealt with kidnappers, hit men, terrorists. Human bad boys. Werewolves and vampires are something new to my way of thinking."
"Let's go then." They started up the gravel and had just separated when there was a stir in the bushes. Three naked manlike creatures plunged at them with a piercing scream. They seemed to have dead-white leprous skin and muzzles full of wide teeth. The monsters ran headlong at the intruders and were struck down almost simultaneously. Sharp cracking noises sounded, the creatures were flying to one side or face down in the dirt, and Bane lowered his fists. Hawk had not even caught the action, despite his experience.
"Say, you ARE a quick sort of fellow," he said. "What do you call these varmints?"
Bane knelt beside one of the creatures. This one was dead, he had run right into a straight punch that had bent his head back so far that his neck broke. The Dire Wolf examined the unhealthy white skin on a hairless body, the long rubbery arms, the spatulate fingers, the protruding muzzle. "These are Ghouls," he said. "Children of Damozar. Eaters of the dead."
"Nice." Hawk shivered visibly."Where do they come from?"
"They start as regular Humans. A decade or so of eating Human flesh turns thems like this."
"Can't be. There are tribes who are cannibals all their lives and they don't look like this."
Bane stood up. "This is a deliberate process. The Ghouls draw vestiges of lifeforce from Human flesh. They are like vampires on a lesser scale. These things are alive, though. Flesh and blood, not Undead. And they sometimes live in warrens of twenty or so, let's be alert."
"I hear you," Hawk answered as he trotted up the hill to the right.
Bane took the other direction. In his black warsuit, he was almost invisible in the gloom of the crescent moon. Ghouls! Of course they reminded him of one of his very first encounters with the Midnight War. That colony of Ghouls that Mr Dred had sent him to observe. The slaughter when he was caught and fought his way out. It was only two years ago but so much had happened since then. He glided silently through the night, making a circle and came upon a waist-high stone wall fence. It was in disrepair. Bane followed it, starting to spot tombstones and crosses. This was a cemetery. He froze still. The hill held an old, unused cemetery and the presence of Ghouls meant there would be tunnels and connections under his feet right now.
He drew his dart gun and raced faster around the stone wall, thinking he should meet up with Hawk to share this new disturbing revelation. Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye and he spun as a white lanky form vaulted the low wall and dived right on him. Bane's free fist cracked like a hammer on the Ghoul's head, driving him down into the dirt. Landing with a knee in the creature's back, Bane pinned him down. "I need you to do some talking."
But the monster only made babbling sounds, even when the Dire Wolf flipped him over and gave him a hard backhand slap. There was not much intelligence left in those deep-set hollow eyes. Disgusted, Bane let him have a dart in the arm and left the sleeping maneater snoring by the fence. He was worried about Hawk. The guy might be the world's greatest manhunter but these were not anything he would be familiar with. Circling the stone wall, he caught glimpses of pale forms loping through the darkness between the gravestones. Ugh, he thought. What could be worse than these vermin?
In a moment, he spotted a dim yellow light that was the window of a one-room shack. Getting closer, he saw it was patched together from random boards and tar paper and clay in the chinks. Rusted tools and a long-unused lawnmower stood nearby. This may have been for a caretaker generations ago. Stealthy as he could, the Dire Wolf slowly crept up on the shack and peered cautiously in the lower corner of that one window. Inside was a hulking brute like he had never seen before.
The monster was dressed in what remained of a black suitcoat and trousers, tattered and ripped, with a white shirt underneath. He was closer to seven feet tall than six, wide enough that a normal man could stand behind him and be hidden. He stood on the side of the shack opposite the window, next to an open door. Over a low wooden table which held a feeble oil lamp, the creature was studying a talisman. When the monster sensed a presence, his head jerked around and up. He was hideous, a white-skinned brute with lank black hair on a misshapen skull, a protruding brow ledge over two mismatched eyes with one higher than the other. His nose was a peg set up almost between the eyes.
Bane had never met him, but he recognized the thing from descriptions. There was only one Quilt.
The monster had seen nothing but he remained suspicious. He took the talisman, a round amulet of the coppery Gremthom metal, and hung it by its chain near the door. He lurched spastically and went to the window. By that time, Bane had gone around the shack and walked boldly through the open door. "Hey, ugly! Over here!"
The huge brute swung around with a roar. He seemed to fill the single room. As Bane stepped in, he gave the amulet a passing glance but could not take his attention off the monster. "I've heard all about you. Quilt. The Patchwork Zombie. Parts of seven corpses sewn together and given your so-called life. Quite a trick."
"And I believe I know you," Quilt said in a startlingly smooth, polished voice. Bane had expected a rasp or a hiss, but the monster was soft-spoken. "Dire Wolf, I believe. You are known to the children of the night."
Bane stood with his arms folded in front of him, apparently relaxed and unconcerned. "This Dark Alliance nonsense is all your idea, right? You sold the other undead leaders on the idea of joining together for security. But from what I hear, your interest begins with what is your interest."
"You are perceptive for a Human," Quilt said. "What is it you think you know?"
"I've done my homework. Anastasia has been seen in the metropolitan area. Her and her zombies. Jamil Mardigail and Lord Julian Gable are around. Right there you have the three major species of bad boy in Midnight War. And now I find you palling around with a colony of Ghouls. What's next? Mummies? Trolls?"
"I was thinking of the Deep Ones," spoke Quilt in the voice of a BBC radio announcer. "Gill-Men. There are still a few. They can be bred. And you know, I think you can be of help to me."
Bane had not moved although the monster was edging closer, gradually, in tiny stages. "Me help you? In your dreams."
"You can be a go-between. Messages to the Human authorities will need a liaison." One eye worked better than the other, which moved lazily as he glared with a vicious smile. "You can save lives on both sides."
The Dire Wolf looked up at the brute that stood a head taller and a foot wider. "I can save lives, all right. But you won't like how I'm going to do it."
"Death has many doors to let out life! Fear has many faces," Quilt roared. "Do not think you will see dawn if you cross me."
Still not moving, Bane asked casually, "There's a lot of Ghouls wandering around out there. How did you get control of them?"
For a second, Quilt's head turned toward the gremthom amulet on the wall by the half-open door. Then he caught himself. "Listen closely, living fool. You will go to your Teachers and give them our demands. The Dark Alliance needs land of its own-"
"I'll give you what you need," said Bane. He swung his arms outward with a silver-bladed dagger in each hand and launched himself. He was faster than a real wolf. One blade slammed to the hilt in the Patchwork Zombie's hard chest and he tugged it out, slashing the other knife across Quilt's throat. The Monster bellowed but did not seem hurt and he swung a huge open hand down from overhead that caught Bane across the top of his helmet. The helmet cracked, a chip flew off and Bane fell to his knees. Rolling, he got away and came up with a high side kick that crashed right in the front of Quilt's throat. The monster caught that leg by the ankle, despite all odds, and Bane spun to bring his other foot around to thump hard to the Zombie's face. He got loose and drew back.
The Dire Wolf was taken aback. He had only started his Kumundu training too recently for it to be of any use, but he had taken boxing lessons as a teenager and had been in fights all his life. He expected his inborn enhanced speed to be all the advantage he could ever need and he was dismayed. "You're a cute one," he muttered. He dove in, slashed left and right with both daggers, gouging out chunks of undead flesh. He left himself open, expecting the beast to be killed, and took a punch right to the chest that threw him back over the low wooden table. Bane hit the floor and scuttled back a few feet before getting up. He still had not let go of his knives.
Quilt touched his chest, where flaps of skin hung loose and two holes gaped inches deep. "I can FEEL that," he wondered. "Your weapons hurt me.. perhaps you could even slay me if I let you. But I have only to say, 'Attack' and my Ghouls will rip to gobbets. The Amulet of Damozar will finish you."
"In. Your. Dreams," snapped the Dire Wolf. He suddenly threw the dagger in his left hand and it punched home right in the monster's right eye socket. Quilt screamed the hollow shriek of the damned and groped for it, and in that instant, Bane was in close, cutting him to tatters with the other knife. Half the monster's face was gone when he got hold of his smaller adversary by the throat and swung him from side to side like a dog with a rat in its jaws. Quilt smashed Bane to the shack floor with murderous impact and kicked him. Now the Wolf had lost both weapons. Hurt, he rolled away and got up, nearly falling again.
The Patchwork Zombie yanked the silver dagger from his eye and threw it to one side. "Silver?! Ah, that explains it. No matter. Everything will grow back. I can not be destroyed!" He swayed and took an ominous step toward the Dire Wolf.
From the doorway, a commanding voice shouted, "ATTACK!"
Quilt and Bane both snapped their heads around to look. Standing there was Michael Hawk, holding the Amulet of Damozar in both hands as it shimmered with a lurid light. Ghouls appeared behind him, crowding past to climb up on Quilt's huge bulk. More of the leprous creatures shoved Hawk aside to get at their former master. Quilt struck them down and flung them aside but more came until the cabin began to fill with them. Hawk repeated, "ATTACK! Rip him apart!"
Bane retrieved his dagger from where he had dropped it, got past the struggling mass of inhuman bodies and found the other knife. It was sticking point down in the floor. He sheathed them and made it to the door. "Good work, Mike. I wondered what happened to you."
Michael Hawk lowered the seething magickal amulet. "I was at the door when I heard him mention this trinket. Neither of you saw me, you were tangling. So I reached in and snagged it." He grinned. "When you get older, you'd rather use tricks and ruses than just punch it out." By now, no more Ghouls could fit inside the cabin and Quilt could be heard roaring in pain and rage. More of the maneaters were loping up the hill, long arms reaching to the ground.
"Amulet or not, I don't trust those fellers," Hawk said. "I think we had best make ourselves scarce."
"I think you're right. Let's come back later and see what's left." Bane was touching his chest gingerly, trying not to show pain. Hawk noticed and said, "No matter how tough you are, you can count on meeting someone tougher."
4/13/2013