"Five Dead Riders"
May. 18th, 2022 05:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Five Dead Riders"
2/26-2/27/2014
I.
Thunder crashed sharply in a darkened room, echoing back and forth from the walls. Dropping from head-level to stand on the round ebony table was a tall thin figure wrapped in a black cloak and hood that left only a chalk-white face exposed. The being glared down at the seven old men who sat in a circle around that table. Two were already dead from the shock of the blast that had brought him here, and two more stared with dazed fading eyes that could not comprehend what was in front of them.
"Why have you disturbed my sleep?" hissed the black-clad form. "You must know it is forbidden!" He turned to survey the surviving old men, his red-irised eyes hot and furious.
"Forgive us, forgive us," begged one of the elders. "The need is too great. Dread one, are you not Carnevale, That Which Pursueth?"
"I am!" the spectral being answered, "and knowing that, you must know the peril of stirring me from my ancient slumber."
"It was not done lightly," said the old man. Like the others, he wore a dark red robe with a cowl over his head, and on the breast of that robe was a cabalistic symbol of an oval with a V splitting it vertically. It was the symbol of Red Sect."And we are prepared to face the consequences, dread one."
Carnevale hesitated, drawing his cloak around him and glaring down at the summoners. They were so feeble, so near death already. None could be younger than eighty, and their withered hands trembled visibly. He glared about him. The darkened room was a ceremonial chamber. The only light came from a single candle that had remained lit.
"What's done cannot be undone," the being said sullenly. "Tell me what I need to know."
"The Darthim no longer rule the world," said the old man. "They were overthrown long ago, and Humans now dominate everywhere in immense numbers. The other Races dwell in separate realms created by Jordyn."
"Hold. This is much to take in. Glad I am to hear of the downfall of the Darthim. But the Eldarin? The Melgarin? They no longer dwell in the world?"
"No, save for a handful who venture here at rare intervals. The Seven Races stay in their own realms, sundered and reachable only by gralic gates." The old man seemed to be having trouble breathing. "My chest hurts, I may not have long... summoning you took all our power.."
Carnevale stepped off the ebony table, landing lightly on one foot as if almost weightless. He came around to peer down at the elder. Up close, the face of That Which Pursueth was a gaunt, skull-like visage with thin lips and a snub nose, and eyes with crimson irises. "Speak quickly, then. How long did I slumber in my crypt?"
"Thirty thousand years and more," said the leader of Red Sect. "Better it would have been to have let you remain there, but in our pride we have unleashed something too vile to remain at large. Only That Which Pursueth can rein them in." He was gasping. "The Five Dead Riders.." The man's head lolled to one side.
Carnevale had seen the lifeforce snuff out, and paid the corpse no more mind. He swung around to find only one of the elders still alive and coherent, and he strode toward the terrified old man. "Mortals have ever been fools! You thought to use the Riders for your own purposes, no doubt. As soon try to hitch tigers to a plow."
"Carnevale, wait. The world has changed so much since you last walked it. I want to warn you... Humans have weapons of great power, they ride in chariots that cross the sky faster than sound can be heard. They can hear and see each other across thousands of miles..."
"And yet they are still just Humans, filled with vanity and folly and pride," Carnevale snarled. He realized he was talking to a dead man. Carnevale stood upright and threw his cloak back to reveal a thin body wrapped all in black. Alone, he allowed himself a sigh. When he was cast into slumber ages ago, he had welcomed it and hoped to never awaken. But here he was. The strange being left the ceremonial chamber, strode down a corridor to a room where clothing hung on hooks by a door. Set in that door were panes of clear glass and he peered out for long moments.
It was true. The buildings were taller than he had ever seen, towering insolently up into the sky as if defying judgement. Everything was lit without visible flame, glass balls glowing by magic. Metal wagons rolled and stopped without horses to pull them. But no matter. These were impressive but he could see Humans still looked the same, still walked and laughed with each other, still hurried about what business seemed important to them. The clothing had changed, the tools and the palaces had changed, but people were still as he remembered them.
Just outside the door, a man stopped to hold a small box to his ear. Carnevale did not know what the thing was, nor did he care. He stared at the man, who seemed fit and in the prime of life. The clothes were odd to his eyes, but they were neat and new and therefore a good choice to imitate. He could not remain visible in his true form much longer in any case.
The air shimmered around Carnevale for an instant, and he became a semblance of the man he saw outside. Just over six feet tall and trim, wearing a dark brown suit and tie, with polished shoes and a gold watch. His new face was not handsome but presentable, with short brown hair and dark eyes and good teeth. Carnevale looked down at himself. This would do. He fumbled with the knob, got the door open and stepped out onto 78th Street just off Park Avenue.
II.
It was almost ten when Bane walked through the lobby, past the EMERGENCY ONE walk-in clinic which had just expanded to include an express ward for minor problems, past the stairs and down the short hall to his office. He was seldom here more than twice a week now. More and more, he was at Tel Shai visiting Cindy, training under Teacher Chael and studying more deeply into the records of the Midnight War kept nowhere else. When in the world, he was found wandering at random, taking flights to New Zealand or Corsica or Peru as the location struck him. As he had come to expect, trouble always found him within a day or two. Cindy had said he was a magnet for the weird and inexplicable and so it seemed.
At fifty-seven, he still had not visibly changed much. There was grey in the black hair and faint lines around the eyes and mouth, but he had stayed in peak condition and had not put on a pound. According to Chael, Bane had maybe another five to six years before his reflexes would decline to normal Human limits. He was still the Dire Wolf as he had been since first meeting Kenneth Dred so long ago.
The hall door to his office now had a brass plate DIRE WOLF AGENCY - APPOINTMENTS ONLY with a phone number that connected to the KDF team over on 38th Street. Sable and her crew handled most Midnight War problems these days and he was glad to let them. Bane was not tired of the life exactly, but he was less eager to tackle disaster each and every day. He went through the tiny waiting room and into his office, where he hung up his long black coat on the inside of the door. Dropping behind his desk, he skimmed through his messages, finding nothing of great interest. The Midnight War had settled down a lot since the frantic days when Wu Lung and Karl Eldritch or the Preincarnators or the Group Mind had been on the rampage. Things had been relatively quiet for years now.
Bane leaned back in his chair. He felt restless again, stirred by a hyperactive metabolism that had kept him on the run all his life. He got up again and started to pace the office. He needed to redo this place, he decided. That couch had been sitting in the same spot for thirteen years, with the same two lamps on the tables at either end. He should move everything around completely...
The doorbell rang and he lifted an eyebrow. It wasn't that he was surprised someone would show up without an appointment, it was the timing. Maybe this would be something good. He jumped up and rushed into the waiting room, glancing up at the monitor high on the wall. Kristen? This was unexpected. He made himself pause for a second and not forget caution, as he swung the camera in the ceiling outside back and forth. No, she was alone. Her arms were folded, nothing was in her hands, she was wearing regulation pants and down-filled ski jacket with a scarf around her neck. Bane opened the door and said, "Good morning."
"Jeremy! Glad I caught you. You're hard to reach these days. I only have a second." Kristen Halsey was just thirty, a pleasant woman with light brown hair and sad eyes. "I'm still stuck doing office work down at headquarters and I heard something you might be interested in."
"Great, let's hear it."
"Unofficial and off the record and you know, the usual disclaimers... BUT the bodies of seven old men were found sitting around a table in a building on 78th Street at dawn. All of them at least eighty, cause of death still unknown. Got your attention, you old Dire Wolf you?"she added with a grin.
"Yes." He paused. "Gas leak? Bad shrimp salad at the dinner?"
"Nothing so far. But what made me think of you was that these geezers were meeting at rooms leased by their Society For Paranormal Inquiry. Montez told me that you once had something to say about them."
"It's a front for Red Sect," Bane answered. "Now I am really curious. I'll go look. Thanks, Kristen. I appreciate you tramping all the way here to tell me."
She shrugged. "I'm here on Lt Montez' unofficial orders to see if you're available. You know, the NYPD loves it when you take over on weirdness."
"And the other half wants me to mind my own business. Well, if you see Montez, tell him that unofficially and off the record, I'm on the case."
Kristen flashed a smile of genuine delight. "I have to get back to paperwork, ho-hum. Nice seeing you, Jeremy."
"Take care," he said. As she headed out through the lobby, Bane went back inside his office. Red Sect! They had been so much trouble for him. Originally founded by the Lundborg brothers during World War One when they had met the infamous Karl Eldritch in Europe and learned to use gralic magic for such mundane goals as wealth, orgies and revenge on imagined slights, the group had long ago fractured into tiny cells of only a few members each. Their skills had diminished over time, too. Where the Lundborgs were powerful warlocks, all the current Red Sect he had found were mere dabblers with enough forbidden knowledge to get in trouble. And now, seven old men found dead around a table...
They had summoned something bad, Bane was certain. A Kulan? Even worse, a Kushelan or a Dartha? He had better find out. He was already wearing the familiar black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket that was his trademark, already loaded with the various tools and gimmicks. Under his clothing was the silk-thin Trom armor and still strapped to his forearms were the matched silver daggers Kenneth Dred had given him more than thirty years earlier. From a locked drawer of his desk, he took out the long-barreled Smith & Wesson Colt .38 in its holster and fastened it to his belt behind his left hip, where the jacket concealed it.
Going into the bathroom, he washed his face and hands, and as he brushed his short hair with his fingers, the excited expression on his face in the mirror made him smile. Wasn't he old enough yet to not jump at the chance to get in extreme danger? Evidently not. Getting his coat back on, he left his office and turned left on 3rd. It was just above zero, this had been a bad winter. At 40th Street, he retrieved his latest car, a dark blue Nissan, from the IMPERIAL GARAGE after checking that the security lights on the driver's sunvisor were blinking blue and green. Then it was up toward 78th Street and the Midnight War was on again.
Finding a parking spot lucked out for once, as he pulled over on 80th and walked back toward the address. A handsome stone building from the turn of the century, it had four name plates by the front door... a plastic surgeon, a refugee relief fund, something called the Mariner's Memorial, and the Society For Paranormal Inquiry. Bane opened the front door and was met by a uniformed officer he didn't know. The cop had heard of him, though. After showing his PI license, Bane was admitted past the officer and went through an open oak door with the name of the Society on it. There had not been much for the crime scene investigators to clean up. As the cop explained, someone had gone past the open door that morning and saw seven dead men sitting around that round ebony table. No signs of violence, no blood. The Society itself had left little record of its activities there. There was a ledger with the dates of meetings and a few cryptic notations but no files or photos of the members. Some comfortable chairs and a sideboard holding brandy and wine were the only other sign anyone had even rented this suite. A large bathroom and a room with a wide couch piled with cushions made up the rest. It was as if the members just came here to talk and wanted to leave as little sign of their presence as possible.
Bane was not surprised these senior members of Red Sect were cunning enough to keep their business secret. He said to the officer, "Doesn't look like a whole lot of clues."
"Nope. I expect to be relieved soon and the scene taped shut. Montez mentioned you might be stopping by."
Poking around, Bane found just empty drawers in cabinets and a closet with nothing but a single raincoat on a hanger, with nothing in the pockets. He didn't think the place had been cleaned out, either. This was the way it had been when the men died. "Any word on autopsies?"
"It'll be a while. The medical examiner's team is swamped and this is not high on priorities. But Montez wanted me to tell you what the corpses were wearing. They had judge's robes, but dark red, with a funny symbol on the front. An oval with a V across it."
The Dire Wolf nodded. "Thanks. I don't see where there's much for me to do here, if the CSI boys came up blank. Thanks, officer. I'll call Lt Montez."
"All right."
As he left the building, Bane suddenly swung around and looked suspiciously behind him. He could have sworn someone was nearby but there was just the empty sidewalk and the blank wall of the building. That was odd. His instincts were usually pretty good. He glared around, but finally relaxed and started walking back to his car on 80th Street. The next step would be to visit what surviving members of the cult were still in New York. Bane started up the Nissan and eased out into traffic. As he headed further uptown, the air shimmered in a doorway and a man in a brown suit was suddenly visible where no one had been before, watching the car pull away.
III.
In his Human form, Carnevale watched the grey-eyed man leave. It had been a frustrating day for him, unable to begin his task. The world had changed so much since his time and even his single-minded dedication was distracted by a city like this. Invisible, he had ended up wandering in circles ashe took in what he was seeing and began to understand. Just a few minutes earlier, Carnevale had returned to the place where he had been summoned into this world to begin again, and here he had seen the man with grey eyes search the room where the sorcerors had died. Carnevale knew a hunter of men when he saw one. It was what he himself was, and the grey-eyed man had the same air about him. Somehow, this hunter had sensed Carnevale's presence behind him, invisible and silent though he was.
From what the grey-eyed man had told the city guard in the blue uniform, he was going to find out more about the wizards who had dragged Carnevale from his crypt. Good, it was a place to start. That Which Pursueth dropped his Human form and reverted to his true self, invisible to others again. The cloaked figure lifted clear off the sidewalk and floated up to tree top level, spotted the horseless vehicle he sought and drifted after it, no more substantial than a shadow. There! The vehicles were not free to roll as they wished, he saw that they must obey red and green lamps hanging from wires. Carnevale swung low over the vehicle he tracked and stayed with it.
Stuck at the intersection of 93rd and Sixth Avenue, Bane drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was still troubled by the way he had thought someone was behind him. Not even a brumal could sneak up on him under normal conditions. Was he just being too jumpy? He still felt uneasy. At 109th, he turned left and after a few blocks saw a small parking lot. Close enough. He set the alarms Trom Girl had installed for him, paid for the day and stepped out on the street.
The feeling he was being watched was strong again. Damn it. Bane abruptly turned right into an alley and waited. No one went by. Was someone looking out a window at him? Did his peripheral vision catch the glimpse of a face pointed his way? Then the strange feeling faded. The Dire Wolf scowled and started heading west again, toward 9th Avenue and the address he remembered from years ago. Maybe it WAS time to retire for good. At the intersection, a man in an expensive brown suit was standing, and despite the bitter wind, was not wearing a coat over the light jacket. Nor did he seem to notice the chill factor. Bane's wariness kicked into high gear and he walked right up to the man. "Did you want to talk to me?" he demanded.
In his Human form, Carnevale was taken aback. He was used to people being intimidated and terrified of him. This grey-eyed man was confronting him boldly, without fear. "I think so," That Which Pursueth answered. "I believe we are after the same prey."
"All right then. An answer like that makes me think we do need to talk." Bane studied the stranger. Just over thirty, obviously someone who worked out... a runner, most likely. The teeth and nails and hair were well-groomed. That suit and those leather dress shoes were not cheap. "Start with a name."
"I? I am Carnevale. Like yourself, I am a hunter not of animals but of men with evil in their hearts."
"Really," said Bane. He could not identify the man's accent. This guy was not with the Mandate or with Department 21 Black, not with a speech pattern like that. He stepped closer and tapped the man on the chest with a forefinger, not threatening but just forceful. "And what do you want with me, Mr Carnevale?"
"This land is strange to me. Its customs. Its rules. If I am to track the Five Dead Riders, I will need help.."
"The Five Dead Riders!" Bane snapped. "Okay, now you are coming with me. Let's go sit in that bar across the street." Taking the man by one arm, the Dire Wolf hustled him into a little sports bar with ARTIE'S in cursive neon across the window. Two guys were sitting at the bar, watching TV as a fat man in an apron moderated their debate. There was a jukebox, a pool table in one corner, and two booths. Dragging Carnevale to the rear booth, Bane ordered, "Have a seat," and went up to the bar. He ordered two draft beers. As he waited, the Dire Wolf examined the wallet he had lifted off Carnevale when he had gotten close to the man. For the first sixteen years of his life, he had been a pickpocket and thief, and those skills had never left him. He got a surprise now. It was not a real wallet. It seemed to be a piece of material that looked like a wallet from the outside but it could not be opened. The seams had never been cut. That was odd. Bane paid for the beers and went back to Carnevale was waiting, placing one glass in front of the man.
Taking a sip himself, the Dire Wolf began, "How do you know about the Riders?"
"It is my calling to track and slay men with evil in their hearts," the stranger said. When I saw you emerge from the room where seven old men died, I saw you have the same mission. You too are a hunter. When I look at you, I see a hungry wolf."
"What did you have to do with the deaths of those old guys?" Bane demanded.
"They burned themselves out with forbidden magic. I believe it was they who unleashed the Five Dead Riders. And then they wanted me to pursue that which they had foolishly freed." Carnevale leaned forward and the mask slipped. For the barest instant, Bane caught a glimpse of red-irised eyes. "Am I wrong? Do you not intend to go after the Riders yourself now that you know of them?"
"Those monsters? Yeah, I'm going to look for them. They can't be running around free. But why should I trust you?"
Carnevale shrugged. "That is up to your judgement. I will pursue them in any case, it is my nature. But together we may find and destroy them sooner."
"Fair enough. For all I know, you're their agent leading me into a trap. But I might as well have you where I can see you than keep spotting you behind me." He drained the beer, but because of his tagra regimen, the alcohol would just pass through his system without effect. Bane stood up and said, "I guess we'll go talk with Tracy Lundborg and see what we can learn."
Carnevale rose and followed him silently. The Dire Wolf hoped he had made the right decision, but he was getting so many conflicting signals from this guy he had no idea if he was dealing with friend or foe. They headed back out into the cold. On 10th Avenue, Bane stopped before an old red brick building that was stained with age. The windows were grimy, and one was boarded up. A man wearing multiple layers of clothing sat on the stoop and sullenly watched them approach, hiding his bottle behind him. Sitting on its kickstand was a big motorcycle, cherry red, of an unfamiliar make; Bane thought it looked like a vintage Indian but he wasn't sure.
How the mighty have fallen, thought Bane. At their peak, the Lundborg brothers had plundered Wall Street, mingled with the famous, lived in luxury that emperors of the past could not match. Their sons had still been powerful warlocks who indulged every lust and slew any who defied them. But he himself had broken Red Sect several times, and each time it came back in lesser form. Now look at where Tracy, the great-granddaughter of Clinton Lundborg himself, lived. Well, he thought, they had all deserved it.
He turned to see Carnevale watching him patiently. The man did not seem to notice the wind howling over him, but even Bane felt the chill. "Well?"
"There is vile magic in this place," answered the strange man. "Stronger than I expected. We must be on guard.
"Good to know." Bane walked up the stoop, as the wino cringed away, and went in through the unlocked front door. The small foyer stank of mildew. He headed up worn marble stairs to the third floor, and stopped at the landing. Carnevale was right behind him, moving quietly and alertly. Bane saw no sign from his body language or the fit of his clothes that the man was armed. The plaster on the walls was chipped, the ceiling had water stains. Somewhere raucous party music was playing. If Tracy Lundborg was still here, she was in the apartment one door down. Bane glanced down and saw that door was wide open, suddenly his sense of danger kicked up and he had an adrenalin surge. He turned to Carnevale to warn him.
The man was gone. Bane leaped to glare down the stairwell, up and down the short corridor but there was no sign of him. The Dire Wolf always had a grim expression but now he was scowling as if ready to blow up. This was getting worrisome. With all his training, no one should be able to either sneak up on him or steal away from him at such close quarters. What was he dealing with here? Just who or what was this Carnevale?
Shaking himself back to the matter at hand, Bane crept up on the open door, his left hand reaching behind him to the grip of his .38. Slowly, he peered around the edge of the open door. A skeleton in motorcycle leathers swung around and lunged at him.
IV.
Standing behind the grey-eyed man, Carnevale had felt his grip on the Human form start to slip. The problem was that he had to exert effort to remain in that guise, just as he needed to concentrate to remain visible and tangible. He was by nature an avenging spirit that could only materialize with effort. As they reached the landing, a wave of malevolence swept out from the open doorway down the hall that hit Carnevale like hot air from a suddenly opened furnace. His guise broke, he reverted to his true form and faded from sight just as the grey-eyed man turned to say something.
Unseen now, That Which Pursueth hung back and watched. The mortal hunter approached the doorway and carefully stuck his head around the jamb. An instant later, one of the Dead Riders plunged out and tackled him, and the two rolled down the hallway in a furious tumble. Carnevale drifted after them.
Breaking free of the grip of bony fingers, Bane was up on his feet and blasting out hooking punches to the head and body that hit so close together they sounded like drumming. Each blow would have killed a living man. The animate skeleton shrugged off the first few, but one caught him just right and the jawbone went flying away. The creature pounced and ran right into a straight punch that drove Bane's fist through the sternum. Now they were tangled together. Before the Dire Wolf could get free, fingers of naked bone locked on his neck and dug into his windpipe. Bane pressed his other forearm against the skeleton and shoved, trying to get his hand out of the broken chestbone. His air was getting cut off.
Then a black-gloved hand seized the Dead Rider by the shoulder and flung him away. Bane fell to a seated position as he was freed. In the next second, he saw the leather-clad skeleton rise just as some weird apparition wrapped a black cloak around it. Freezing air rushed through the hall, and as the being flung his cape open, the Rider was gone. The apparition stared at Bane with a face just as white as the skeleton's had been, then it blinked out of sight.
Getting up, the Dire Wolf began kneading his hands together to keep them from swelling and getting stiff. He had been punching raw bone. Everything had taken place in a few seconds. Cautiously, he peered up and down the short dingy corridor with its dim overhead light, then leaned over the stairwell to look up and down. Nothing. He spun and went into the apartment where the skeletal biker had emerged. A young woman was lying on the floor, trying to rise, and the man he knew as Carnevale was crouching over her trying to help. He looked up as Bane entered.
"She is not badly hurt," Carnevale said. "The Rider would have slain her in another moment." Bane came over and examined the young woman. He was surprised that Tracy was young, no more than college age, a tall slim blonde in a white sweatshirt and jeans with the knees worn out. One of the Lundborgs must have had her quite late in life. He got the girl up onto a beat-up couch and took her pulse, finding it strong. She was dazed but conscious, and on her neck were gouges like the ones on his own.
Standing up, Bane turned to confront Carnevale. "She needs a minute. Meanwhile.." He drew his .38 and extended the barrel directly at the man's face. Carnevale gazed back blandly as if he did not know what a gun was.
"What's your connection with that character in the black cape, my friend?"
Carnevale still did not seem to realize he was being threatened. "You saw him? Few have gazed upon That Which Pursueth and lived."
"That's no answer," Bane growled. "Do you turn into him somehow? Are you guys the same person or what?"
The man did not answer right away. "Some things are beyond mortal knowledge," he said at last.
Vexed to his limit, Bane holstered his gun as it became clear this strange man in the neat brown suit did not react to its threat. He turned to the young woman and saw she had been watching them. "Tracy Lundborg?"
"Who, me? I'm Jean. Tracy's my aunt. Mind telling me what's going on here before I freak out completely?!"
The Dire Wolf examined her throat. "Do you remember being attacked a few minutes ago?"
"Of course. Jeez, what do you think? I opened the door to go out and a Hell's Angel wearing a Halloween mask grabs me by the throat. I couldn't reach my taser, and I was kicking and struggling but the guy was strong like a bear. Then he throws me on the floor." She was watching Bane with sudden understanding. "You showed up and he went after you instead. Right?"
"Yes. He's been scared away." Bane took out his leather ID case and showed her his PI license. "My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm a detective, the police sometimes call me in to help out."
Jean Lundborg sat up, gingerly touching her throat. "Well, thanks. I think my family would be identifying me down in the morgue if you hadn't shown up." She glanced over at Carnevale. "And you, what's your story?"
"I am helping him," was the answer.
"Well, thanks. So, who was that guy? Why did he come after me?"
"Because of your family," Bane said. "Jean, you do know the history of the Lundborgs? Clinton and Morgan back around 1916 in Germany?"
The dark blue eyes were suddenly sullen. "That was a long time ago. I don't really believe any of it anyway. Black magic, witchcraft, I mean, come ON! They just wanted excuses to take drugs and bang a lot of women."
The Dire Wolf crouched in front of her. "Jean, your family has been involved for decades with a cult known as Red Sect. Whether you think they really were sorcerors or just pretending to be, seven old men were found dead this morning on 78th Street. It was a meeting room for Red Sect. What can you tell us?"
"Really. Damn. I bet one of them was Uncle Silas, actually my great-uncle. He's got to be 85 by now, creepy old coot. He asked me a few times if I wanted to go to some occult ceremonies and I told him to get lost." She blinked. "He's dead, then? Along with some of his weirdo friends? Well, I can't say I'm surprised. The way they acted."
"All right, then. One more thing. Do you know where your Aunt Tracy is?"
"Maybe. Why?"
Bane fixed his grey eyes on hers. "I believe that killer came here for her, Jean. He wanted to force you to lead him to her."
"Oh, not Aunt Tracy. She's okay, she's a good person." Jean tried to get up, fell back and then got to her feet. "I need to warn her."
"Send us," Bane said. "That killer has to be intercepted. I promise you we will protect your Aunt Tracy if you just let us."
"I don't know why I should trust you," she said. "So you're private eyes, so what? But I guess I'd rather have you two show up before that freak with the skull mask does. Okay. I'll go with you."
"What? No, you stay here with the door locked, we'll chase the killer."
"Like that'll help. Look, I saw you draw that revolver like a gunfighter, and I got a glimpse of you slugging it out with the nutjob. No, I think I'm safer with you." She grabbed a long cloth coat from the back of the couch. "We'll go check on Aunt Tracy together."
"All right, you've got a point." Bane turned to say something to Carnevale and found that the man was gone again.
V.
Standing invisible out in the hall, Carnevale watched as the girl talked to the grey-eyed man who had said his name was Bane. He had to let go of his Human form for the moment, it was becoming a strain. Strange that this man Bane had immediately spotted a connection between Carnevale's two guises. Most mortals were too stunned to ever figure that out. As Bane and the blonde woman headed out into the hall, closing the apartment door, Carnevale followed at a slight distance. Once, the man called Bane snapped his head around and seemed to be looking right at him, despite the fact that mortal senses could not detect him when insubtantial.
Or, at least, mortal senses had never been able to do so before.
Down in the street, Bane led Jean Lundborg to the lot where his car was parked and put her in the passenger seat. As soon as they got going, she reached over and turned up the heat full blast. "My fingers are numb," she said.
"Point me in the right direction, Jean. I don't know for sure if that killer is on your aunt's trail but we have to assume the worst."
"North. Out of the city. Head for White Plains."
They rode in silence for a few minutes, then she said, "You don't believe the wild stories about Red Sect... do you?"
"I have no choice but to believe. I fought Red Sect a few times. I used to be a sort of ghostbuster investigating paranormal phenomena."
Jean nodded. "That's where I recognized you from. The KDF. The Kenneth Dred Foundation. You guys were in the papers when I was little."
"Yes. The Lundborg family is almost gone now. Red Sect is only a few scattered believers here and there. Those seven old men were likely the only ones left with any real occult ability." Bane glanced over at the girl. "Your Aunt Jean never had any connection with the cult that I recall."
"No, she led a normal life. Housewife, worked at a nursing home for a few years, volunteered to help out at parades." Jean sighed. "I liked her. My mother was her older sister, but I spent more time with her than I did at home. My parents and I always fought. I think they sent me to Stony Brook mostly to get rid of me."
Bane pulled into a gas station to top off the tank, telling her to run in if she wanted anything to eat. Jean said she was fine and waited in the car. As he replaced the nozzle to the pump, the Dire Wolf abruptly swung his head around. He could swear he had caught a glimpse of someone by the car.
That weird spectral creature with the black cape? Was it following them? Bane stood glaring about for a few minutes but finally gave up and got back in the car, easing back into traffic. Soon, they were out almost in the country, where between strip malls were houses that had actual yards and there were lots of trees. Jean said, "Almost there," and pointed toward a side road up ahead. Bane swung right, past a handcrafted wooden sign that read YESTERDAY'S TREASURES - ANTIQUES AND GIFTS and drove up a dirt road. Atop a hill sat a neat two-story white house with a smaller structure next to it. The second building had a sign that also read ANTIQUES AND GIFTS. A white Toyota Camery was parked in front of the house.
As he approached, Bane took in the situation. There was at least a few acres behind the house before the woods started, and the ground was still covered knee-high in hard-packed snow. He pulled past the Toyota and backed up so he could drive away in a hurry if needed, this was a habit his warlike life had drummed into him. As he turned off the engine, he asked Jean, "You expect her to be home?"
"That's her car. I don't see any motorcycles around, do you?"
"No." Bane started to get out, but Jean said, "Wait. She doesn't like unannounced visitors. Let me go check." The girl hurried up to the porch that ran the width of the house but, before she could get there, the front door opened.
Tracy Lundborg was about fifty, almost six feet tall and gaunt. She was wearing dark slacks and a white blouse with a black vest. Even from a distance, the anger in her hard face was evident. "And what do you think you're doing here?"
"Hi, Aunt Tracy--"
"Don't start that 'Aunt' nonsense. I sponsored you to the group because you promised to report to me what the elders were up to. And I never heard from you. Where are these senile fools, anyway?"
"Please don't be mad, Aunt." Jean made a deep bow from the waist. "The seven elders are all dead. They unleashed the Five Dead Riders and the strain broke them. They are all dead now."
"Well, that's good news," she said. "I have been trying to get them out of the way for years. Now I can take my rightful place. But wait. The Riders cannot be freed without a target. They must have been sent to slay someone."
Jean cackled like an old woman, strangely shocking when it came from someone young. "They are coming HERE, Aunt Tracy. You are not the only one who can scheme!"
"Oh, brother," Bane muttered to himself. "Infighting among sorcerors. It never ends." He had kept back from the confrontation. Evidently, Tracy Lundborg had not seen him inside the car, judging by the way she gave away so much in her speech. Now he watched as the two women stared at each other with open hatred.
"One Rider came to me by error," Jean said gleefully. "I guess he felt the Red Sect in my aura. But that guy in the car turned up to chase him away, so I brought him with me. If anything goes wrong, he might be a good defense."
Bane got out from behind the wheel, closed his door and turned around to face Carnevale, standing there with folded arms. The Dire Wolf jumped back and came within a hair of punching the man. "I don't like the way you pop up, mister!" he yelled. "Keep it up and you'll get smacked."
Tracy Lundborg seemed to spot at the two men for the first time. "Dire Wolf? Really. I suppose that's no surprise you should get involved, Mr Bane. And the other one.." She stared at the quiet man in the brown suit and her voice cracked, "No! CARNEVALE!"
"Yes. Your brethren summoned me to deal with the Riders." The strange man stepped forward. "It is good that you understand, in this, your final moments on the earth.."
They all froze in place as they heard a horse whinny nearby.
VI.
Three ragged men on starving horses rode hard across the back yard toward the house. The horses stumbled and struggled through the hard snow, steam puffing from their nostrils. These Riders were skeletal as the one back in Manhattan had been, just bare white bone held together by gralic sorcery. Two wore long dusters and floppy hats, but the third had ranch clothes including a cowhide vest and a Stetson. All their clothing was decayed and barely hanging together. It was a surreal sight when seen in the clear detail of a bright winter afternoon.
This is where I could use Johnny Packard, thought Bane. This is right up the Brimstone Kid's alley. He did not draw his mundane Smith & Wesson against these revenants but stood waiting for them with lowered hands. Tracy Lundborg screamed in mortal terror and ran toward her car, to be bodyblocked and slammed to the frozen ground by Jean. "Where do you think YOU'RE going?" yelled the younger woman, trying to pin her down."Those Riders are coming for you."
"TRACY LUNNNNDBORG..."echoed a hollow sepulchral voice.
"Hahah, the Rider called your name," Jean gloated. "You know what that means."
As the three spectral forms galloped up closer, Carnevale stepped in front of Bane. "This is my task, mortal." In a blur, he was gone and the thin figure in the ground-length heavy cloak stood there. That Which Pursueth smiled bleakly and rose up into the air, gliding overhead to tackle a Dead Rider and bring the creature toppling off its mount. There was a brief struggle, Carnevale's cloak enveloped the skeletal being and, when he rose, the Rider was gone. The suffering horse had taken two more strides before crashing dead in the snow.
The Rider in the cowboy clothes spurred his starving horse up through the snow and plunged out into the plowed parking lot. Bane stepped in his path. The skeletal creature laughed the empty mirth of the damned and rode right at him. As the horseman neared, the Dire Wolf whipped out the silver daggers from their sheaths on his forearms and slashed in a circular pattern out and back. Those blades had been ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin ages ago. They were ensalir- sacred silver- and few creatures of the night could stand against their edge. The Dead Rider fell apart, ribs and skull and arm bones dropping away in all directions. As soon as the monster ceased, the horse dropped to its front knees and rolled over dead, no longer kept active against nature.
Bane twirled the daggers and spun to where the third Rider was heading right at the struggling women. He had to intercept them. As he moved, something passed overhead like a freezing cloud and he reeled. Carnevale had almost touched him, and that was enough to suck lifeforce and warmth from his body. The Dire Wolf fell, dropped one of the daggers and forced himself back up again. His body was numb, he picked up the weapon with hands that had lost feeling. In those few seconds, the third Rider had charged right over Tracy Lundborg, trampling her under the heavy hooves of his steed. The woman howled once in pain and was still. There was a flurry of dark motion and Carnevale was straightening up alone, where he had been wrestling with the revenant a second earlier. The horse took a few unsteady steps and dropped over on its side.
A few feet away from where Tracy sprawled broken and dying, Jean Lundborg got up on her hands and knees. "At last! At long last." She chuckled but stopped short as she realized Carnevale was gazing sternly at her, his red eyes mere slits.
Stumbling closer but regaining his strength, Jeremy Bane watched the two face each other. He took a deep breath and was going to intervene when he remembered that these monsters were called the Five Dead Riders. These three and the one back in the city...
The roar of a big motorcycle thundered behind him, he swerved to face another Rider in shredded leathers roaring right at him. Bane spun on one foot, bringing his other leg around in a blinding fast reverse kick that slammed his heel right into that Rider's bony chest. The creature went flying back off the bike, hitting the ground with a brittle thump. Even as the thing landed, the Dire Wolf pounced down and drove both silver daggers where the heart would have been. The Rider collapsed into a loose assortment of bones and leather tatters.
Straightening up, Bane saw Carnevale take a menacing step toward Jean Lundborg. "Hey, hold it!" he yelled. "That's enough killing for right now. I want to ask her some questions about her family."
"She is responsible for this woman's death," answered That Which Pursueth. "Do not stand between me and my prey."
"I'll do what I think right," the Dire Wolf snapped. "Isn't it about time you turn invisible and go sneaking around again?"
The air shimmered and Carnevale took on his Human guise again, the office drone in the brown suit with gold watch and polished shoes. Some of the air of impending doom faded with the change. "Perhaps. My task was to stop the Riders. It was for that I was awakened." He grinned a remarkably sinister leer as his mouth smiled but his eyes did not. "Yet I will not return to my slumber just yet. Maybe there are other threats out there that need That Which Pursueth."
"Fine. But don't follow me around invisible." Bane jabbed an accusatory finger at the being. "You get on my nerves. I'll call in an exorcist and disperse you. Garrison Nebel would be glad to send you back to your crypt for another thirty thousands years."
As he turned around and started walking toward the road, Carnevale smiled back over his shoulder. "Who knows what is to come? Until we meet again." And he vanished.
3/24/2014
2/26-2/27/2014
I.
Thunder crashed sharply in a darkened room, echoing back and forth from the walls. Dropping from head-level to stand on the round ebony table was a tall thin figure wrapped in a black cloak and hood that left only a chalk-white face exposed. The being glared down at the seven old men who sat in a circle around that table. Two were already dead from the shock of the blast that had brought him here, and two more stared with dazed fading eyes that could not comprehend what was in front of them.
"Why have you disturbed my sleep?" hissed the black-clad form. "You must know it is forbidden!" He turned to survey the surviving old men, his red-irised eyes hot and furious.
"Forgive us, forgive us," begged one of the elders. "The need is too great. Dread one, are you not Carnevale, That Which Pursueth?"
"I am!" the spectral being answered, "and knowing that, you must know the peril of stirring me from my ancient slumber."
"It was not done lightly," said the old man. Like the others, he wore a dark red robe with a cowl over his head, and on the breast of that robe was a cabalistic symbol of an oval with a V splitting it vertically. It was the symbol of Red Sect."And we are prepared to face the consequences, dread one."
Carnevale hesitated, drawing his cloak around him and glaring down at the summoners. They were so feeble, so near death already. None could be younger than eighty, and their withered hands trembled visibly. He glared about him. The darkened room was a ceremonial chamber. The only light came from a single candle that had remained lit.
"What's done cannot be undone," the being said sullenly. "Tell me what I need to know."
"The Darthim no longer rule the world," said the old man. "They were overthrown long ago, and Humans now dominate everywhere in immense numbers. The other Races dwell in separate realms created by Jordyn."
"Hold. This is much to take in. Glad I am to hear of the downfall of the Darthim. But the Eldarin? The Melgarin? They no longer dwell in the world?"
"No, save for a handful who venture here at rare intervals. The Seven Races stay in their own realms, sundered and reachable only by gralic gates." The old man seemed to be having trouble breathing. "My chest hurts, I may not have long... summoning you took all our power.."
Carnevale stepped off the ebony table, landing lightly on one foot as if almost weightless. He came around to peer down at the elder. Up close, the face of That Which Pursueth was a gaunt, skull-like visage with thin lips and a snub nose, and eyes with crimson irises. "Speak quickly, then. How long did I slumber in my crypt?"
"Thirty thousand years and more," said the leader of Red Sect. "Better it would have been to have let you remain there, but in our pride we have unleashed something too vile to remain at large. Only That Which Pursueth can rein them in." He was gasping. "The Five Dead Riders.." The man's head lolled to one side.
Carnevale had seen the lifeforce snuff out, and paid the corpse no more mind. He swung around to find only one of the elders still alive and coherent, and he strode toward the terrified old man. "Mortals have ever been fools! You thought to use the Riders for your own purposes, no doubt. As soon try to hitch tigers to a plow."
"Carnevale, wait. The world has changed so much since you last walked it. I want to warn you... Humans have weapons of great power, they ride in chariots that cross the sky faster than sound can be heard. They can hear and see each other across thousands of miles..."
"And yet they are still just Humans, filled with vanity and folly and pride," Carnevale snarled. He realized he was talking to a dead man. Carnevale stood upright and threw his cloak back to reveal a thin body wrapped all in black. Alone, he allowed himself a sigh. When he was cast into slumber ages ago, he had welcomed it and hoped to never awaken. But here he was. The strange being left the ceremonial chamber, strode down a corridor to a room where clothing hung on hooks by a door. Set in that door were panes of clear glass and he peered out for long moments.
It was true. The buildings were taller than he had ever seen, towering insolently up into the sky as if defying judgement. Everything was lit without visible flame, glass balls glowing by magic. Metal wagons rolled and stopped without horses to pull them. But no matter. These were impressive but he could see Humans still looked the same, still walked and laughed with each other, still hurried about what business seemed important to them. The clothing had changed, the tools and the palaces had changed, but people were still as he remembered them.
Just outside the door, a man stopped to hold a small box to his ear. Carnevale did not know what the thing was, nor did he care. He stared at the man, who seemed fit and in the prime of life. The clothes were odd to his eyes, but they were neat and new and therefore a good choice to imitate. He could not remain visible in his true form much longer in any case.
The air shimmered around Carnevale for an instant, and he became a semblance of the man he saw outside. Just over six feet tall and trim, wearing a dark brown suit and tie, with polished shoes and a gold watch. His new face was not handsome but presentable, with short brown hair and dark eyes and good teeth. Carnevale looked down at himself. This would do. He fumbled with the knob, got the door open and stepped out onto 78th Street just off Park Avenue.
II.
It was almost ten when Bane walked through the lobby, past the EMERGENCY ONE walk-in clinic which had just expanded to include an express ward for minor problems, past the stairs and down the short hall to his office. He was seldom here more than twice a week now. More and more, he was at Tel Shai visiting Cindy, training under Teacher Chael and studying more deeply into the records of the Midnight War kept nowhere else. When in the world, he was found wandering at random, taking flights to New Zealand or Corsica or Peru as the location struck him. As he had come to expect, trouble always found him within a day or two. Cindy had said he was a magnet for the weird and inexplicable and so it seemed.
At fifty-seven, he still had not visibly changed much. There was grey in the black hair and faint lines around the eyes and mouth, but he had stayed in peak condition and had not put on a pound. According to Chael, Bane had maybe another five to six years before his reflexes would decline to normal Human limits. He was still the Dire Wolf as he had been since first meeting Kenneth Dred so long ago.
The hall door to his office now had a brass plate DIRE WOLF AGENCY - APPOINTMENTS ONLY with a phone number that connected to the KDF team over on 38th Street. Sable and her crew handled most Midnight War problems these days and he was glad to let them. Bane was not tired of the life exactly, but he was less eager to tackle disaster each and every day. He went through the tiny waiting room and into his office, where he hung up his long black coat on the inside of the door. Dropping behind his desk, he skimmed through his messages, finding nothing of great interest. The Midnight War had settled down a lot since the frantic days when Wu Lung and Karl Eldritch or the Preincarnators or the Group Mind had been on the rampage. Things had been relatively quiet for years now.
Bane leaned back in his chair. He felt restless again, stirred by a hyperactive metabolism that had kept him on the run all his life. He got up again and started to pace the office. He needed to redo this place, he decided. That couch had been sitting in the same spot for thirteen years, with the same two lamps on the tables at either end. He should move everything around completely...
The doorbell rang and he lifted an eyebrow. It wasn't that he was surprised someone would show up without an appointment, it was the timing. Maybe this would be something good. He jumped up and rushed into the waiting room, glancing up at the monitor high on the wall. Kristen? This was unexpected. He made himself pause for a second and not forget caution, as he swung the camera in the ceiling outside back and forth. No, she was alone. Her arms were folded, nothing was in her hands, she was wearing regulation pants and down-filled ski jacket with a scarf around her neck. Bane opened the door and said, "Good morning."
"Jeremy! Glad I caught you. You're hard to reach these days. I only have a second." Kristen Halsey was just thirty, a pleasant woman with light brown hair and sad eyes. "I'm still stuck doing office work down at headquarters and I heard something you might be interested in."
"Great, let's hear it."
"Unofficial and off the record and you know, the usual disclaimers... BUT the bodies of seven old men were found sitting around a table in a building on 78th Street at dawn. All of them at least eighty, cause of death still unknown. Got your attention, you old Dire Wolf you?"she added with a grin.
"Yes." He paused. "Gas leak? Bad shrimp salad at the dinner?"
"Nothing so far. But what made me think of you was that these geezers were meeting at rooms leased by their Society For Paranormal Inquiry. Montez told me that you once had something to say about them."
"It's a front for Red Sect," Bane answered. "Now I am really curious. I'll go look. Thanks, Kristen. I appreciate you tramping all the way here to tell me."
She shrugged. "I'm here on Lt Montez' unofficial orders to see if you're available. You know, the NYPD loves it when you take over on weirdness."
"And the other half wants me to mind my own business. Well, if you see Montez, tell him that unofficially and off the record, I'm on the case."
Kristen flashed a smile of genuine delight. "I have to get back to paperwork, ho-hum. Nice seeing you, Jeremy."
"Take care," he said. As she headed out through the lobby, Bane went back inside his office. Red Sect! They had been so much trouble for him. Originally founded by the Lundborg brothers during World War One when they had met the infamous Karl Eldritch in Europe and learned to use gralic magic for such mundane goals as wealth, orgies and revenge on imagined slights, the group had long ago fractured into tiny cells of only a few members each. Their skills had diminished over time, too. Where the Lundborgs were powerful warlocks, all the current Red Sect he had found were mere dabblers with enough forbidden knowledge to get in trouble. And now, seven old men found dead around a table...
They had summoned something bad, Bane was certain. A Kulan? Even worse, a Kushelan or a Dartha? He had better find out. He was already wearing the familiar black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket that was his trademark, already loaded with the various tools and gimmicks. Under his clothing was the silk-thin Trom armor and still strapped to his forearms were the matched silver daggers Kenneth Dred had given him more than thirty years earlier. From a locked drawer of his desk, he took out the long-barreled Smith & Wesson Colt .38 in its holster and fastened it to his belt behind his left hip, where the jacket concealed it.
Going into the bathroom, he washed his face and hands, and as he brushed his short hair with his fingers, the excited expression on his face in the mirror made him smile. Wasn't he old enough yet to not jump at the chance to get in extreme danger? Evidently not. Getting his coat back on, he left his office and turned left on 3rd. It was just above zero, this had been a bad winter. At 40th Street, he retrieved his latest car, a dark blue Nissan, from the IMPERIAL GARAGE after checking that the security lights on the driver's sunvisor were blinking blue and green. Then it was up toward 78th Street and the Midnight War was on again.
Finding a parking spot lucked out for once, as he pulled over on 80th and walked back toward the address. A handsome stone building from the turn of the century, it had four name plates by the front door... a plastic surgeon, a refugee relief fund, something called the Mariner's Memorial, and the Society For Paranormal Inquiry. Bane opened the front door and was met by a uniformed officer he didn't know. The cop had heard of him, though. After showing his PI license, Bane was admitted past the officer and went through an open oak door with the name of the Society on it. There had not been much for the crime scene investigators to clean up. As the cop explained, someone had gone past the open door that morning and saw seven dead men sitting around that round ebony table. No signs of violence, no blood. The Society itself had left little record of its activities there. There was a ledger with the dates of meetings and a few cryptic notations but no files or photos of the members. Some comfortable chairs and a sideboard holding brandy and wine were the only other sign anyone had even rented this suite. A large bathroom and a room with a wide couch piled with cushions made up the rest. It was as if the members just came here to talk and wanted to leave as little sign of their presence as possible.
Bane was not surprised these senior members of Red Sect were cunning enough to keep their business secret. He said to the officer, "Doesn't look like a whole lot of clues."
"Nope. I expect to be relieved soon and the scene taped shut. Montez mentioned you might be stopping by."
Poking around, Bane found just empty drawers in cabinets and a closet with nothing but a single raincoat on a hanger, with nothing in the pockets. He didn't think the place had been cleaned out, either. This was the way it had been when the men died. "Any word on autopsies?"
"It'll be a while. The medical examiner's team is swamped and this is not high on priorities. But Montez wanted me to tell you what the corpses were wearing. They had judge's robes, but dark red, with a funny symbol on the front. An oval with a V across it."
The Dire Wolf nodded. "Thanks. I don't see where there's much for me to do here, if the CSI boys came up blank. Thanks, officer. I'll call Lt Montez."
"All right."
As he left the building, Bane suddenly swung around and looked suspiciously behind him. He could have sworn someone was nearby but there was just the empty sidewalk and the blank wall of the building. That was odd. His instincts were usually pretty good. He glared around, but finally relaxed and started walking back to his car on 80th Street. The next step would be to visit what surviving members of the cult were still in New York. Bane started up the Nissan and eased out into traffic. As he headed further uptown, the air shimmered in a doorway and a man in a brown suit was suddenly visible where no one had been before, watching the car pull away.
III.
In his Human form, Carnevale watched the grey-eyed man leave. It had been a frustrating day for him, unable to begin his task. The world had changed so much since his time and even his single-minded dedication was distracted by a city like this. Invisible, he had ended up wandering in circles ashe took in what he was seeing and began to understand. Just a few minutes earlier, Carnevale had returned to the place where he had been summoned into this world to begin again, and here he had seen the man with grey eyes search the room where the sorcerors had died. Carnevale knew a hunter of men when he saw one. It was what he himself was, and the grey-eyed man had the same air about him. Somehow, this hunter had sensed Carnevale's presence behind him, invisible and silent though he was.
From what the grey-eyed man had told the city guard in the blue uniform, he was going to find out more about the wizards who had dragged Carnevale from his crypt. Good, it was a place to start. That Which Pursueth dropped his Human form and reverted to his true self, invisible to others again. The cloaked figure lifted clear off the sidewalk and floated up to tree top level, spotted the horseless vehicle he sought and drifted after it, no more substantial than a shadow. There! The vehicles were not free to roll as they wished, he saw that they must obey red and green lamps hanging from wires. Carnevale swung low over the vehicle he tracked and stayed with it.
Stuck at the intersection of 93rd and Sixth Avenue, Bane drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was still troubled by the way he had thought someone was behind him. Not even a brumal could sneak up on him under normal conditions. Was he just being too jumpy? He still felt uneasy. At 109th, he turned left and after a few blocks saw a small parking lot. Close enough. He set the alarms Trom Girl had installed for him, paid for the day and stepped out on the street.
The feeling he was being watched was strong again. Damn it. Bane abruptly turned right into an alley and waited. No one went by. Was someone looking out a window at him? Did his peripheral vision catch the glimpse of a face pointed his way? Then the strange feeling faded. The Dire Wolf scowled and started heading west again, toward 9th Avenue and the address he remembered from years ago. Maybe it WAS time to retire for good. At the intersection, a man in an expensive brown suit was standing, and despite the bitter wind, was not wearing a coat over the light jacket. Nor did he seem to notice the chill factor. Bane's wariness kicked into high gear and he walked right up to the man. "Did you want to talk to me?" he demanded.
In his Human form, Carnevale was taken aback. He was used to people being intimidated and terrified of him. This grey-eyed man was confronting him boldly, without fear. "I think so," That Which Pursueth answered. "I believe we are after the same prey."
"All right then. An answer like that makes me think we do need to talk." Bane studied the stranger. Just over thirty, obviously someone who worked out... a runner, most likely. The teeth and nails and hair were well-groomed. That suit and those leather dress shoes were not cheap. "Start with a name."
"I? I am Carnevale. Like yourself, I am a hunter not of animals but of men with evil in their hearts."
"Really," said Bane. He could not identify the man's accent. This guy was not with the Mandate or with Department 21 Black, not with a speech pattern like that. He stepped closer and tapped the man on the chest with a forefinger, not threatening but just forceful. "And what do you want with me, Mr Carnevale?"
"This land is strange to me. Its customs. Its rules. If I am to track the Five Dead Riders, I will need help.."
"The Five Dead Riders!" Bane snapped. "Okay, now you are coming with me. Let's go sit in that bar across the street." Taking the man by one arm, the Dire Wolf hustled him into a little sports bar with ARTIE'S in cursive neon across the window. Two guys were sitting at the bar, watching TV as a fat man in an apron moderated their debate. There was a jukebox, a pool table in one corner, and two booths. Dragging Carnevale to the rear booth, Bane ordered, "Have a seat," and went up to the bar. He ordered two draft beers. As he waited, the Dire Wolf examined the wallet he had lifted off Carnevale when he had gotten close to the man. For the first sixteen years of his life, he had been a pickpocket and thief, and those skills had never left him. He got a surprise now. It was not a real wallet. It seemed to be a piece of material that looked like a wallet from the outside but it could not be opened. The seams had never been cut. That was odd. Bane paid for the beers and went back to Carnevale was waiting, placing one glass in front of the man.
Taking a sip himself, the Dire Wolf began, "How do you know about the Riders?"
"It is my calling to track and slay men with evil in their hearts," the stranger said. When I saw you emerge from the room where seven old men died, I saw you have the same mission. You too are a hunter. When I look at you, I see a hungry wolf."
"What did you have to do with the deaths of those old guys?" Bane demanded.
"They burned themselves out with forbidden magic. I believe it was they who unleashed the Five Dead Riders. And then they wanted me to pursue that which they had foolishly freed." Carnevale leaned forward and the mask slipped. For the barest instant, Bane caught a glimpse of red-irised eyes. "Am I wrong? Do you not intend to go after the Riders yourself now that you know of them?"
"Those monsters? Yeah, I'm going to look for them. They can't be running around free. But why should I trust you?"
Carnevale shrugged. "That is up to your judgement. I will pursue them in any case, it is my nature. But together we may find and destroy them sooner."
"Fair enough. For all I know, you're their agent leading me into a trap. But I might as well have you where I can see you than keep spotting you behind me." He drained the beer, but because of his tagra regimen, the alcohol would just pass through his system without effect. Bane stood up and said, "I guess we'll go talk with Tracy Lundborg and see what we can learn."
Carnevale rose and followed him silently. The Dire Wolf hoped he had made the right decision, but he was getting so many conflicting signals from this guy he had no idea if he was dealing with friend or foe. They headed back out into the cold. On 10th Avenue, Bane stopped before an old red brick building that was stained with age. The windows were grimy, and one was boarded up. A man wearing multiple layers of clothing sat on the stoop and sullenly watched them approach, hiding his bottle behind him. Sitting on its kickstand was a big motorcycle, cherry red, of an unfamiliar make; Bane thought it looked like a vintage Indian but he wasn't sure.
How the mighty have fallen, thought Bane. At their peak, the Lundborg brothers had plundered Wall Street, mingled with the famous, lived in luxury that emperors of the past could not match. Their sons had still been powerful warlocks who indulged every lust and slew any who defied them. But he himself had broken Red Sect several times, and each time it came back in lesser form. Now look at where Tracy, the great-granddaughter of Clinton Lundborg himself, lived. Well, he thought, they had all deserved it.
He turned to see Carnevale watching him patiently. The man did not seem to notice the wind howling over him, but even Bane felt the chill. "Well?"
"There is vile magic in this place," answered the strange man. "Stronger than I expected. We must be on guard.
"Good to know." Bane walked up the stoop, as the wino cringed away, and went in through the unlocked front door. The small foyer stank of mildew. He headed up worn marble stairs to the third floor, and stopped at the landing. Carnevale was right behind him, moving quietly and alertly. Bane saw no sign from his body language or the fit of his clothes that the man was armed. The plaster on the walls was chipped, the ceiling had water stains. Somewhere raucous party music was playing. If Tracy Lundborg was still here, she was in the apartment one door down. Bane glanced down and saw that door was wide open, suddenly his sense of danger kicked up and he had an adrenalin surge. He turned to Carnevale to warn him.
The man was gone. Bane leaped to glare down the stairwell, up and down the short corridor but there was no sign of him. The Dire Wolf always had a grim expression but now he was scowling as if ready to blow up. This was getting worrisome. With all his training, no one should be able to either sneak up on him or steal away from him at such close quarters. What was he dealing with here? Just who or what was this Carnevale?
Shaking himself back to the matter at hand, Bane crept up on the open door, his left hand reaching behind him to the grip of his .38. Slowly, he peered around the edge of the open door. A skeleton in motorcycle leathers swung around and lunged at him.
IV.
Standing behind the grey-eyed man, Carnevale had felt his grip on the Human form start to slip. The problem was that he had to exert effort to remain in that guise, just as he needed to concentrate to remain visible and tangible. He was by nature an avenging spirit that could only materialize with effort. As they reached the landing, a wave of malevolence swept out from the open doorway down the hall that hit Carnevale like hot air from a suddenly opened furnace. His guise broke, he reverted to his true form and faded from sight just as the grey-eyed man turned to say something.
Unseen now, That Which Pursueth hung back and watched. The mortal hunter approached the doorway and carefully stuck his head around the jamb. An instant later, one of the Dead Riders plunged out and tackled him, and the two rolled down the hallway in a furious tumble. Carnevale drifted after them.
Breaking free of the grip of bony fingers, Bane was up on his feet and blasting out hooking punches to the head and body that hit so close together they sounded like drumming. Each blow would have killed a living man. The animate skeleton shrugged off the first few, but one caught him just right and the jawbone went flying away. The creature pounced and ran right into a straight punch that drove Bane's fist through the sternum. Now they were tangled together. Before the Dire Wolf could get free, fingers of naked bone locked on his neck and dug into his windpipe. Bane pressed his other forearm against the skeleton and shoved, trying to get his hand out of the broken chestbone. His air was getting cut off.
Then a black-gloved hand seized the Dead Rider by the shoulder and flung him away. Bane fell to a seated position as he was freed. In the next second, he saw the leather-clad skeleton rise just as some weird apparition wrapped a black cloak around it. Freezing air rushed through the hall, and as the being flung his cape open, the Rider was gone. The apparition stared at Bane with a face just as white as the skeleton's had been, then it blinked out of sight.
Getting up, the Dire Wolf began kneading his hands together to keep them from swelling and getting stiff. He had been punching raw bone. Everything had taken place in a few seconds. Cautiously, he peered up and down the short dingy corridor with its dim overhead light, then leaned over the stairwell to look up and down. Nothing. He spun and went into the apartment where the skeletal biker had emerged. A young woman was lying on the floor, trying to rise, and the man he knew as Carnevale was crouching over her trying to help. He looked up as Bane entered.
"She is not badly hurt," Carnevale said. "The Rider would have slain her in another moment." Bane came over and examined the young woman. He was surprised that Tracy was young, no more than college age, a tall slim blonde in a white sweatshirt and jeans with the knees worn out. One of the Lundborgs must have had her quite late in life. He got the girl up onto a beat-up couch and took her pulse, finding it strong. She was dazed but conscious, and on her neck were gouges like the ones on his own.
Standing up, Bane turned to confront Carnevale. "She needs a minute. Meanwhile.." He drew his .38 and extended the barrel directly at the man's face. Carnevale gazed back blandly as if he did not know what a gun was.
"What's your connection with that character in the black cape, my friend?"
Carnevale still did not seem to realize he was being threatened. "You saw him? Few have gazed upon That Which Pursueth and lived."
"That's no answer," Bane growled. "Do you turn into him somehow? Are you guys the same person or what?"
The man did not answer right away. "Some things are beyond mortal knowledge," he said at last.
Vexed to his limit, Bane holstered his gun as it became clear this strange man in the neat brown suit did not react to its threat. He turned to the young woman and saw she had been watching them. "Tracy Lundborg?"
"Who, me? I'm Jean. Tracy's my aunt. Mind telling me what's going on here before I freak out completely?!"
The Dire Wolf examined her throat. "Do you remember being attacked a few minutes ago?"
"Of course. Jeez, what do you think? I opened the door to go out and a Hell's Angel wearing a Halloween mask grabs me by the throat. I couldn't reach my taser, and I was kicking and struggling but the guy was strong like a bear. Then he throws me on the floor." She was watching Bane with sudden understanding. "You showed up and he went after you instead. Right?"
"Yes. He's been scared away." Bane took out his leather ID case and showed her his PI license. "My name is Jeremy Bane. I'm a detective, the police sometimes call me in to help out."
Jean Lundborg sat up, gingerly touching her throat. "Well, thanks. I think my family would be identifying me down in the morgue if you hadn't shown up." She glanced over at Carnevale. "And you, what's your story?"
"I am helping him," was the answer.
"Well, thanks. So, who was that guy? Why did he come after me?"
"Because of your family," Bane said. "Jean, you do know the history of the Lundborgs? Clinton and Morgan back around 1916 in Germany?"
The dark blue eyes were suddenly sullen. "That was a long time ago. I don't really believe any of it anyway. Black magic, witchcraft, I mean, come ON! They just wanted excuses to take drugs and bang a lot of women."
The Dire Wolf crouched in front of her. "Jean, your family has been involved for decades with a cult known as Red Sect. Whether you think they really were sorcerors or just pretending to be, seven old men were found dead this morning on 78th Street. It was a meeting room for Red Sect. What can you tell us?"
"Really. Damn. I bet one of them was Uncle Silas, actually my great-uncle. He's got to be 85 by now, creepy old coot. He asked me a few times if I wanted to go to some occult ceremonies and I told him to get lost." She blinked. "He's dead, then? Along with some of his weirdo friends? Well, I can't say I'm surprised. The way they acted."
"All right, then. One more thing. Do you know where your Aunt Tracy is?"
"Maybe. Why?"
Bane fixed his grey eyes on hers. "I believe that killer came here for her, Jean. He wanted to force you to lead him to her."
"Oh, not Aunt Tracy. She's okay, she's a good person." Jean tried to get up, fell back and then got to her feet. "I need to warn her."
"Send us," Bane said. "That killer has to be intercepted. I promise you we will protect your Aunt Tracy if you just let us."
"I don't know why I should trust you," she said. "So you're private eyes, so what? But I guess I'd rather have you two show up before that freak with the skull mask does. Okay. I'll go with you."
"What? No, you stay here with the door locked, we'll chase the killer."
"Like that'll help. Look, I saw you draw that revolver like a gunfighter, and I got a glimpse of you slugging it out with the nutjob. No, I think I'm safer with you." She grabbed a long cloth coat from the back of the couch. "We'll go check on Aunt Tracy together."
"All right, you've got a point." Bane turned to say something to Carnevale and found that the man was gone again.
V.
Standing invisible out in the hall, Carnevale watched as the girl talked to the grey-eyed man who had said his name was Bane. He had to let go of his Human form for the moment, it was becoming a strain. Strange that this man Bane had immediately spotted a connection between Carnevale's two guises. Most mortals were too stunned to ever figure that out. As Bane and the blonde woman headed out into the hall, closing the apartment door, Carnevale followed at a slight distance. Once, the man called Bane snapped his head around and seemed to be looking right at him, despite the fact that mortal senses could not detect him when insubtantial.
Or, at least, mortal senses had never been able to do so before.
Down in the street, Bane led Jean Lundborg to the lot where his car was parked and put her in the passenger seat. As soon as they got going, she reached over and turned up the heat full blast. "My fingers are numb," she said.
"Point me in the right direction, Jean. I don't know for sure if that killer is on your aunt's trail but we have to assume the worst."
"North. Out of the city. Head for White Plains."
They rode in silence for a few minutes, then she said, "You don't believe the wild stories about Red Sect... do you?"
"I have no choice but to believe. I fought Red Sect a few times. I used to be a sort of ghostbuster investigating paranormal phenomena."
Jean nodded. "That's where I recognized you from. The KDF. The Kenneth Dred Foundation. You guys were in the papers when I was little."
"Yes. The Lundborg family is almost gone now. Red Sect is only a few scattered believers here and there. Those seven old men were likely the only ones left with any real occult ability." Bane glanced over at the girl. "Your Aunt Jean never had any connection with the cult that I recall."
"No, she led a normal life. Housewife, worked at a nursing home for a few years, volunteered to help out at parades." Jean sighed. "I liked her. My mother was her older sister, but I spent more time with her than I did at home. My parents and I always fought. I think they sent me to Stony Brook mostly to get rid of me."
Bane pulled into a gas station to top off the tank, telling her to run in if she wanted anything to eat. Jean said she was fine and waited in the car. As he replaced the nozzle to the pump, the Dire Wolf abruptly swung his head around. He could swear he had caught a glimpse of someone by the car.
That weird spectral creature with the black cape? Was it following them? Bane stood glaring about for a few minutes but finally gave up and got back in the car, easing back into traffic. Soon, they were out almost in the country, where between strip malls were houses that had actual yards and there were lots of trees. Jean said, "Almost there," and pointed toward a side road up ahead. Bane swung right, past a handcrafted wooden sign that read YESTERDAY'S TREASURES - ANTIQUES AND GIFTS and drove up a dirt road. Atop a hill sat a neat two-story white house with a smaller structure next to it. The second building had a sign that also read ANTIQUES AND GIFTS. A white Toyota Camery was parked in front of the house.
As he approached, Bane took in the situation. There was at least a few acres behind the house before the woods started, and the ground was still covered knee-high in hard-packed snow. He pulled past the Toyota and backed up so he could drive away in a hurry if needed, this was a habit his warlike life had drummed into him. As he turned off the engine, he asked Jean, "You expect her to be home?"
"That's her car. I don't see any motorcycles around, do you?"
"No." Bane started to get out, but Jean said, "Wait. She doesn't like unannounced visitors. Let me go check." The girl hurried up to the porch that ran the width of the house but, before she could get there, the front door opened.
Tracy Lundborg was about fifty, almost six feet tall and gaunt. She was wearing dark slacks and a white blouse with a black vest. Even from a distance, the anger in her hard face was evident. "And what do you think you're doing here?"
"Hi, Aunt Tracy--"
"Don't start that 'Aunt' nonsense. I sponsored you to the group because you promised to report to me what the elders were up to. And I never heard from you. Where are these senile fools, anyway?"
"Please don't be mad, Aunt." Jean made a deep bow from the waist. "The seven elders are all dead. They unleashed the Five Dead Riders and the strain broke them. They are all dead now."
"Well, that's good news," she said. "I have been trying to get them out of the way for years. Now I can take my rightful place. But wait. The Riders cannot be freed without a target. They must have been sent to slay someone."
Jean cackled like an old woman, strangely shocking when it came from someone young. "They are coming HERE, Aunt Tracy. You are not the only one who can scheme!"
"Oh, brother," Bane muttered to himself. "Infighting among sorcerors. It never ends." He had kept back from the confrontation. Evidently, Tracy Lundborg had not seen him inside the car, judging by the way she gave away so much in her speech. Now he watched as the two women stared at each other with open hatred.
"One Rider came to me by error," Jean said gleefully. "I guess he felt the Red Sect in my aura. But that guy in the car turned up to chase him away, so I brought him with me. If anything goes wrong, he might be a good defense."
Bane got out from behind the wheel, closed his door and turned around to face Carnevale, standing there with folded arms. The Dire Wolf jumped back and came within a hair of punching the man. "I don't like the way you pop up, mister!" he yelled. "Keep it up and you'll get smacked."
Tracy Lundborg seemed to spot at the two men for the first time. "Dire Wolf? Really. I suppose that's no surprise you should get involved, Mr Bane. And the other one.." She stared at the quiet man in the brown suit and her voice cracked, "No! CARNEVALE!"
"Yes. Your brethren summoned me to deal with the Riders." The strange man stepped forward. "It is good that you understand, in this, your final moments on the earth.."
They all froze in place as they heard a horse whinny nearby.
VI.
Three ragged men on starving horses rode hard across the back yard toward the house. The horses stumbled and struggled through the hard snow, steam puffing from their nostrils. These Riders were skeletal as the one back in Manhattan had been, just bare white bone held together by gralic sorcery. Two wore long dusters and floppy hats, but the third had ranch clothes including a cowhide vest and a Stetson. All their clothing was decayed and barely hanging together. It was a surreal sight when seen in the clear detail of a bright winter afternoon.
This is where I could use Johnny Packard, thought Bane. This is right up the Brimstone Kid's alley. He did not draw his mundane Smith & Wesson against these revenants but stood waiting for them with lowered hands. Tracy Lundborg screamed in mortal terror and ran toward her car, to be bodyblocked and slammed to the frozen ground by Jean. "Where do you think YOU'RE going?" yelled the younger woman, trying to pin her down."Those Riders are coming for you."
"TRACY LUNNNNDBORG..."echoed a hollow sepulchral voice.
"Hahah, the Rider called your name," Jean gloated. "You know what that means."
As the three spectral forms galloped up closer, Carnevale stepped in front of Bane. "This is my task, mortal." In a blur, he was gone and the thin figure in the ground-length heavy cloak stood there. That Which Pursueth smiled bleakly and rose up into the air, gliding overhead to tackle a Dead Rider and bring the creature toppling off its mount. There was a brief struggle, Carnevale's cloak enveloped the skeletal being and, when he rose, the Rider was gone. The suffering horse had taken two more strides before crashing dead in the snow.
The Rider in the cowboy clothes spurred his starving horse up through the snow and plunged out into the plowed parking lot. Bane stepped in his path. The skeletal creature laughed the empty mirth of the damned and rode right at him. As the horseman neared, the Dire Wolf whipped out the silver daggers from their sheaths on his forearms and slashed in a circular pattern out and back. Those blades had been ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin ages ago. They were ensalir- sacred silver- and few creatures of the night could stand against their edge. The Dead Rider fell apart, ribs and skull and arm bones dropping away in all directions. As soon as the monster ceased, the horse dropped to its front knees and rolled over dead, no longer kept active against nature.
Bane twirled the daggers and spun to where the third Rider was heading right at the struggling women. He had to intercept them. As he moved, something passed overhead like a freezing cloud and he reeled. Carnevale had almost touched him, and that was enough to suck lifeforce and warmth from his body. The Dire Wolf fell, dropped one of the daggers and forced himself back up again. His body was numb, he picked up the weapon with hands that had lost feeling. In those few seconds, the third Rider had charged right over Tracy Lundborg, trampling her under the heavy hooves of his steed. The woman howled once in pain and was still. There was a flurry of dark motion and Carnevale was straightening up alone, where he had been wrestling with the revenant a second earlier. The horse took a few unsteady steps and dropped over on its side.
A few feet away from where Tracy sprawled broken and dying, Jean Lundborg got up on her hands and knees. "At last! At long last." She chuckled but stopped short as she realized Carnevale was gazing sternly at her, his red eyes mere slits.
Stumbling closer but regaining his strength, Jeremy Bane watched the two face each other. He took a deep breath and was going to intervene when he remembered that these monsters were called the Five Dead Riders. These three and the one back in the city...
The roar of a big motorcycle thundered behind him, he swerved to face another Rider in shredded leathers roaring right at him. Bane spun on one foot, bringing his other leg around in a blinding fast reverse kick that slammed his heel right into that Rider's bony chest. The creature went flying back off the bike, hitting the ground with a brittle thump. Even as the thing landed, the Dire Wolf pounced down and drove both silver daggers where the heart would have been. The Rider collapsed into a loose assortment of bones and leather tatters.
Straightening up, Bane saw Carnevale take a menacing step toward Jean Lundborg. "Hey, hold it!" he yelled. "That's enough killing for right now. I want to ask her some questions about her family."
"She is responsible for this woman's death," answered That Which Pursueth. "Do not stand between me and my prey."
"I'll do what I think right," the Dire Wolf snapped. "Isn't it about time you turn invisible and go sneaking around again?"
The air shimmered and Carnevale took on his Human guise again, the office drone in the brown suit with gold watch and polished shoes. Some of the air of impending doom faded with the change. "Perhaps. My task was to stop the Riders. It was for that I was awakened." He grinned a remarkably sinister leer as his mouth smiled but his eyes did not. "Yet I will not return to my slumber just yet. Maybe there are other threats out there that need That Which Pursueth."
"Fine. But don't follow me around invisible." Bane jabbed an accusatory finger at the being. "You get on my nerves. I'll call in an exorcist and disperse you. Garrison Nebel would be glad to send you back to your crypt for another thirty thousands years."
As he turned around and started walking toward the road, Carnevale smiled back over his shoulder. "Who knows what is to come? Until we meet again." And he vanished.
3/24/2014
