"Shadow Brother"
May. 19th, 2022 11:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Shadow Brother"
1/6-1/7/1980
I.
When the doorbell rang at five that afternoon, Bane was sitting at the desk in the reception room just down the hall. He had been chatting with Larry Taper about scheduling for the members. Of the seven KDF members, only Bane and Cindy stayed at the headquarters building full-time. All the members had rooms there, but they each also had their own hectic lives to pursue. Taper was an anthropologist specializing in the European megalithic culture and he had written two textbooks widely used in colleges. Right now he was planning to spend two weeks in France at a seminar the coming summer, which meant he would only be available for full red alerts. "Academia is an inexorably demanding mistress," he had just said. "I may have hastily resigned my position at the university, but it's mere prudence to maintain my standing in the field. The Midnight War is hardly a secure tenure..."
As the bell sounded, Bane jumped out of his chair as if stung by a bee. His enhanced reflexes were sometimes tuned too high for comfort, and he was up and heading out of the room before Taper had reacted. At only twenty-three, Jeremy Bane was so serious that he seemed older and the invariable all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket added to the intense impression he gave. As the Dire Wolf rushed by, Larry Taper rose and said, "An unexpected visitation?"
"I didn't have any appointments," Bane said over one shoulder, already out in the hall. Stopping at the front door, he slid open a wooden panel at face level to reveal a monitor screen and control panel. This had been installed by Leonard Slade before the KDF officially began operations. The Dire Wolf pressed a button to unlock the street door and said, "Come in. I'll be with you in a second." Then he activated the monitor screen and studied the image suspiciously. It showed the small foyer on the other side of the inner door where he stood. This foyer was just big enough for a bench, a shelf that held a lamp and some magazines, and a rubber mat on the floor. Standing inside the street door which was closing was an obese middle-aged man in a long winter coat and gloves, taking off his hat.
Staring at the image, Bane trusted his instincts saying body language showed this man was no immediate threat. He ran the Trom scanners anyway. Sensors more advanced than anything the most modern hospitals possessed shone invisibly through the man and data appeared in yellow letters overlaying his image. No positive ID... that meant he had no record with the NYPD or the FBI. No metal large enough to be a gun or knife, no chemical signature indicating poisons or explosives. He seemed harmless enough.
Larry Taper had come up behind Bane and was also looking at the readouts. He was an inch or two shorter than the six-foot tall Dire Wolf, a little more obviously muscular. Today he was wearing a dark brown suit with a tan shirt and black necktie. Taper raised an eyebrow. "Endomorphic sexagenarian, eh?"
"Yeah, right," Bane replied absently. He clicked off the monitor and closed the panel, then opened the door to the foyer. "Good morning," he said. "You don't have an appointment."
"No, no, I don't. I'm sorry. I knew Kenneth Dred for years," the fat man said. He had a deep gravelly voice and spoke deliberately. "May I come in? I'm in terrible trouble and I don't know where else I can find help."
"All right," said the Dire Wolf. "Step into this room here and explain." As he ushered the visitor toward the reception room, Bane glanced questioningly at Taper. The Silver Skull smiled back at him and went with them. As Bane took his seat behind the big oak desk, Taper motioned for the fat man to sit in one of the straightback chairs and dropped into another one.
The visitor was still wearing his heavy coat, but seemed oblivious to it. "I haven't been here in years," he began. "My name is Albert Weissman. Kenneth and I did some research on Midnight War history together and we had a lengthy correspondence. He wrote me last summer that he had taken on a protege, a young man named Jeremy Bane." Weissman began to struggle out of his coat and Taper obligingly helped him and hung the garment on a hook by the door before seating himself again.
"You know Mr Dred passed away, right?" asked Bane bluntly.
"Yes. I would have gone to him with my problem. His knowledge of the occult was immense. But I'm in such a desperate situation that I thought maybe you, his heir, might be able to help me. Maybe you can give me advice to work with, at least."
The Dire Wolf fixed his pale grey eyes on Weissman warily, then said, "You can tell us about it."
"All right. It sounds insane. But I have heard about you and the Kenneth Dred Foundation you have established. News travels quickly in Midnight War circles. I know you have succeeded in ending many threats already. Here is my problem. A shadow is trying to kill me."
Despite his usual reticence, Larry Taper snorted. "Oh, indubitably. Quite credible."
Weissman shot him a bitter look. "It's because of my feud with Maricotta, Richard Maricotta. Perhaps you know the name?"
"Sure," Bane answered. "He's associated with Red Sect. I figure we'll tangle with him sooner or later. Go on."
"Maricotta hates me because I mentioned him by name in a NEW YORKER article. He has threatened me before, and when I said I would write an entire book about him if I wanted to, he told me my life was going to end soon. That night, I saw Shadow Brother for the first time." Weissman looked down at the hardwood floor and took a deep unsteady breath. "I woke up and felt something was wrong. My bedroom was chilly. I was shivering. I turned on the lamp on my nightstand and saw a long black shape on the wall...the shadow of a man but no one was in the room to cast it."
Taper made a scoffing noise but cut it off immediately. "Please allow me to apologize. I was understandably taken aback by your remarkable story. Pray continue."
"Yes. Very well. The shadow vanished immediately, but returned the next night. I had left the light on and awoke in the sudden cold to find it standing beside my bed. It seemed to be staring down at me. I was paralyzed, I could not move or speak. My heart was pounding so fast I was afraid I was going to die. Then I closed my eyes in despair and waited, and after what seemed like hours, I opened them again and Shadow Brother was gone."
Bane interrupted, "What's with the Shadow Brother name?"
"Maricotta used the phrase. He said when 'When Shadow Brother visits you, it will be too late to apologize.' I didn't understand at the time. Last night was the worst. As you can imagine, I had every light in the house on and I sat up in bed in terror. Yet somehow I fell asleep and awoke to the same freezing sensation. The shadow man was right on top of me! Its long fingers closed around my neck. I heard it laugh with evil joy. Then I blinked and found it was gone again. Tonight it will come back and kill me, I'm sure of it."
"Mr Weissman," Bane broke in. "With all due respect, sure you weren't merely dreaming each time?"
The fat man yanked open the collar of his shirt to reveal long black marks on his thick neck. "Dreaming?" he cried. "Does this look like I was dreaming?!"
II.
Bane and Taper both immediately came over to examine the man closely. The marks were right for fingers, if those fingers had been extremely long and spindly.
"Subcutaneous hematomas," Taper said gravely. Seeing the sour glance Bane shot at him, the Silver Skull grinned and added, "Bruises."
"I wish you would speak English," the Dire Wolf muttered. "Yeah, these are bruises. Whoever made them had to be damn strong."
"It felt like he could have snapped my neck if he had wanted to." Weissman seemed to be on the verge of tears. "I couldn't move. I couldn't even speak."
As Bane stood up and leaned back against his desk, his face was hard to read but the grey eyes were cold. He stared at Weissman without speaking.
Larry Taper stepped back and raised his open hands in a dismissive gesture. "Someone has to broach the obvious. This bears all the typical hallmarks of sleep paralysis, once known as night terrors. It's a psychological phenomenon not uncommon in individuals suffering high stress situations. The body closes down its voluntary movement in some dream stages to prevent the sleeper from moving about and harming himself. When the sleeper wakes but is still in this unmoving state, the result is a terrifying experience. Frightening hallucinations are quite often reported, demons or shadows or bestial shapes threatening the sleeper." The archaeologist shrugged. "One of my colleagues at the university suffered sleep paralysis for years."
"What? Do you think I dreamed these marks on my throat?!" Weismann demanded.
"I don't think your fingers are anywhere near strong enough to do that," Bane said bluntly. He went back behind his desk and took his seat again. "And from what I have heard of Maricotta, he's a Red Sect warlock with some knowledge. He could possibly be skilled enough to send Shadow Brother out as an assassin."
"Oh my God, what can I do? I'm going to be killed by- by a shadow?" Weissman started to get up from his chair but Taper pressed on his shoulder with a reassuring hand.
"Not so. You have us to help you," he said quietly. "With the Dire Wolf and the Silver Skull beside you, the creatures of the night had better watch their step."
Bane almost smiled. "Here's the plan. Mr Weissman, you will stay here tonight. This building has strong defenses against any sort of spell or attack. One of our members will be on hand, as well. I think Mike is available tonight. Larry here will go visit Maricotta once it gets dark."
"And you?"
Bane held out his hand. "I'll need your keys."
III.
By seven-thirty, Michael Hawk had arrived in answer to Bane's summons. At sixty, the manhunter was a reassuring presence with his weathered face, broad muscular frame and air of quiet confidence. Hawk listened to the situation and nodded solemnly. "Jeremy, I reckon this sort of trouble is more in your area of expertise," he said with his flat Montana accent. "But sure, I'll sit here with Mr Weissman. You play poker, sir?"
"Why, yes. I'm not very good, though."
"That's all right, it's just to pass the time." Hawk cleared some newspapers off the coffee table in front of the long leather couch and brought a chair over by it. "I'll brew some coffee, too, black and strong, just what keeps away things that go bump in the night." He left the conference room and strode forcefully down to the kitchenette at the end of the hall.
Weissman visibly relaxed. "So that's Michael Hawk. I've read so much about him."
"No one better to have at your back," Jeremy Bane told him. "We're leaving now, sir. Believe me, you are safer here in this building than anywhere else on Earth. By tomorrow morning, I promise this will all be settled." The Dire Wolf had pulled on a long black coat and was holding thin leather gloves as he headed for the hallway. "Larry is already on his way to visit Maricotta. You sit tight and listen to Mike's tall tales."
Leaving Weissman in the conference room, Bane stepped into a walk-in closet by the front door and opened a panel in its back. He went down steep concrete steps and along a narrow walkway to emerge in the KDF underground garage. Only one car was in there, his dark green Mustang. Cindy had the Chevy upstate, visiting her family on two-day leave. For a second, he wished she could be here to help out. Or Khang or Ted or Len. But he knew the KDF was not a commando squad with everyone standing by for instant response. He got in the Mustang, started it up and rolled up the ramp where a steel panel slid up to let him out onto Lexington Avenue.
As he headed north toward Central Park, the Dire Wolf tried to dredge up anything he knew about things like Shadow Brother. Nothing came to mind. He had learned a lot about the Midnight War in the two years he had worked for Kenneth Dred and he had been studying furiously since then, but there was more to the occult than anyone could fully comprehend in less than a lifetime. As he drove, he touched one forearm and felt the outline of one of the silver daggers sheathed beneath his sleeves. They hadn't failed him yet. He carried an anesthetic dart gun and a dozen weapons and gadgets concealed in his clothing in addition to the silver blades. But his real faith always rested in himself. He had been born to fight.
Reaching Seventy-third Street, Bane turned left and found an open spot on Third Avenue. The bitter January wind was keeping the sidewalks almost deserted, even this early at night. He got out and started hiking until he found the apartment building where Weissman lived. Bane had a faintly feral expression on his narrow face as he felt his pulse accelerate with the prospect of action coming up.
The two glass doors of the apartment building were unlocked and he passed through the tiled lobby without being challenged. A desk and chair sat in one corner but no watchman was in sight. Bane skipped the elevator and hurried up three flights of stairs to emerge in a corridor with nice subdued lighting, dark maroon carpeting, and a fresh clean smell. Better than most of the battlegrounds he found himself on. Taking Weissman's keys from his pocket, the Dire Wolf let himself into the man's apartment. As he snapped on the lights, he saw it was neat and tidy as any fussy old bachelor's digs would tend to be. There were no clothes thrown on the couch, no empty coffee mugs on the end tables. Everything was where it belonged. Even the bookcase was organized.
Bane hung his coat on a wall hook. Entering Weissman's bedroom, he left the lamps on the nightstands off but the open door let in enough light from the living room to see by. Fully dressed, he stretched out on the bed and folded his arms across his chest. This would be the sort of long vigil he was not suited for at all. Impatient and restless by nature, he always wanted to get things over with right away but he had no choice. Making himself breathe deeply and slowly, he tried to allow himself to fall asleep in the bed where a man had been terrified by dream demons the night before.
IV.
Paying the driver, Taper stepped away from the blue-top taxi and headed up the block toward the Cherokee Apartments on 28th Street and Fifth. Finding Maricotta had taken a few phone calls and some patience. During his long life, Kenneth Dred had made many friends in the Midnight War, and most of them wanted to honor his memory by helping his protege if they could. Richard Maricotta had take rooms at the Cherokee a month earlier after arriving from Europe, and he had been seen at his old haunts of restaurants and bookstores and curio shops.
As he approached the building, Taper was not impressed. It was an old red brick structure that had been kept in good repair and the paint on the trim was fresh, but it still looked forlorn. The door to the foyer was open. He stepped in, saw the row of metal mailboxes on one wall with a vertical row of nametags and white buttons alongside it. Having decided to take the direct approach, he pressed the button that said in an inked scrawl MARICOTTA 2A. A young woman's voice immediately said, "Hello?"
"I'm here to see Richard regarding a palpable shadow." Taper kept his voice level.
There was dead silence for a moment, then, "What ARE you talking about?"
"You know perfectly well. Allow me entrance or welcome six NYPD cops with intolerable attitudes, those are your sole options."
The only answer was a buzz as the inner door unlocked. The Silver Skull smiled gleefully and went through it, up the stairs to the second floor landing. Before he could knock on the door marked 2A, it opened a crack and a dark eye peered angrily out at him. "What do you want?"
"Enlightenment, as all inquiring minds seek," Taper answered, placing his hand on the door edge and preventing her from closing it. "In immediate terms, enlightenment in the form of answers from Richard Maricotta."
"Oh, all right," she answered slowly, unfastening the chain and letting him in. She was barely twenty, tall and solid, with jet black hair that went down her back. In her loose grey sweatshirt and jeans, barefoot, she looked like she should be studying for her midterms but the anger in her eyes countered that. "And who are you again? What do you want with my uncle?"
"Dr Lawrence Taper, formerly of Calvin University, miss. Presently a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation." Taper took off his topcoat and stood there in his neat black suit and tie, shoes polished and grooming impeccable. His professional appearance and his rather bland non-threatening face seemed to have an effect on her. "My meeting with Richard is imperative."
"Yeah? Well, he can't be disturbed right now. He's ill and needs rest." Her eyes flickered over once to a closed door, and Taper realized she was new to the game. That had to be the bedroom. She was obviously nervous but at the same fascinated by him for some reason. The woman acted as if she knew him from somehere but he was sure they hadn't met before.
Stepping into the living room, the Silver Skull cast his gaze quickly around but saw nothing relating to the Midnight War. No idols, no talismans, nothing that would not be found in a normal apartment. He stepped over to a stack of books piled on an end table but instead of ancient tomes of forbidden knowledge, they were just WW II history. Taper straightened up and raised one eyebrow. "Your own apellation would be appreciated, young lady."
"Joey. Josephine, actually. Okay, mister, my nerves are shot already, how about filling me in on what the HELL is going on tonight?"
Taper studied her thoughtfully. "What do you know about Red Sect?"
"That bunch?" she scoffed. "Dirty old men who lick their lips when they see me. My whack uncle hangs out with them doing quote unquote psychic research. Out of body, past lives, that sort of stuff. I think they're all crazy as crazy gets. If the courts hadn't stuck me with him...."
"Psychic research indeed..." said Taper. "Joey, your uncle is a warlock collaborating with Red Sect. I am completely serious. Tonight, even as we speak, he is endeavouring to send deadly harm to a man who has offended him."
"What? Oh, come on. He does stupid experiments with those Red Sect geezers but nothing ever comes of it, they're just fooling themselves." She reached for the door. "I guess you better be going."
"I have to conclude a dramatic exhibition is required," Taper said. He held out his arm and a three-foot straight sword of gleaming metal abruptly appeared in it from nowhere. As the young woman's eyes bugged out comically, he brandished the weapon to make swishing noises as it passed by her face.
"This is Chalcemar, the sword of the Silver Skull," he told her. "And to establish it's not mere chicanery nor illusion.." Taper smacked the edge of the sword into the doorjamb, leaving a deep notch in the wood. He held up the sword, hilt by his face and it was gone just as it had appeared, leaving his hand empty.
"Still skeptical about magic?" he asked.
"Not.. not like I was a minute ago. Wow. I have seen a few weird things my uncle and his creepy pals did that were hard to explain but nothing like that sword!" She stared at Taper in an uneasy blend of fear and fascination. "Maybe I was wrong. That was amazing." Unexpectedly, she giggled. "I knew there was a reason why I let you in. You're a wizard!"
"Now we need to peek in on your uncle," Taper told her. "It may not be too late to keep him from making a terrible mistake."
She led him into the bedroom, and there under a single sheet was stretched a tall, gaunt man with a bony face, lying under a single sheet. He had a short black beard and a receding hairline. On the nightstand next to him, a shaded lamp burned.
Taper stepped closer and Joey said in a conversational tone, "Oh, we won't wake him by being in here. When he pulls this out of body stuff, he might as well be sedated. I had a party one night and he never stirred."
"Good to know," Taper answered absently. Something was wrong in that room and it took a second to spot it. Going over to stand beside the lamp, he swung his arm with spread fingers and watched his shadow moving on the wall beyond the bed. "Observe that?"
"What, your shadow? Of course." Her tone of voice indicated she was having doubts about him again. "What's your point?"
Now, Taper seized Maricotta's arm and raised it. The warlock did not roust from sleep, still breathing deeply and slowly. "Notice any omission that might be considered singular?"
She stared without comprehension for a full twenty seconds before gasping. "Hey... where's HIS shadow?"
V.
Jeremy Bane snapped awake in a room that was freezing cold. Odd, he didn't remember falling asleep. Instinctively, he started to turn his head to check out the clock on the dresser but his head would not move. He tried to sit up and nothing happened. It was as if he were tied down with invisible wires over his entire body. Bane exerted his will again but got nowhere. He was frozen in place, legs together, arms crossed over his chest.
Despite the helpless feeling of being paralyzed, despite the unexplained chill in the air, despite the oppressive feeling of menace in that room, Bane was not frightened. He was angry. This was normal for him as he did not seem to have a flight-or-fight choice, only fight. He found he could still move his eyes. What was Larry said about this sleep paralysis business? That your body was still asleep and locked down so you wouldn't hurt yourself but your mind woke up? That felt about right. He certainly had no sense of dreaming, everything seemed clear and sharp as in everyday life. Bane tried taking a deep breath but found he couldn't even do that. Damn.
At the foot of the bed, a solid black form slid silently up from the floor. Shaped like a man in a distorted elongated way, it had no features at first. Then two glowing red spots like coals lit in its head where a face would be. Shadow Brother.
The strange two-dimensional shape bent closer, the red eyes smoldered. A thin dry voice whispered, "You are not Maricotta. You have come to die in his stead! Let your heart burst as you die in terror." A flat black arm stretched forward and long thin fingers reached for Bane's throat. The Dire Wolf's grey eyes glittered furiously in the dim light, and perhaps because there was no fear in his fierce make-up, he radiated defiance that even the shadow projection could sense. It hesitated. "You are not like the others..." it began.
When he had first laid down, the Dire Wolf had crossed his arms and closed his hands on the slim hilts of the silver daggers sheathed beneath his sleeves. This had become habit with him. An electric tingle ran through his hands, he tightened them on the hilts and suddenly he was free. Faster than a real wolf striking, his left hand blurred up and then down to pierce the shadow hand that was going for his throat. And the silver dagger pinned that insubstantial limb to the bed.
A hollow unhuman cry came from the shadow thing. It struggled and convulsed but could not free itself. Sitting up, Bane drew the other dagger from beneath his sleeve and tightened his grip. The blade shone in the subdued light of the bedroom with a cold merciless gleam.
"Surprised?" he said tautly. "You should be. Silver blades, but not only that. These are ensalir, blessed by the immortal Eldarin of Elvedal. You aren't the first creature of the night they have polished off." As he spoke, Bane slashed viciously left and right and back again, and the unearthly substance of Shadow Brother fell apart and dropped away. A long section of arm remained pinned down to the mattress by the first dagger, fading into fog.
"Good riddance," Bane snarled as he rolled off the bed. The room had return to its normal temperature and the feel of threat had left. The bits of shadow were gone as if they had never been there. The Dire Wolf inspected his daggers for any sign of damage and then slid them back under his sleeves. He felt a little wobbly, although he never showed weakness even when alone. That had been closer than he would have liked. Until he had tightened his grip on the daggers, he had not been able to think of a way to free himself before Shadow Brother would have choked him.
Leaving the bedroom, he went to the living room and plopped down on the couch for a moment. He was a little disappointed in himself for feeling so shaky after all he had been through in the Midnight War. He had to be harder. The Dire Wolf took a deep breath, unclipped the Link from his belt and beeped Taper. The returning double beep meant everything was okay on that end. Getting to his feet, he snatched his coat from the wall hook and tugged it on again, turning off the lights as he left Weissman's apartment. In the back of his mind, another case that had been developing came to the surface, some group in the Southwest called the Ebonites. He was already moving on.
VII."
"Hey, he seems to be stirring," Joey said.
Standing beside the Red Sect warlock, Taper had been debating whether or not to wake the man. Maricotta's breathing had become shallow and faster. "Observable agitation," he said at last. "Troubled sleep is poor sleep."
"How come you talk like that?" she demanded. "I understand about half of what you say."
"My apologies. I'm cognizant it's an unfortunate habit but a robust vocabulary was instilled in me by my parents as a mere toddler." The Silver Skull stepped back as the sleeping man cried out and slammed an arm down upon the bed. Nothing seemed to be harming him, yet he convulsed and tugged desperately at that arm as if to free it.
"Avert your gaze," Taper snapped at Joey. "I doubt if you wish to witness what will next transpire." Too late. Even as he spoke and as she stood beside him, Richard Maricotta suffered what seemed to be a seizure that flung his body up rigid and let it collapse back onto the bedclothes. A dry rattling noise came from his throat and he went limp.
Calmly as a doctor, Taper felt for a pulse and thumbed an eyelid open. "He's gone. My hypothesis is that the Shadow Brother contained his lifeforce in a gralic projection and when it was destroyed out of body, his physical form suffered a feedback. Mere theory, of course."
"Of course," Joey echoed in a numb voice. "So... he's dead? Just like that?"
Taper turned to regard her. "You don't appear traumatized."
"Uncle Richard? I always hated him. He was a creep and his friends were worse. After my parents died in Italy, the courts awarded me to him to raise. It wasn't my idea." Joey brushed her black hair back over her shoulders and let out a deep shuddering breath. "I'm not glad he's dead, exactly, but...Now what do we do?"
"I am going to abscond into the night streets," Taper told her, "as if I were never here. You are going to call an ambulance and the police. The truth is all you need to tell, merely omitting my presence. You came in to check on your uncle and saw him suffer some sort of episode. I can't prognosticate what the official cause of death will be. There isn't a mark on him."
"Oh, isn't there?" she said. Joey Maricotta gingerly opened her uncle's pajama top to show faint red scratches making a Z shape across the lifeless chest. A similar mark had been left on his left forearm, barely breaking the skin. "What do you think they'll make of that?"
"Nothing. He evidently scratched himself as he felt the seizure coming on." Taper picked up his topcoat. "Well, I must agitate the pavement, my dear. I wish you all good fortune."
Joey unexpectedly placed a slim hand on his arm. "Wait. Come back tomorrow and explain everything to me. I want to learn all about this sort of thing... and about you."
Larry Taper smiled, clasped her hand and released it. "It's a deal, Joey."
10/8/2014f
1/6-1/7/1980
I.
When the doorbell rang at five that afternoon, Bane was sitting at the desk in the reception room just down the hall. He had been chatting with Larry Taper about scheduling for the members. Of the seven KDF members, only Bane and Cindy stayed at the headquarters building full-time. All the members had rooms there, but they each also had their own hectic lives to pursue. Taper was an anthropologist specializing in the European megalithic culture and he had written two textbooks widely used in colleges. Right now he was planning to spend two weeks in France at a seminar the coming summer, which meant he would only be available for full red alerts. "Academia is an inexorably demanding mistress," he had just said. "I may have hastily resigned my position at the university, but it's mere prudence to maintain my standing in the field. The Midnight War is hardly a secure tenure..."
As the bell sounded, Bane jumped out of his chair as if stung by a bee. His enhanced reflexes were sometimes tuned too high for comfort, and he was up and heading out of the room before Taper had reacted. At only twenty-three, Jeremy Bane was so serious that he seemed older and the invariable all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket added to the intense impression he gave. As the Dire Wolf rushed by, Larry Taper rose and said, "An unexpected visitation?"
"I didn't have any appointments," Bane said over one shoulder, already out in the hall. Stopping at the front door, he slid open a wooden panel at face level to reveal a monitor screen and control panel. This had been installed by Leonard Slade before the KDF officially began operations. The Dire Wolf pressed a button to unlock the street door and said, "Come in. I'll be with you in a second." Then he activated the monitor screen and studied the image suspiciously. It showed the small foyer on the other side of the inner door where he stood. This foyer was just big enough for a bench, a shelf that held a lamp and some magazines, and a rubber mat on the floor. Standing inside the street door which was closing was an obese middle-aged man in a long winter coat and gloves, taking off his hat.
Staring at the image, Bane trusted his instincts saying body language showed this man was no immediate threat. He ran the Trom scanners anyway. Sensors more advanced than anything the most modern hospitals possessed shone invisibly through the man and data appeared in yellow letters overlaying his image. No positive ID... that meant he had no record with the NYPD or the FBI. No metal large enough to be a gun or knife, no chemical signature indicating poisons or explosives. He seemed harmless enough.
Larry Taper had come up behind Bane and was also looking at the readouts. He was an inch or two shorter than the six-foot tall Dire Wolf, a little more obviously muscular. Today he was wearing a dark brown suit with a tan shirt and black necktie. Taper raised an eyebrow. "Endomorphic sexagenarian, eh?"
"Yeah, right," Bane replied absently. He clicked off the monitor and closed the panel, then opened the door to the foyer. "Good morning," he said. "You don't have an appointment."
"No, no, I don't. I'm sorry. I knew Kenneth Dred for years," the fat man said. He had a deep gravelly voice and spoke deliberately. "May I come in? I'm in terrible trouble and I don't know where else I can find help."
"All right," said the Dire Wolf. "Step into this room here and explain." As he ushered the visitor toward the reception room, Bane glanced questioningly at Taper. The Silver Skull smiled back at him and went with them. As Bane took his seat behind the big oak desk, Taper motioned for the fat man to sit in one of the straightback chairs and dropped into another one.
The visitor was still wearing his heavy coat, but seemed oblivious to it. "I haven't been here in years," he began. "My name is Albert Weissman. Kenneth and I did some research on Midnight War history together and we had a lengthy correspondence. He wrote me last summer that he had taken on a protege, a young man named Jeremy Bane." Weissman began to struggle out of his coat and Taper obligingly helped him and hung the garment on a hook by the door before seating himself again.
"You know Mr Dred passed away, right?" asked Bane bluntly.
"Yes. I would have gone to him with my problem. His knowledge of the occult was immense. But I'm in such a desperate situation that I thought maybe you, his heir, might be able to help me. Maybe you can give me advice to work with, at least."
The Dire Wolf fixed his pale grey eyes on Weissman warily, then said, "You can tell us about it."
"All right. It sounds insane. But I have heard about you and the Kenneth Dred Foundation you have established. News travels quickly in Midnight War circles. I know you have succeeded in ending many threats already. Here is my problem. A shadow is trying to kill me."
Despite his usual reticence, Larry Taper snorted. "Oh, indubitably. Quite credible."
Weissman shot him a bitter look. "It's because of my feud with Maricotta, Richard Maricotta. Perhaps you know the name?"
"Sure," Bane answered. "He's associated with Red Sect. I figure we'll tangle with him sooner or later. Go on."
"Maricotta hates me because I mentioned him by name in a NEW YORKER article. He has threatened me before, and when I said I would write an entire book about him if I wanted to, he told me my life was going to end soon. That night, I saw Shadow Brother for the first time." Weissman looked down at the hardwood floor and took a deep unsteady breath. "I woke up and felt something was wrong. My bedroom was chilly. I was shivering. I turned on the lamp on my nightstand and saw a long black shape on the wall...the shadow of a man but no one was in the room to cast it."
Taper made a scoffing noise but cut it off immediately. "Please allow me to apologize. I was understandably taken aback by your remarkable story. Pray continue."
"Yes. Very well. The shadow vanished immediately, but returned the next night. I had left the light on and awoke in the sudden cold to find it standing beside my bed. It seemed to be staring down at me. I was paralyzed, I could not move or speak. My heart was pounding so fast I was afraid I was going to die. Then I closed my eyes in despair and waited, and after what seemed like hours, I opened them again and Shadow Brother was gone."
Bane interrupted, "What's with the Shadow Brother name?"
"Maricotta used the phrase. He said when 'When Shadow Brother visits you, it will be too late to apologize.' I didn't understand at the time. Last night was the worst. As you can imagine, I had every light in the house on and I sat up in bed in terror. Yet somehow I fell asleep and awoke to the same freezing sensation. The shadow man was right on top of me! Its long fingers closed around my neck. I heard it laugh with evil joy. Then I blinked and found it was gone again. Tonight it will come back and kill me, I'm sure of it."
"Mr Weissman," Bane broke in. "With all due respect, sure you weren't merely dreaming each time?"
The fat man yanked open the collar of his shirt to reveal long black marks on his thick neck. "Dreaming?" he cried. "Does this look like I was dreaming?!"
II.
Bane and Taper both immediately came over to examine the man closely. The marks were right for fingers, if those fingers had been extremely long and spindly.
"Subcutaneous hematomas," Taper said gravely. Seeing the sour glance Bane shot at him, the Silver Skull grinned and added, "Bruises."
"I wish you would speak English," the Dire Wolf muttered. "Yeah, these are bruises. Whoever made them had to be damn strong."
"It felt like he could have snapped my neck if he had wanted to." Weissman seemed to be on the verge of tears. "I couldn't move. I couldn't even speak."
As Bane stood up and leaned back against his desk, his face was hard to read but the grey eyes were cold. He stared at Weissman without speaking.
Larry Taper stepped back and raised his open hands in a dismissive gesture. "Someone has to broach the obvious. This bears all the typical hallmarks of sleep paralysis, once known as night terrors. It's a psychological phenomenon not uncommon in individuals suffering high stress situations. The body closes down its voluntary movement in some dream stages to prevent the sleeper from moving about and harming himself. When the sleeper wakes but is still in this unmoving state, the result is a terrifying experience. Frightening hallucinations are quite often reported, demons or shadows or bestial shapes threatening the sleeper." The archaeologist shrugged. "One of my colleagues at the university suffered sleep paralysis for years."
"What? Do you think I dreamed these marks on my throat?!" Weismann demanded.
"I don't think your fingers are anywhere near strong enough to do that," Bane said bluntly. He went back behind his desk and took his seat again. "And from what I have heard of Maricotta, he's a Red Sect warlock with some knowledge. He could possibly be skilled enough to send Shadow Brother out as an assassin."
"Oh my God, what can I do? I'm going to be killed by- by a shadow?" Weissman started to get up from his chair but Taper pressed on his shoulder with a reassuring hand.
"Not so. You have us to help you," he said quietly. "With the Dire Wolf and the Silver Skull beside you, the creatures of the night had better watch their step."
Bane almost smiled. "Here's the plan. Mr Weissman, you will stay here tonight. This building has strong defenses against any sort of spell or attack. One of our members will be on hand, as well. I think Mike is available tonight. Larry here will go visit Maricotta once it gets dark."
"And you?"
Bane held out his hand. "I'll need your keys."
III.
By seven-thirty, Michael Hawk had arrived in answer to Bane's summons. At sixty, the manhunter was a reassuring presence with his weathered face, broad muscular frame and air of quiet confidence. Hawk listened to the situation and nodded solemnly. "Jeremy, I reckon this sort of trouble is more in your area of expertise," he said with his flat Montana accent. "But sure, I'll sit here with Mr Weissman. You play poker, sir?"
"Why, yes. I'm not very good, though."
"That's all right, it's just to pass the time." Hawk cleared some newspapers off the coffee table in front of the long leather couch and brought a chair over by it. "I'll brew some coffee, too, black and strong, just what keeps away things that go bump in the night." He left the conference room and strode forcefully down to the kitchenette at the end of the hall.
Weissman visibly relaxed. "So that's Michael Hawk. I've read so much about him."
"No one better to have at your back," Jeremy Bane told him. "We're leaving now, sir. Believe me, you are safer here in this building than anywhere else on Earth. By tomorrow morning, I promise this will all be settled." The Dire Wolf had pulled on a long black coat and was holding thin leather gloves as he headed for the hallway. "Larry is already on his way to visit Maricotta. You sit tight and listen to Mike's tall tales."
Leaving Weissman in the conference room, Bane stepped into a walk-in closet by the front door and opened a panel in its back. He went down steep concrete steps and along a narrow walkway to emerge in the KDF underground garage. Only one car was in there, his dark green Mustang. Cindy had the Chevy upstate, visiting her family on two-day leave. For a second, he wished she could be here to help out. Or Khang or Ted or Len. But he knew the KDF was not a commando squad with everyone standing by for instant response. He got in the Mustang, started it up and rolled up the ramp where a steel panel slid up to let him out onto Lexington Avenue.
As he headed north toward Central Park, the Dire Wolf tried to dredge up anything he knew about things like Shadow Brother. Nothing came to mind. He had learned a lot about the Midnight War in the two years he had worked for Kenneth Dred and he had been studying furiously since then, but there was more to the occult than anyone could fully comprehend in less than a lifetime. As he drove, he touched one forearm and felt the outline of one of the silver daggers sheathed beneath his sleeves. They hadn't failed him yet. He carried an anesthetic dart gun and a dozen weapons and gadgets concealed in his clothing in addition to the silver blades. But his real faith always rested in himself. He had been born to fight.
Reaching Seventy-third Street, Bane turned left and found an open spot on Third Avenue. The bitter January wind was keeping the sidewalks almost deserted, even this early at night. He got out and started hiking until he found the apartment building where Weissman lived. Bane had a faintly feral expression on his narrow face as he felt his pulse accelerate with the prospect of action coming up.
The two glass doors of the apartment building were unlocked and he passed through the tiled lobby without being challenged. A desk and chair sat in one corner but no watchman was in sight. Bane skipped the elevator and hurried up three flights of stairs to emerge in a corridor with nice subdued lighting, dark maroon carpeting, and a fresh clean smell. Better than most of the battlegrounds he found himself on. Taking Weissman's keys from his pocket, the Dire Wolf let himself into the man's apartment. As he snapped on the lights, he saw it was neat and tidy as any fussy old bachelor's digs would tend to be. There were no clothes thrown on the couch, no empty coffee mugs on the end tables. Everything was where it belonged. Even the bookcase was organized.
Bane hung his coat on a wall hook. Entering Weissman's bedroom, he left the lamps on the nightstands off but the open door let in enough light from the living room to see by. Fully dressed, he stretched out on the bed and folded his arms across his chest. This would be the sort of long vigil he was not suited for at all. Impatient and restless by nature, he always wanted to get things over with right away but he had no choice. Making himself breathe deeply and slowly, he tried to allow himself to fall asleep in the bed where a man had been terrified by dream demons the night before.
IV.
Paying the driver, Taper stepped away from the blue-top taxi and headed up the block toward the Cherokee Apartments on 28th Street and Fifth. Finding Maricotta had taken a few phone calls and some patience. During his long life, Kenneth Dred had made many friends in the Midnight War, and most of them wanted to honor his memory by helping his protege if they could. Richard Maricotta had take rooms at the Cherokee a month earlier after arriving from Europe, and he had been seen at his old haunts of restaurants and bookstores and curio shops.
As he approached the building, Taper was not impressed. It was an old red brick structure that had been kept in good repair and the paint on the trim was fresh, but it still looked forlorn. The door to the foyer was open. He stepped in, saw the row of metal mailboxes on one wall with a vertical row of nametags and white buttons alongside it. Having decided to take the direct approach, he pressed the button that said in an inked scrawl MARICOTTA 2A. A young woman's voice immediately said, "Hello?"
"I'm here to see Richard regarding a palpable shadow." Taper kept his voice level.
There was dead silence for a moment, then, "What ARE you talking about?"
"You know perfectly well. Allow me entrance or welcome six NYPD cops with intolerable attitudes, those are your sole options."
The only answer was a buzz as the inner door unlocked. The Silver Skull smiled gleefully and went through it, up the stairs to the second floor landing. Before he could knock on the door marked 2A, it opened a crack and a dark eye peered angrily out at him. "What do you want?"
"Enlightenment, as all inquiring minds seek," Taper answered, placing his hand on the door edge and preventing her from closing it. "In immediate terms, enlightenment in the form of answers from Richard Maricotta."
"Oh, all right," she answered slowly, unfastening the chain and letting him in. She was barely twenty, tall and solid, with jet black hair that went down her back. In her loose grey sweatshirt and jeans, barefoot, she looked like she should be studying for her midterms but the anger in her eyes countered that. "And who are you again? What do you want with my uncle?"
"Dr Lawrence Taper, formerly of Calvin University, miss. Presently a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation." Taper took off his topcoat and stood there in his neat black suit and tie, shoes polished and grooming impeccable. His professional appearance and his rather bland non-threatening face seemed to have an effect on her. "My meeting with Richard is imperative."
"Yeah? Well, he can't be disturbed right now. He's ill and needs rest." Her eyes flickered over once to a closed door, and Taper realized she was new to the game. That had to be the bedroom. She was obviously nervous but at the same fascinated by him for some reason. The woman acted as if she knew him from somehere but he was sure they hadn't met before.
Stepping into the living room, the Silver Skull cast his gaze quickly around but saw nothing relating to the Midnight War. No idols, no talismans, nothing that would not be found in a normal apartment. He stepped over to a stack of books piled on an end table but instead of ancient tomes of forbidden knowledge, they were just WW II history. Taper straightened up and raised one eyebrow. "Your own apellation would be appreciated, young lady."
"Joey. Josephine, actually. Okay, mister, my nerves are shot already, how about filling me in on what the HELL is going on tonight?"
Taper studied her thoughtfully. "What do you know about Red Sect?"
"That bunch?" she scoffed. "Dirty old men who lick their lips when they see me. My whack uncle hangs out with them doing quote unquote psychic research. Out of body, past lives, that sort of stuff. I think they're all crazy as crazy gets. If the courts hadn't stuck me with him...."
"Psychic research indeed..." said Taper. "Joey, your uncle is a warlock collaborating with Red Sect. I am completely serious. Tonight, even as we speak, he is endeavouring to send deadly harm to a man who has offended him."
"What? Oh, come on. He does stupid experiments with those Red Sect geezers but nothing ever comes of it, they're just fooling themselves." She reached for the door. "I guess you better be going."
"I have to conclude a dramatic exhibition is required," Taper said. He held out his arm and a three-foot straight sword of gleaming metal abruptly appeared in it from nowhere. As the young woman's eyes bugged out comically, he brandished the weapon to make swishing noises as it passed by her face.
"This is Chalcemar, the sword of the Silver Skull," he told her. "And to establish it's not mere chicanery nor illusion.." Taper smacked the edge of the sword into the doorjamb, leaving a deep notch in the wood. He held up the sword, hilt by his face and it was gone just as it had appeared, leaving his hand empty.
"Still skeptical about magic?" he asked.
"Not.. not like I was a minute ago. Wow. I have seen a few weird things my uncle and his creepy pals did that were hard to explain but nothing like that sword!" She stared at Taper in an uneasy blend of fear and fascination. "Maybe I was wrong. That was amazing." Unexpectedly, she giggled. "I knew there was a reason why I let you in. You're a wizard!"
"Now we need to peek in on your uncle," Taper told her. "It may not be too late to keep him from making a terrible mistake."
She led him into the bedroom, and there under a single sheet was stretched a tall, gaunt man with a bony face, lying under a single sheet. He had a short black beard and a receding hairline. On the nightstand next to him, a shaded lamp burned.
Taper stepped closer and Joey said in a conversational tone, "Oh, we won't wake him by being in here. When he pulls this out of body stuff, he might as well be sedated. I had a party one night and he never stirred."
"Good to know," Taper answered absently. Something was wrong in that room and it took a second to spot it. Going over to stand beside the lamp, he swung his arm with spread fingers and watched his shadow moving on the wall beyond the bed. "Observe that?"
"What, your shadow? Of course." Her tone of voice indicated she was having doubts about him again. "What's your point?"
Now, Taper seized Maricotta's arm and raised it. The warlock did not roust from sleep, still breathing deeply and slowly. "Notice any omission that might be considered singular?"
She stared without comprehension for a full twenty seconds before gasping. "Hey... where's HIS shadow?"
V.
Jeremy Bane snapped awake in a room that was freezing cold. Odd, he didn't remember falling asleep. Instinctively, he started to turn his head to check out the clock on the dresser but his head would not move. He tried to sit up and nothing happened. It was as if he were tied down with invisible wires over his entire body. Bane exerted his will again but got nowhere. He was frozen in place, legs together, arms crossed over his chest.
Despite the helpless feeling of being paralyzed, despite the unexplained chill in the air, despite the oppressive feeling of menace in that room, Bane was not frightened. He was angry. This was normal for him as he did not seem to have a flight-or-fight choice, only fight. He found he could still move his eyes. What was Larry said about this sleep paralysis business? That your body was still asleep and locked down so you wouldn't hurt yourself but your mind woke up? That felt about right. He certainly had no sense of dreaming, everything seemed clear and sharp as in everyday life. Bane tried taking a deep breath but found he couldn't even do that. Damn.
At the foot of the bed, a solid black form slid silently up from the floor. Shaped like a man in a distorted elongated way, it had no features at first. Then two glowing red spots like coals lit in its head where a face would be. Shadow Brother.
The strange two-dimensional shape bent closer, the red eyes smoldered. A thin dry voice whispered, "You are not Maricotta. You have come to die in his stead! Let your heart burst as you die in terror." A flat black arm stretched forward and long thin fingers reached for Bane's throat. The Dire Wolf's grey eyes glittered furiously in the dim light, and perhaps because there was no fear in his fierce make-up, he radiated defiance that even the shadow projection could sense. It hesitated. "You are not like the others..." it began.
When he had first laid down, the Dire Wolf had crossed his arms and closed his hands on the slim hilts of the silver daggers sheathed beneath his sleeves. This had become habit with him. An electric tingle ran through his hands, he tightened them on the hilts and suddenly he was free. Faster than a real wolf striking, his left hand blurred up and then down to pierce the shadow hand that was going for his throat. And the silver dagger pinned that insubstantial limb to the bed.
A hollow unhuman cry came from the shadow thing. It struggled and convulsed but could not free itself. Sitting up, Bane drew the other dagger from beneath his sleeve and tightened his grip. The blade shone in the subdued light of the bedroom with a cold merciless gleam.
"Surprised?" he said tautly. "You should be. Silver blades, but not only that. These are ensalir, blessed by the immortal Eldarin of Elvedal. You aren't the first creature of the night they have polished off." As he spoke, Bane slashed viciously left and right and back again, and the unearthly substance of Shadow Brother fell apart and dropped away. A long section of arm remained pinned down to the mattress by the first dagger, fading into fog.
"Good riddance," Bane snarled as he rolled off the bed. The room had return to its normal temperature and the feel of threat had left. The bits of shadow were gone as if they had never been there. The Dire Wolf inspected his daggers for any sign of damage and then slid them back under his sleeves. He felt a little wobbly, although he never showed weakness even when alone. That had been closer than he would have liked. Until he had tightened his grip on the daggers, he had not been able to think of a way to free himself before Shadow Brother would have choked him.
Leaving the bedroom, he went to the living room and plopped down on the couch for a moment. He was a little disappointed in himself for feeling so shaky after all he had been through in the Midnight War. He had to be harder. The Dire Wolf took a deep breath, unclipped the Link from his belt and beeped Taper. The returning double beep meant everything was okay on that end. Getting to his feet, he snatched his coat from the wall hook and tugged it on again, turning off the lights as he left Weissman's apartment. In the back of his mind, another case that had been developing came to the surface, some group in the Southwest called the Ebonites. He was already moving on.
VII."
"Hey, he seems to be stirring," Joey said.
Standing beside the Red Sect warlock, Taper had been debating whether or not to wake the man. Maricotta's breathing had become shallow and faster. "Observable agitation," he said at last. "Troubled sleep is poor sleep."
"How come you talk like that?" she demanded. "I understand about half of what you say."
"My apologies. I'm cognizant it's an unfortunate habit but a robust vocabulary was instilled in me by my parents as a mere toddler." The Silver Skull stepped back as the sleeping man cried out and slammed an arm down upon the bed. Nothing seemed to be harming him, yet he convulsed and tugged desperately at that arm as if to free it.
"Avert your gaze," Taper snapped at Joey. "I doubt if you wish to witness what will next transpire." Too late. Even as he spoke and as she stood beside him, Richard Maricotta suffered what seemed to be a seizure that flung his body up rigid and let it collapse back onto the bedclothes. A dry rattling noise came from his throat and he went limp.
Calmly as a doctor, Taper felt for a pulse and thumbed an eyelid open. "He's gone. My hypothesis is that the Shadow Brother contained his lifeforce in a gralic projection and when it was destroyed out of body, his physical form suffered a feedback. Mere theory, of course."
"Of course," Joey echoed in a numb voice. "So... he's dead? Just like that?"
Taper turned to regard her. "You don't appear traumatized."
"Uncle Richard? I always hated him. He was a creep and his friends were worse. After my parents died in Italy, the courts awarded me to him to raise. It wasn't my idea." Joey brushed her black hair back over her shoulders and let out a deep shuddering breath. "I'm not glad he's dead, exactly, but...Now what do we do?"
"I am going to abscond into the night streets," Taper told her, "as if I were never here. You are going to call an ambulance and the police. The truth is all you need to tell, merely omitting my presence. You came in to check on your uncle and saw him suffer some sort of episode. I can't prognosticate what the official cause of death will be. There isn't a mark on him."
"Oh, isn't there?" she said. Joey Maricotta gingerly opened her uncle's pajama top to show faint red scratches making a Z shape across the lifeless chest. A similar mark had been left on his left forearm, barely breaking the skin. "What do you think they'll make of that?"
"Nothing. He evidently scratched himself as he felt the seizure coming on." Taper picked up his topcoat. "Well, I must agitate the pavement, my dear. I wish you all good fortune."
Joey unexpectedly placed a slim hand on his arm. "Wait. Come back tomorrow and explain everything to me. I want to learn all about this sort of thing... and about you."
Larry Taper smiled, clasped her hand and released it. "It's a deal, Joey."
10/8/2014f
