"Barely Describable"
May. 24th, 2022 08:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Barely Describable"
7/17/2007
I.
Early in the morning on an already muggy July day, Jeremy Bane pulled into the visitor lot of the Wessex County Jail in Lewiston. Southern New Jersey, only twenty miles from the Atlantic Ocean, was way out of his usual territory but he had been phoned in the middle of the night by this sheriff's department. The Dire Wolf parked his Subaru Outback and scowled at the new building facing him. He was annoyed that the sheriff's office had only given him enough scanty details to arouse his curiosity. Someone here knew about his career in the Midnight War and how the NYPD had been using him as an unofficial vigilante for years. Maybe Lt Montez had been talking to these officers?
Bane strode across the parking lot, up the wide stone steps and through a glass door into a small nook where he faced a steel door with a window set in it. To the right was a bulletin board with notices tacked up, to his left was a wall covered with statements about visiting hours, rules over what could and could not be brought in, and a list of useful phone numbers. There were two security cameras high up in the corners. The Dire Wolf moved to grasp the handle of the inner door, which unlocked with a buzz just before he touched it. They had been expecting him, of course.
Unreasonably annoyed about the whole situation, he stepped into a lobby with some chairs and a short table against one wall, twin vending machines for coffee and snacks, and a television mounted on the wall that was set to the Weather Channel. No one was present in the lobby but then it was just getting light outside. To his right was an enclosed booth in which a heavyset uniformed officer sat and watched him through bullet-resistant glass.
"I'm going to need to see some ID, sir," the officer sat mildly. He was evidently getting near retirement age, with thinning hair combed over to make the best of things. Bane removed his Private Investigator license from his leather billfold and slid it into a metal cup at the base of the booth's counter. The officer gave it only the most cursory examination before returning it. "Thank you. Right through the door to your left, please."
Following instructions, the Dire Wolf opened the door and was met in the hall beyond by a very tall man in a dark blue suit with a red tie. The detective had to be at least five inches over Bane's six feet height, and much wider. Where Bane was lean and wiry, this detective was built like a football player. He reached out to shake hands.
"Good to meet you at last," the man said. He had the short-cropped sandy hair and bristling mustache that went with his pale freckled skin. "Good morning. I'm Detective Louis Wenzel. Joe Montez recommended calling you."
"I was wondering if he was behind this," Bane answered. "I wasn't given much information to work with on the way here."
"First, I want to thank you for driving down here so early. And, as Joe reminded me, I should make it clear that you are here in an unofficial capacity as a civilian advisor."
"I know, I know. This is all off the record and never happened as far as anyone would admit. That's been the way my dealings with the Manhattan force have been for years now." Bane was trying to keep irritation out of his voice but he was impatient at the best of times and he just wanted to get on with it.
The tall man gestured at a door down the hall. It had a frosted glass pane and the number 4. Next to the door was a folding metal chair with a styrofoam cup of coffee sitting on it. "We have a man under arrest for shooting a cow. The incident took place in a field outside Blythe Corners, owned by a farmer named Sheehan. He heard the shot but by the time he got pants on and ran outside, a dark pick-up truck was tearing off up the road. The bed of the truck was covered with a canvas and something big was concealed under it.. big enough to be his missing cow Cissy."
"Cows have names?" Bane asked.
"Sure, farmers spend a lot of time with them and get used to talking to their herd. An hour later, two of our officers located a truck matching the description returning to that spot from a different direction and pulled it over. No cow. The canvas was gone, there was no blood present in the truck bed. Our suspect barely speaks English and has made one phone call so presumably his lawyer or a family member is on the way now."
Bane raised one eyebrow. This was an odd crime. Inexperienced hunters sometimes shot a cow by mistake, but they weren't planning to load the huge carcass and make off with it. "Cows weigh at least a thousand pounds. He must have had a few men helping him."
"Well, we're not getting anywhere. Joe Montez told me a long time ago about your success handling crimes that are, well, weird and unusual." The big detective seemed eager to hear Bane's reaction. "I thought maybe you'd be interested."
"Fair enough," the Dire Wolf replied. "Let me get a look at the guy."
Detective Wenzel opened the door and ushered Bane into a typical interrogation room. The long table with four chairs around it, the soundproofed acoustic tiles, the dark pane of glass on one wall through which people in the room beyond could watch without being seen. There was a painting of mountain scenery, evidently to give prisoners something to look at while waiting.
As soon as he saw the thin, dark-skinned man with tightly curled hair and that distinctive narrow hooked nose, Bane suspected he was facing a native of Danarak. The prisoner wore unremarkable clothing of work shoes, dark jeans and a red flannel work shirt. He had a cheap wristwatch but no jewelry although Bane noticed his right ear was pierced and he had the edge of a tattoo showing on the back of his neck just above the collar.
Speaking in Jufari, the most common language of Danarak, Bane asked, "Are you a son of Bakwanga by any chance?"
The African gave a start as if he had been splashed with cold water. He stared at this newcomer, this gaunt man with cold grey eyes and pale skin who nevertheless spoke Jufari. "I- No, I am not Bakwanga, I am from the hills."
"I have been in your country many times," Bane went on. "Bakwanga Kwali, the Cat's Claw, was a good friend until his unhappy passing. What are you doing in America?"
"You knew the Black Lion? Yes, I heard he traveled and fought alongside Tel Shai knights. But I should say no more."
"Oh come on already!" Wenzel interrupted in prosaic English with a Jersey accent. "If you're going to be rattling on in Swahili, at least fill me in."
"Not Swahili," Bane said. "This man is from a Western Africa nation called Danarak. It's not in the news often. One of my partners was from his country. So far we're just introducing ourselves." Turning back to the prisoner, Bane said in Jufari, "I am called Dire Wolf."
"You- you are the white man who killed Arem Kamende?"
"Yes. Your name is...?"
"Kibba, from the hills. My tribe is the Umari. We are few in number now. But no. I should not speak. Whether you knew Cat's Claw or not, I should await my leader." The man folded his thin hands on the table and stared down at them. Bane asked him a few more questions but received no replies.
Turning back to the tall detective, Bane said, "He's waiting for someone, probably the man who brought him here. I guess you don't arrest many genuine Africans."
"What's eating at me," Wenzel snorted, "is wondering what he did with the cow."
II.
Twenty minutes dragged by. Bane told the Danarakan about seeing the Black Lion itself in its full manifestation and, despite himself, Kibba listened in fascination. Bit by bit, the Dire Wolf began to get short responses to his anecdotes. A knock on the door interrupted him.
Detective Wenzel went to answer and admitted another black African, an impressive well-built man in a tailored suit complete with vest. He had a mustache and goatee with flecks of grey showing in it. In one hand, he held a brown leather briefcase.
"You must be Louis Wenzel, I take it?" he asked, holding out a hand which the detective shook politely.
Then the African's deepset eyes met the cold grey eyes which were watching him suspiciously. "And you... I believe you can be no one else. The infamous Dire Wolf, yes?"
"I'm called that," Bane answered in Jufari. "Are you the chieftain who brought this man to our country?"
If he was surprised to find an American speaking his language, the newcomer did not show it. "I am Malaric, of the ruling Bakwanga tribe. We might have much to discuss, Mr Bane, but this is not the time for it. I am here to post bail for my countryman."
"That won't be for a while," the detective scoffed. "The judge isn't even awake yet. He won't be here until ten and he has a lot on his schedule already. I'd guess bail will be set around four this afternoon, maybe a bit later."
Malaric frowned and took a small notebook from his suit jacket, wrote a number on it and handed the page to Detective Wenzel. "Perhaps you will let me know when this is accomplished? I will be returning here today in any case."
"Sure, no problem," the tall man said. "It's nothing personal, Mr Malaric. We just have a constant backlog of details to handle."
In Jufari, Malaric advised Kibba not to speak at all, to accept whatever food or drink was offered and to wait patiently. Then he said in English, "I will take my leave now."
"Let me walk with you to your car," Bane said. "You understand I am not a law officer. Anything you tell me will not be taken as evidence."
"Very well," the African said. Wenzel saw them both to the lobby and watched as the mismatched men headed out into the early morning light. As they walked, Malaric spoke quietly, "Perhaps you are curious about your famous friend Levon?"
"That's on my mind," Bane replied. "He went to Danarak to study under the Elders of the Bakwanga. His calls and letters became more infrequent over time. His friends are naturally wondering how he is doing."
Pausing in front of a new Lincoln town car that gleamed as if it had been waxed seconds ago, Malaric smiled reassuringly. "Ah. I am not part of that inner circle, Mr Bane. Yet I have ears. Levon Bingham has learned much of the Black Lion history and lore. I understand that he has taken up the Cat's Claw heritage in all seriousness and is doing well."
"Glad to hear that," Bane said. "Kwali was a solid teammate and a good friend. I was worried Wakimbe's Claw would never be in good hands again. But what I really want to know is what's going on here. What's with the cow shooting?"
The African grinned openly at that. "Please. Be reasonable. My countryman has not even been formally charged yet. It would not be prudent to say anything." He unlocked the driver side's door. "You understand."
"I suppose," Bane said. "But I will be looking into this. Ever since Arem Kamende and the Night Gorillas turned up, I regard any visitors from Danarak with interest." He almost added, 'you understand,' but caught himself.
"Certainly." Malaric slid in behind the steering wheel, started up the engine and reached over to place his brief case on the seat next to him. In that instant that his attention was on that action, he wasn't watching Bane. The Dire Wolf deftly clipped a small flat metal device inside the front wheel well, up out of side, where it clung magnetically.
As the Lincoln swung around and rolled smoothly away, Bane allowed himself a faint predatory smile. Those tracers were Trom made and had a three hundred mile range. The hunt was on.
II.
Before taking off in pursuit, the Dire Wolf went back into the jail to confer for a few minutes with Detective Wenzel. They agreed that the case against Kibba was weak. Aside from the farmer claiming he had seen the Danarakan driving away from his property in a suspicious truck, there was no evidence against Kibba. The carcass of the cow had not been found, there was no blood in the truck and no rifle had been found in Kibba's possession. Wenzel thought it was likely that Malaric would be able to get Kibba released immediately and Bane agreed.
Back in his own car, the Dire Wolf reached into the back seat for his travel knapsack. Beneath a false bottom, a layer of white cardboard boxes held an interesting assortment of small gadgets and weapons that had been crafted for him by the Trom. He took out the tracking monitor, a device the size of a smartphone, and clicked it on. One side of the monitor was taken up by a screen which showed a map with a grid overlaid. In the bottom corner of this map, a green blip blinked and moved up along the main highway.
For the next half hour, he followed the blip at a distance of at least two or three miles to assure he would not be spotted. Eventually, the blip became stationary. He was way out in the wilds by then, almost in a forest with a road through it. As Bane drove past a house with a garage set back in a yard, the blip flared up and beeped once. He turned around at the first opportunity and went by the house again from the opposite direction.
Bane did not slow down enough to draw attention. He saw a two story house with tan aluminum siding and a separate garage large enough for two cars. The yard was clean and well tended, the house was in good repair. There was no pick-up truck in sight but the shiny Lincoln town car that Malaric drove stood next to the house. Bane nodded and kept going.
All his instincts were for immediate confrontation but he had learned a little restraint over the years. He would keep an eye on that house and on Malaric for the moment. First, he needed to find the field where the cow had been taken and dig around for clues. He might be able to spot something that the cops wouldn't recognize. Bane headed back for the main highway, thinking back about Danarak.
In the Midnight War, Danarak had a history stretching back to the Darthan Age. The modern nation was a fairly successful and stable country on the west coast of Africa, mostly farmland with some mining and manufacturing, but within its borders was an area with easy access to the adjacent realm also called Danarak. This was where sorcerers like Arem Kamenda had come from, where the Claw of Wakimbe traditions centered, where the strangling cult of Night Gorillas was strongest. Bane had been in Danarak several times with Kwali.
As he headed back to Lewiston and went past the county jail, the Dire Wolf felt a twinge remembering Kwali. The big African warrior had been a somber, humorless man who took his duties very seriously. As wearer of the Cat's Claw, Kwali had joined the KDF and helped on a dozen big cases before meeting his death on the Final Halloween. Thinking back on that nightmarish night in Nekropolis, where half his team had died, always made Bane sad and thoughtful. So many of his friends had fallen in those hellish ruins. Kwali. Khang. Leonard Slade. Larry Taper. That had also been the battle where Stephen Weaver had his flight powers burned out. A few months previously, Chen Wong-Lai had been killed in Chujir; Shiro Mitsuru had been tortured and abused to a point where he had been a shattered wreck for years afterward. Bane had disbanded the KDF after the Final Halloween, feeling enough sacrifice had been made.
After Kwali had been killed that night, his talisman went missing. It had been more than a decade before the ancient Cat's Claw had turned up again. A young man named Levon Bingham had found it on Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. Or, Bane reflected, it might be accurate to saw that Wakimbe's Claw had found Levon....
His thoughts were interrupted by the beep of the Link clipped to his belt. He thumbed a button on the device and spoke normally without removing it from its place. "Yeah?"
"Mr Bane? This is Wenzel again. I don't want to say too much on the phone. You know your way around Lewiston?"
"More or less. I've studied the map. Where should I be heading?"
"Up Main Street, past the high school. When you see a Pierpont Street, turn in. Three or four police cars and some yellow crime scene tape will show you where to go."
"Got it, detective," said Bane. "Tell them to expect me so they let me in." There was a click as Wenzel broke the connection. Within a few minutes, the Dire Wolf went past the Lewiston High School with its BOCES annex. He slowed, spotted the corner sign for Pierpont Street and had just enough room to turn in and get his car off the main thoroughfare. There were indeed four police cars taking up the street with their lightbars flashing. On the corner, a uniformed officer was standing sentry. The Dire Wolf got out of his Mustang and felt a bit ashamed at his eagerness to find out what was going on here.
Holding up his leather case that held his PI license and other IDs, Bane approached the cop and was gestured to proceed. On the corner itself was a deli, with the owner peering out myopically from inside the big picture window. Then came a two story house with an attic and a porch that had wicker chairs. Standing on the porch, drawing heavily on a cigarette, was the tall detective. As soon as he saw Bane approach, Wenzel stepped over to stomp the butt on on the street away from the crime scene.
"Detective," said Bane. "What's up?"
"Hey. I talked to those higher up in the chain of command and they approved letting you in. In fact, they urged me to call you. I guess you've got a bit of rep, Mr Dire Wolf."
"Nice to be appreciated," Bane replied. He stepped up onto the porch, but the police detective interposed an arm.
"Wait, wait. CSI hasn't been in there yet. They're running late as usual. I was told you can literally stick your head in the door but not put a foot across the threshhold. Sound okay?"
"Sure. I'm good with that." Bane stayed outside the doorway but leaned forward and took a long look at the interior. Thirty seconds later, he said evenly, "I count seven bodies. That's how the heads and arms and legs add up. Three pistols on the floor. I see two bulletholes in the ceiling. Too much blood for me to figure out any patterns." Still gazing intently, he turned his head from side to side. "I honestly think it would take all day to reconstruct exactly what happened."
Detective Wenzel came up behind the Dire Wolf and whistled. "Damn. You're taking the sight calmly. Two of our officers got sick when they saw this."
"It doesn't bother me," Bane said. "The victims are all black males. I see two bottles of beer on the floor and four Chinese take-out containers. You know... My thoughts are that this was done by a large animal of some sort. The wounds are torn, some of the limbs look chewed." He stepped back and folded his arms thoughtfully.
"Yeah? What else are you thinking?" asked Wenzel.
"This door is too narrow to admit an animal big enough to tear up six men, some of whom were armed. It reminds me of a case in Minnesota recently."
Stepping closer, the tall man almost whispered, "I've heard you have handled some real no-fooling werewolves..."
"Yeah. This wasn't a werewolf. They have a certain--" Bane's voice trailed off suddenly.
"Then what? A tiger? A bear?"
"Maybe something like that," the Dire Wolf said as if far away. "I have a hunch this is tied in that dumb case with the cow shooting. Detective, it's obvious something bad is starting up in this area but this is just the beginning. I'm not going to wait for the forensics army to take samples and photos and measurements, they do that for hours. I have an idea." With that, he turned on his heel and started down on the porch.
Wenzel reached over and took Bane by the sleeve to stop him. The police detective had no idea how risky that was but, as much as he hated being touched by people he didn't know, Bane managed not to react. There was just the barest hint of menace in his voice as he said, "What?"
The tall man let go immediately. "Nothing. I just want assurance you're going to work with my department on this."
"Absolutely," Bane said. "I'll be in touch." He strode quickly down to his car, backed out into the main street after seeing nothing was coming, and sped off. He felt a cold certainty that he knew what terrible force had entered that building that morning.
III.
Further up Main Street, the Dire Wolf drove into a Stewarts convenient mart to fill up his gas tank. He then pulled over into a parking spot to check his tires and oil, then wiped his windows using paper towels he kept in the trunk. He was obsessive about this, because he had learned from experience to be prepared for sudden chases or long drives when on a case. Ravenous as always because of his enhanced metabolism, he went into the store and came out with a twelve inch roast beef sub, a two-liter bottle of seltzer and two bags of trail mix.
Sitting in his car and watching locals go in and out, Bane devoured the food and drank half the seltzer. One of the prices for his abnormal speed was an endless appetite and constant restlesness. When he was done, he felt more relaxed. Taking out his Link, he patched into the phone system and called the KDF headquarters building back in Manhattan. He used the private number for members, not the publicly listed number, and only got a recorded message from Sable. The new team would be in Androval for at least the next few days. So he wasn't going to get any news from them.
Still holding the Link, Bane drew up a list of hotels and motels within a forty mile radius. He missed the days of using a telephone directory for work like this, but nostalgia for inconvenience just meant he was getting old. Studying the list, he saved it on the screen as he pulled out into morning traffic. Time for basic investigation. Over the next two hours, he made his way north and stopped at every motel. Showing his PI license as well as his consultant card for the NYPD, the Dire Wolf asked about any new customers who seemed African, either because of accents or clothing or any other indicator. Once, he fell back on sliding a twenty across the counter to prompt answers. He found nothing that seemed worth following up on.
On the outskirts of town, where the main street connected to Route 214, Bane rolled up to the Hilltop Rest. It was indeed on a hill overlooking the highway, a long one-story structure with a new wing to make an L-shape. The neon sign on a post promised cable TV and air-conditioning in every room, and the blue VACANCY letters were flashing. He saw five weathered cars parked in front of the cabins, and one at the end caught his attention. It was a new Honda without a single dent or trace of rust, and he walked past it to see the interior contained no clutter. There was none of the usual debris even well-kept cars collected, whether an empty can of Red Bull, an article of clothing or crumpled newspaper or a pair of sunglasses tucked up on the driver's visor. To him, this suggested a rental car. The license plates were from New York. It seemed promising.
Bane had been constantly surveying his surroundings, watching for signs of anyone at any of the windows or any glimpse of a person at the edge of the building. This was so ingrained in him by now that he would have had difficulty not doing it. The clean car was in front of Cabin 11. The Dire Wolf stepped up to the door to the cabin. Using a Tel Shai technique, he slowed his breathing and shifted his awareness to his hearing. With ambient outdoor noise and cars going by on the highway, he had limited success with this but he decided that there were two active adult humans in that cabin. Under better circumstances, he had detected heartbeats and even recognized them.
Stepping back, he rapped sharply on the door. Immediately, it opened to reveal an African woman about thirty. She was of medium height and solidly built, with skin so dark it had a gloss to it, and hair that had been straightened and pulled back into a thick ponytail. Her best feature was the pair of large gleaming eyes that watched him intently. The woman was wearing a yellow summer dress of light cotton and was barefoot, with a silver ring on the big toe of her right foot. "Yes?"
Bane held up his open hands, palms together in the sign of peaceful intentions and said in Jufari, "Hello, daughter of the Bakwanga."
That took her by surprise. "How... how you know those words?"
Smiling, the Dire Wolf lowered his hands and raised his voice slightly. "Levon, come on. I know you're on the roof."
So lightly that he made no sound, a young man dropped off the roof of the motel to land next to Bane. He was not large, maybe five feet ten, and slim but muscular in dark slacks and a plain white T-shirt. Levon Bingham wore his hair closely-cropped and bright green eyes stood out startlingly in his dark face. His smile was warm and unforced. "Captain! It has been too many years."
Bane clapped him on one arm and said, "I barely heard you up there and I was listening hard. You've gotten to be a real master at stealth. Levon, we have so much to catch up on but right now there's the situation at hand."
The young man turned to his companion, who had been watching in silence. "Zulayka, this is Jeremy Bane, my Tel Shai captain and a true comrade. Jeremy, may I present my second cousin Zulayka, here as my partner and trainer."
The Dire Wolf said hello and asked if they could step inside. Levon ushered him in, following Zulayka. They entered a standard motel room with twin beds, a couch and some chairs, the TV playing a local news channel.
"Please make yourself comfortable," Levon said. "Something to drink perhaps?"
"Oh, no thank you." Bane pulled a chair over to face the couch, and both Levon and Zulayka seated themselves side by side. The Dire Wolf settled down and said, "I always expected you to show up again in the States sooner or later, Levon. Have you contacted Sable and the rest of the team?"
"Oh, I tried but they are in another realm. Jeremy, just the fact that you are in New Jersey, so far from your usual turf, makes me figure that you are already on the trail of the Fatalists." Levon was still smiling, and he added, "I am really glad to have you on hand."
"The Fatalists? I hadn't heard the name," Bane said. "First, I came here because a man from Danarak shot and stole a farmer's cow. We get so few visitors from Danarak that I'm always interested to see any at all. But that seems minor now... at this moment, the police are investigating a multiple death scene on Pierpont Street. Those men were ripped apart by a huge powerful beast."
Levon became somber instantly. "Sure, I don't deny the obvious. The Black Lion manifested. Those men were Danarakans of the hill tribes. They were Fatalists, a cult related to Those Who Remember and to be honest they were all already under death sentences for their crimes."
"Those Who Remember. They're always bad news. I never understood why that bunch wants to roust the Sulla Chun. They will die as horribly as the rest of us if those monstrosities ever wake and break free. So, Levon, you came here tracking these Fatalists?"
The lambent green eyes studied Bane's face, trying to read his reactions. "Yes. That has been my mission for almost a month now. My training is complete. The Elders of the Bakwanga have approved me as the Heir of Wakimbe... and believe me, Jeremy, I earned it. Whew. They put me through trials that broke nine out of ten guys who competed."
Zulayka interrupted, "Azzalem, it is not well to reveal too much to outsiders."
"Azzalem?" Bane asked.
"That's my new Bakwanga name," Levon said. "I was baptized into the tribe. But let's be honest, I'll always answer to the name my parents gave me. And, Zulayka, remember that I was an outsider too. I am still American, I have no idea who my ancestors were back in slavery days. I may be the new Cat's Claw but that doesn't mean I can turn my back on the memory of my mother and father and grandma."
The Danarakan woman shrugged. "Time will tell. A man cannot walk a path in both directions at the same time. You, Mr Bane. I know of Tel Shai. I know you are the Dire Wolf, the man who slew Arem Kamende and who has fought the Night Gorillas more than once."
"True. You're here to help Levon on his mission?"
"I am not a mere handmaiden," she snapped a bit sharply. "I graduated from college in your California. I know America and her ways well enough to be a full partner to Azzalem. Perhaps I have not been chosen to bear the Cat's Claw but I am as much fighter for justice as he is."
"Certainly glad to learn that," Bane answered. "I know where the Danarakans are staying, the ones who killed that cow. One of them is named Malaric--"
"Him! I knew it!" Levon jumped up with his fists clenched. "I knew it. Captain, Malaric is a warlock and a murderer. He is chief of the Fatalists. I had hoped to find him at that house this morning. You must lead me to him at once."
The Dire Wolf rose to his feet himself, with Zulayka following. Bane said, "I've been wondering one thing. Those Who Remember don't do animal sacrifice. So what do they want with a dead cow?"
"Because," said Levon in a low voice, "they guard something that needs that much meat."
IV.
Talking it over, they agreed to wait until late afternoon to investigate the house where Malaric was staying. As far as they could tell, the main group of Fatalists had been staying in the house on Pierpont Street in town, but the cult also was renting the house way out in the sticks for some reason. Bane called the jail and found that Kibba was not expected to be released until at least five o'clock. No charges were being pressed, mostly because the cops there could not see a way to make anything stick. The cow theft was just an unsupported accusation and there were plenty of other crimes more urgent on the docket. Since it seemed likely that Malaric would come to pick Kibba up at that time and that the Fatalists wouldn't be leaving the target house until then, that would be when Bane and Levon would be checking it out.
In the meantime, they decided to have lunch and catch up on everything. Getting into Bane's car, the three of them drove into Lewiston and found an Italian restaurant that had an open air dining area in back. Here they sat at a round wrought iron table with a glass top and studied the menus. Bane ordered torta rustico, while Levon and Zulayka agreed on classic lasagna with sausauge, ground beef and three types of cheese. None of them wanted wine, though. Bane was happy with just ice water, while Zulayka and Levon drank tea.
The next hour was a tug of war between eating and chatting. Levon had gone on leave from the KDF five years earlier because the spiritual influence of the Cat's Claw was overwhelming him. In Danarak, the Elders of the tribe had taught him how to control the talisman and how to unlock its full potential. The price for this had been that he had to accept being adopted into the Bakwanga. This meant a ceremony of induction where the royal family had taken him as a ward, including the fact that Zulayka was now legally his second cousin.
Then there had been long lessons learning the history and lore of Danarak, training in how to live in the forest and how to identify all the plants and animals, how to predict the weather and deal with the seasons. As the years went by, Levon had become almost Bakwangan himself in his viewpoint and attitude.
"But I never surrendered my identity completely," he said between mouthfuls. "My parents were good to me and my grandma took me in when my parents died. I'm American, I'm proud of that and I will never forget where I come from."
Sipping her tea, Zulayka scowled. She did not try to conceal her disapproval of Bane butting in like this. "Time will tell, Azzalem. You have a long path ahead of you."
"A year ago, the Elders started sending me out to the nations of this world to hunt bandits and tyrants," Levon said. "I've been to Europe, Asia, the Middle East on my assignments with Zulayka as my guide. This is the first time I have returned home."
"'Home?'" repeated Zulayka under her breath.
"As soon as I arrived at Newark Airport, I phoned Sable but she had taken the team to Androval. That was late last night. Using Wakimbe's Claw tracking powers, I located some of the Fatalists and confronted them. You saw the results," Levon said mildly as he wiped his plate with a piece of garlic bread.
"Yeah," Bane said quietly. "I doubt if the forensics will make too much sense of that scene. They're not about to release a statement that a half dozen men were killed by a giant lion in the middle of a New Jersey city."
"The Midnight War is knowledge not meant for everyone," the new Cat's Claw admitted. "Just as well, if you ask me."
The Dire Wolf stretched out his arm to check his watch. "We should head over to that house soon. After this Malaric leaves, we'll sneak in and learn what's going on. With Those Who Remember, you never know how close they are to a Sulla Chun."
"Mr Bane," Zulayka said. "We appreciate your offer of help. But these witchmen are from Danarak. Their leader is a Danarakan. They are our responsibility."
"They are in my country," Bane replied simply.
Levon Bingham put an edge in his voice that had not been there before. "Cousin, this man has saved my life in battle and I have saved his. I am still a knight of the Order of Tel Shai. He is my captain. Jeremy, I will always be glad to fight beside you."
"Thank you," Bane said. "Zulayka, I think I understand your doubts. You don't know me except maybe by reputation. But I've fought Those Who Remember before. We need to stand together against them."
The Danarakan woman began to protest but Levon cut her off. He raised one finger in a reproving gesture. "Cousin. There is but one Heir to Wakimbe. The Dire Wolf will come with us and the matter is closed." He pushed back his chair and stood up. In the afternoon sunlight, his eyes looked stranger than before. In their bright green blaze, the pupils had contracted vertically like those of a cat.
Observing this, Bane remembered Kwali again. Any uncertainty he had still felt about Levon being ready for the role dropped away. The man WAS the new Cat's Claw. He called for the check, left money and went with the two back to his car.
"We need to stop at the motel to change, Jeremy," Levon said.
"Sure. You know, Levon, maybe your ancestors did come from Danarak? It's toward the west coast of Africa, where the Arab slave routes ran. Have you thought about DNA testing just to find out?"
"Azzalem IS a son of the Bakwanga now," Zulayka insisted from the back seat. "Our blood is his blood."
Levon rubbed his chin and took a deep breath. "Well, Zulayka is right in that sense. But if somehow I do come from Danarakan stock, it would explain why the Claw found its way to me. It seems to be almost sentient." He looked over at Bane. "Wakimbe's Claw was missing for ten years, captain. Don't you think there's some sort of untold story there?"
Pulling into the parking lot of the motel, the Dire Wolf said, "Yeah, I'm sure of it. Believe me, a lot of people were searching for the claw. It's one of the most potent talismans in the Midnight War. To tell the truth, I'd love to know where it was between the time Kwali fell in battle in Necropolis and the day you happened to pick it up off the street on Tenth Avenue."
Bane waited in the car while the two partners went inside. Zulayka emerged first. She had changed into dark brown slacks and a loose olive green blouse with puffy sleeves, and she was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Over one shoulder was slung a large brown leather handbag. Without a word, the Danarakan woman climbed into the back seat.
"Zulayka," said Bane evenly. "I understand you resent me being on this case. But think about it. If we weren't working together, we would just get in each others' way coming in from different angles. You see that, don't you?"
She sniffed audibly and then answered in a more reasonable voice. "Mr Bane. The Heir of Wakimbe does not need any help from outsiders. Danarak handles its own problems. But because Azzalem respects you so highly, I will not insist on your bowing out."
"Well, thanks for that much," Bane said. Tact was not his strong point and he was biting his tongue not to tell her off. At that moment, Levon came out of the hotel room.
The new Cat's Claw had changed into the traditional stalking suit. Simple snug tights and tunic of thin black cotton, leaving the forearms and the shins bare. No decoration of any type. The incredibly ancient talisman worn around the neck was all the ornamentation the outfit would need anywhere in Africa or most of the world. A shiny jet-black claw seven inches in length, ending in a needle-sharp point, it hung suspended by a fine-linked silver chain. Even to those with no psychic awareness or training, the Claw of Wakimbe caught and held the eye with a fearful fascination. There was something inherently alarming about it.
Levon Bingham was not a big intimidating man, he was built like a runner rather than a wrestler. He stepped away from the door and walked up to the car with an easy silent tread and a serious expression on his face. The green eyes flared up as daylight struck them. Levon was wearing low soft slippers he could kick off easily. In one hand, though, he carried a garishly bright Hawaiian shirt that was much too large for him. Now he drew it on to conceal the Danarak stalking outfit.
As the Cat's-Claw got into the front passenger seat, he noticed Bane staring. "What?"
"Eh? Oh, sorry. It's just that I haven't seen that outfit in so many years. It has history behind it. It stands for so much." The Dire Wolf started up the engine. "To be honest, seeing it took me off-guard."
Levon grinned, suddenly seeming years younger. "I'm glad. I suppose you still wear those silver daggers under your sleeves."
"Absolutely."
The Cat's Claw tugged open the crew neck of his tunic and tucked the ancient talisman beneath it. "I guess we are ready. Zulayka?"
"I'm fine."
Bane handed the tracking monitor to Levon. "You remember these. The blip shows where Malaric's car is. If it comes within a mile of the monitor, a beeping will start." He eased out onto the highway and headed south, toward the edge of Lewiston.
Along the way, Levon said quietly, "I never met Kwali. He died when I was like, twelve years old, and I hadn't even heard of the Midnight War. But Zulayka has been tutoring me on the previous histories of the Cat's Claw weilders."
From the back seat, the Danarakan woman added, "There is much to learn. We of the Bakwanga have been proudly bearing the legacy of Wakimbe for ages, without foreign meddling."
"But the Chronicles of the Elders don't say much about Jack Denver," Levon said. "What can you tell me about him, Jeremy?"
By now, they were out in the country, with only an occasional business such as a landfill project or a natural gas company showing up. Bane said, "The Lion Man? Well, all I know offhand is that he was a white American, a reporter for the NEW YORK MIRROR in the 1940s. Somehow he ended up with the Cat's Claw. He never learned how to really use it. As far as I can tell, he transformed into an intermediate form. He turned into a bipedal black lion that stood up on its hind legs, with a lion head and paws but sort of human legs and arms. He was bulletproof and very strong."
"A great misuse of a sacred trust," muttered Zulayka.
"I wouldn't be too harsh on him. He didn't know anything about the Claw and he did the best he could. He worked with people like Mark Drum and Sulak. Denver successfully fought Axis spies and criminals until 1949 or so, when he was found dead without a mark on him and the Cat's Claw was missing." Bane sighed. "And then after that, the talisman went missing again for years."
Levon interrupted. "Captain, the blip is approaching. According to the grid, the car is heading in our direction. It's starting to beep."
"Yeah. And we're maybe five miles from the house." Bane swung abruptly over onto a side road, made an illegal U-turn and headed back toward the main road. He pulled over back far enough to not be easily noticed. Seconds later, the gleaming Lincoln town car hurtled past on its way toward Lewiston. Malaric was at the wheel, and they could glimpse someone else in the front passenger seat.
"Here's our opening," Bane said. "I wish it was dark out but we have to take this opportunity while we can."
"I have a suggestion," offered Zulayka from the back seat, "if you males are not too proud to consider it. The two of you creep through the woods to investigate the house and the garage while I knock on the door and provide a distraction."
The Dire Wolf glanced back at her. "They will not be expecting a Danarakan speaking their own language, that's true. Levon and I can take advantage of the distraction to poke around. It will be dangerous for you, of course."
"I am no timid little housemaid to tremble at a loud noise!" she snapped. "I have been taught fighting arts since childhood, so don't think--"
"Stop." The single word from Bane was icy. "I've cooperated with you, lady, you need to do the same for me. It's a good idea. I vote we try it. So spare me the lectures."
Zulayka almost gasped at being defied. "Azzalem, what do you say to this?"
"I agree. It's a good plan and we should try it." He paused. "We are stronger as a team."
V.
The nearest house was more than a mile away. Silent as his own shadow, Jeremy Bane raced through the woods with every sense alert. He was dressed all in black as usual, the slacks and turtleneck and sport jacket, but that outfit was meant more to help concealment at night than on a hot sunny afternoon. His best bet was that he would be aware of any of the Fatalists before they could detect him.
Levon had gotten out of the car earlier, circling around to approach the Fatalists' house from another direction. He had shrugged off the bright Hawaiian shirt and kicked off to the slippers before loping into the forest. Watching him step beind a tree and apparently just vanish, Bane had to smile. Between Tel Shai training and what he had learned in Danarak, the new Cat's Claw was amazingly stealthy. He wished Levon would return to the KDF and take up active membership again. The team could use him. But that seemed unlikely.
Ahead was a huge backyard that had not been mown for a few weeks. Around its edge was a fence of redwood logs. Bane approached more warily, spotted the sentry exactly in the most obvious place to be stationed, and crept up on the man. The Dire Wolf reached into one of the dozen inner pockets of his jacket and took out a flat metal case. Within it were eight small plastic ampules that had a needle point emerging from one end. They had color coding bands, and he took one of the blue ones out before replacing the case and moving forward.
Slowly, placing each foot where it would make no noise, freezing in place behind a treet and next to a bush as the sentry moved even the slightest, the Dire Wolf crept up within arm's length. The man was African, another Danarakan with the distinctive hooked nose and underbite. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt and jeans, with a Glock 19 stuck simply in the back of his belt. The man was sipping from a bottle of Pepsi and shifting his weight in boredom.
The Danarakan capped the soda bottle and placed it on a rock next to his feet. Just before he started to straighten up and was most off balance, the sentry was seized from behind with a hand around his mouth and nose that clamped so tightly he panicked at not being able to breathe. At the same time, something sharp jabbed into his neck and he felt a hot burning sensation. Within another second, he was dazed and disoriented, then he sagged and was let down to the dirt.
Returning the empty ampule to its case, Bane took the man's pulse. For most of his career, he had simply knocked guards out with a sharp blow to the head or neck, but lately he found himself reluctant to keep doing that. Several times, he had come back to find the guard dead from the blow anyway. Twice, the men had started vomiting and seemed unable to regain consciousness. Even if they were proven killers, the damage done by being knocked out made the Dire Wolf uncomfortable. It was one thing to kill in an open fight, but he never liked the idea of killing in cold blood and giving strong concussions was too much like that. He had started looking for other techniques to try.
Searching the drugged man, Bane found nothing unexpected in his pockets. There was a tattoo on the back of the neck, what looked like a Y with two diagonal slashes down from left to right across it. The mark matched what he had glimpsed on the prisoner back at the county jail. Membership in the Fatalists, almost certainly. Hauling the limp body over into some bushes, Bane broke the man's gun and left it nearby. The ampule had contained the same drug that was used in the KDF anesthetic dart guns. So he could expect this Danarakan to be unconscious for more than an hour, then revive slowly and be helpless with nausea and dizziness for maybe a half hour after that.
Leaving the sentry, the Dire Wolf headed toward the house, the rear of which was visible just ahead. Separated by a gravel walkway, the two-car garage had a ride-on mower next to it, with several rakes and a wheelbarrow nearby. Sinking to his knees behind the garage, head lowered and body slumped, was a huge deformed man who seemed lost in depression. Bane slowed to study the man.
The giant Danarakan would be closer to seven feet tall than six, with thick arms and legs, big hands and feet. The massive head was misshaped. A protruding brow ledge and almost no chin, a wide flat nose and thick swollen lips indicated some sort of advanced condition. Bane wondered if the man suffered from acromegaly. The African's head was not completely bald but only had patches of bristly hair in spots. The deformed man wore only a loose dashiki of green and tan, with baggy sleeves and cuffs rolled up. He was barefoot and his toes curled in different directions as if twisted by severe arthritis.
Feeling a vague twinge of sympathy despite himself, the Dire Wolf stalked in closer still. He was almost close enough to touch the unwary hulk. Beneath Bane's sleeves, the silver-bladed daggers grew so hot that they stung his arms. He was in the presence of potent gralic force, the ensorcelled knives were warning him of danger. But he sensed it was not from this man but from within the garage.
Staying just beyond reach, Bane drew his long-barreled Smith & Wesson 38 and cocked back the hammer. The unmistakable sound made the giant African twitch to alertness and he rose to one knee but stopped as Bane said in the Jufari dialect, "Do not move, my friend. A bullet is heading for your head if you do."
From within the hulk, a strange strangled sound rumbled. "As if Death would be such an unwelcome fate." The Danarakan got slowly to his feet and turned around anyway, holding up his empty gnarled hands. "My name is Nantekwa. Who are you, white man?"
"I am called Dire Wolf by some," Bane happened. "You were not always afflicted this way."
"No. It was Malaric. He found one of the dread Old Ones and exposed it. My wife and myself were thrown into the Pit of the Sulla Chun for a day and a night and we survived long enough to crawl feebly out. Malaric was surprised we lived." The misshapen face seemed to be trying to smile. "If you call this 'living!'"
Not lowering his gun, keeping his eyes fixed on the giant, Bane indicated the garage with the thumb of his free hand. "Something's moving around in there. Something big, sounds like."
"It would better for you to learn nothing more," said Nantekwa sorrowfully, his head drooping again as if too heavy to be held upright for long. "Strong men have gone mad when seeing what should not be seen."
"I get it now. That's what the cow was needed for. I bet you guys have been buying mass amounts of meats from every store in the area and it was starting to draw too much attention. That patch of turned-up dirt over there..? That's where you just buried bones and unusable parts, right?"
"You should go now," Nantweka muttered. "It is not too late to save your own life." The giant swayed and took a single menacing step forward. He raised his swollen hands, clenching them into bony clubs.
"Hold it right there," Bane said. "I have no intention of slugging it out with a brute like you. You come at me and I'll put a tunnel through your forehead. Stay put."
The giant snorted. "In the happy land beyond pain, my wife waits for me." He lunged forward suddenly and was stopped short as the Dire Wolf fired at point-blank range. The Danarakan's forehead depressed as the skull fractured around the entry hole and he fell sideways with a thud. The roar of the revolver echoed from the nearby hills like thunder from a close lightning strike.
Bane wheeled and flattened up against the back wall of the garage. If there were any Fatalists in that house, they had to have heard that. He squatted low and peered around the edge of the structure. But it was Zulayka who emerged from that rear door, holding a small flat automatic in both hands, swinging it from side to side as she took in the situation.
From within the garage came a heavy pounding, unbelievably forceful and abrupt. Bane jumped away, not quite quickly enough. The wall of the garage exploded outward, boards and pieces of boards flying quickly like shrapnel. Knocked down by the debris, the Dire Wolf rolled and was up on his feet, backpedaling with his gun still in hand. He had been scraped and bruised by the sharp edges of the scraps whizzing into him, but his immediate reaction was readiness to fight.
Something immense squeezed through the ragged hole in the side of the garage.
For the first time in a long career, Bane could not figure out what he was looking at. It was big, maybe the size of a rhino, definitely alive. It was dark purplish in color. Parts of it were moving independently of each other, whipping about or flapping furiously. But he could not make sense of what was in front of him. Was there a face? Eyes, a mouth? His senses could not focus well enough on the monster to settle on a view. There were too many legs, long thin spidery appendages moving about, too many segments of the soft jellylike body sliding over each other.
His forearms hurt from how hotly the silver blades were burning. Bane dropped his gun and whipped both knives from their sheaths, holding one dagger in each hand. The blades shone as brilliantly as if reflecting searchlights. Was it his imagination or did the creature hesitate just a bit? His knives were ensalir, silver blessed by the immortal Eldarin themselves, powerful against the creatures of darkness. Maybe he could leap in, slash and then jump back out of reach. Then the shifting formless mass before him heaved up like a dark wave about to crash.
Two strong arms seized him from behind and flung him aside. "Get back, Jeremy!" yelled Levon. As the Cat's Claw interposed himself between his captain and the monster, Bane took a few steps back. Then he felt Zulayka grab him by the sleeves and tug him further away from the confrontation.
"Come on, come on!" she yelled in his ear. "Do you want to live or not?"
Stubbornly, Bane tried to shake her off. "I have to help."
The African woman seized him around the body with both arms from behind, digging in her feet. "Back. We both need to get back. This is Azzalem's hour."
Facing the abomination calmly, not flinching a bit, Levon Bingham placed his hand over the ancient talisman around his neck. In an instant, he dropped to all fours. His body swelled outward, changing shape, erupting into the form of a cat bigger than a horse. The Black Lion threw back its maned head and let out a roar that made leaves fall off nearby trees.
VI.
Watching from twenty feet away, Jeremy Bane felt like he could not breathe. It had been six years since he had last witnessed the Black Lion manifest itself and he had forgotten the stunning aura of sheer gralic force that the god of Danarak gave off. Even the shifting nameless monstrosity seemed taken aback, and then the great cat crouched and sprang headlong. Both giant creatures crashed into the garage near at hand, snapping the support beams and bringing the whole structure down in a cloud of dust. Two huge forms rolled violently over and over in the wreckage. The formless creature howled in a shrill piping whine, its ropy tentacles whirling tightly around the Black Lion's body. Then came a decisive crunch. Stillness and silence fell. The Black Lion rose, hawking and spitting vile thick ichor from its mouth. It shook its head again, reared up on its hind legs and roared its triumph in a whiplash sound that traveled far and made people miles away pause and wonder what that noise was.
Now, Zulayka released Bane and rushed past him toward the gigantic cat. The beast's jet black hide was glossy and shone in the afternoon sunlight. Standing there, the Black Lion's eyes met hers at the same level and its breath was hot and strong enough to stir her hair. The great beast rumbled deep in its chest.
"Your work is done for now, oh Wakimbe. Return my kin to me," she sang in a ritual voice.
With almost visible reluctance, the Lion inhaled deeply and shivered, shrank, dwindled down to become Levon Bingham again. He was on all fours and he rose up unsteadily, rubbing his mouth with the back of one hand. "What a taste! Ugh. I need a drink of water. Actually, Listerine would be better."
Bane realized he was still clenching his daggers so tightly that his hands ached. With an effort, he sheathed them beneath his sleeves. The blades had cooled and seemed normal again. The Dire Wolf walked over to join Levon and Zulayka.
"Are you okay, Jeremy?" the Cat's Claw asked. "You were exposed to a lot of malevolent gralic energy at close range."
"Oh, sure, I'm fine. I always bounce back. Levon, I'd forgotten how impressive the Black Lion is. Only Khang had the same presence." He pointed a finger at the wet gelatinous mass inside the wreckage of the garage. "Sure that critter is dead?"
"Absolutely. Ah! I see you already took care of its father."
Bane glanced over at the corpse of the deformed Danarakan lying not far away. "His father..? You mean, Nantekwa was the father of that monster somehow?"
"Sadly enough, it is true," Zulayka interposed. "Malaric has much to answer for. He exposed Nantekwa and his pregnant wife Anamike to the nearness of a Sulla Chun for a day and a night. You saw what it did to Nantekwa. The unborn was affected even more. Poor Anamike did not survive giving birth to her child... the unholy being that was kept in that garage and eventually needed to be fed a whole cow at a time."
"Jeez," said Bane. "Never say you've seen everything. I can't imagine what possible reason Malaric would have to bring such a horror into the world. The whole Those Who Remember cult never made sense to me."
"Speaking of Malaric. He'll be showing up soon," Levon said. "We better lie in wait and take him by surprise. Then Zulayka and I will smuggle him back to Danarak and our Elders will judge him. This is not a matter for the mundane courts of our land."
"And I have some explosives and incendiaries in my car," the Dire Wolf told them. "We should destroy as much of this mess as we can, including Nantekwa's body. Zulayka, I haven't thanked you yet for pulling me away from that monster. I was all set to tackle it without a hope of surviving."
"I admit you have the true warrior spirit, Dire Wolf," she said with a sniff. "But you should realize when it is time to stand aside and let a greater force take over."
"That was quite a sight. It kept changing and its parts kept moving around." Bane shrugged and folded his arms as if cold. "Damn. That thing was indescribable."
Contrary to the last, Zulayka corrected him. "Not exactly. Say, rather, it was barely describable."
8/15/2016
7/17/2007
I.
Early in the morning on an already muggy July day, Jeremy Bane pulled into the visitor lot of the Wessex County Jail in Lewiston. Southern New Jersey, only twenty miles from the Atlantic Ocean, was way out of his usual territory but he had been phoned in the middle of the night by this sheriff's department. The Dire Wolf parked his Subaru Outback and scowled at the new building facing him. He was annoyed that the sheriff's office had only given him enough scanty details to arouse his curiosity. Someone here knew about his career in the Midnight War and how the NYPD had been using him as an unofficial vigilante for years. Maybe Lt Montez had been talking to these officers?
Bane strode across the parking lot, up the wide stone steps and through a glass door into a small nook where he faced a steel door with a window set in it. To the right was a bulletin board with notices tacked up, to his left was a wall covered with statements about visiting hours, rules over what could and could not be brought in, and a list of useful phone numbers. There were two security cameras high up in the corners. The Dire Wolf moved to grasp the handle of the inner door, which unlocked with a buzz just before he touched it. They had been expecting him, of course.
Unreasonably annoyed about the whole situation, he stepped into a lobby with some chairs and a short table against one wall, twin vending machines for coffee and snacks, and a television mounted on the wall that was set to the Weather Channel. No one was present in the lobby but then it was just getting light outside. To his right was an enclosed booth in which a heavyset uniformed officer sat and watched him through bullet-resistant glass.
"I'm going to need to see some ID, sir," the officer sat mildly. He was evidently getting near retirement age, with thinning hair combed over to make the best of things. Bane removed his Private Investigator license from his leather billfold and slid it into a metal cup at the base of the booth's counter. The officer gave it only the most cursory examination before returning it. "Thank you. Right through the door to your left, please."
Following instructions, the Dire Wolf opened the door and was met in the hall beyond by a very tall man in a dark blue suit with a red tie. The detective had to be at least five inches over Bane's six feet height, and much wider. Where Bane was lean and wiry, this detective was built like a football player. He reached out to shake hands.
"Good to meet you at last," the man said. He had the short-cropped sandy hair and bristling mustache that went with his pale freckled skin. "Good morning. I'm Detective Louis Wenzel. Joe Montez recommended calling you."
"I was wondering if he was behind this," Bane answered. "I wasn't given much information to work with on the way here."
"First, I want to thank you for driving down here so early. And, as Joe reminded me, I should make it clear that you are here in an unofficial capacity as a civilian advisor."
"I know, I know. This is all off the record and never happened as far as anyone would admit. That's been the way my dealings with the Manhattan force have been for years now." Bane was trying to keep irritation out of his voice but he was impatient at the best of times and he just wanted to get on with it.
The tall man gestured at a door down the hall. It had a frosted glass pane and the number 4. Next to the door was a folding metal chair with a styrofoam cup of coffee sitting on it. "We have a man under arrest for shooting a cow. The incident took place in a field outside Blythe Corners, owned by a farmer named Sheehan. He heard the shot but by the time he got pants on and ran outside, a dark pick-up truck was tearing off up the road. The bed of the truck was covered with a canvas and something big was concealed under it.. big enough to be his missing cow Cissy."
"Cows have names?" Bane asked.
"Sure, farmers spend a lot of time with them and get used to talking to their herd. An hour later, two of our officers located a truck matching the description returning to that spot from a different direction and pulled it over. No cow. The canvas was gone, there was no blood present in the truck bed. Our suspect barely speaks English and has made one phone call so presumably his lawyer or a family member is on the way now."
Bane raised one eyebrow. This was an odd crime. Inexperienced hunters sometimes shot a cow by mistake, but they weren't planning to load the huge carcass and make off with it. "Cows weigh at least a thousand pounds. He must have had a few men helping him."
"Well, we're not getting anywhere. Joe Montez told me a long time ago about your success handling crimes that are, well, weird and unusual." The big detective seemed eager to hear Bane's reaction. "I thought maybe you'd be interested."
"Fair enough," the Dire Wolf replied. "Let me get a look at the guy."
Detective Wenzel opened the door and ushered Bane into a typical interrogation room. The long table with four chairs around it, the soundproofed acoustic tiles, the dark pane of glass on one wall through which people in the room beyond could watch without being seen. There was a painting of mountain scenery, evidently to give prisoners something to look at while waiting.
As soon as he saw the thin, dark-skinned man with tightly curled hair and that distinctive narrow hooked nose, Bane suspected he was facing a native of Danarak. The prisoner wore unremarkable clothing of work shoes, dark jeans and a red flannel work shirt. He had a cheap wristwatch but no jewelry although Bane noticed his right ear was pierced and he had the edge of a tattoo showing on the back of his neck just above the collar.
Speaking in Jufari, the most common language of Danarak, Bane asked, "Are you a son of Bakwanga by any chance?"
The African gave a start as if he had been splashed with cold water. He stared at this newcomer, this gaunt man with cold grey eyes and pale skin who nevertheless spoke Jufari. "I- No, I am not Bakwanga, I am from the hills."
"I have been in your country many times," Bane went on. "Bakwanga Kwali, the Cat's Claw, was a good friend until his unhappy passing. What are you doing in America?"
"You knew the Black Lion? Yes, I heard he traveled and fought alongside Tel Shai knights. But I should say no more."
"Oh come on already!" Wenzel interrupted in prosaic English with a Jersey accent. "If you're going to be rattling on in Swahili, at least fill me in."
"Not Swahili," Bane said. "This man is from a Western Africa nation called Danarak. It's not in the news often. One of my partners was from his country. So far we're just introducing ourselves." Turning back to the prisoner, Bane said in Jufari, "I am called Dire Wolf."
"You- you are the white man who killed Arem Kamende?"
"Yes. Your name is...?"
"Kibba, from the hills. My tribe is the Umari. We are few in number now. But no. I should not speak. Whether you knew Cat's Claw or not, I should await my leader." The man folded his thin hands on the table and stared down at them. Bane asked him a few more questions but received no replies.
Turning back to the tall detective, Bane said, "He's waiting for someone, probably the man who brought him here. I guess you don't arrest many genuine Africans."
"What's eating at me," Wenzel snorted, "is wondering what he did with the cow."
II.
Twenty minutes dragged by. Bane told the Danarakan about seeing the Black Lion itself in its full manifestation and, despite himself, Kibba listened in fascination. Bit by bit, the Dire Wolf began to get short responses to his anecdotes. A knock on the door interrupted him.
Detective Wenzel went to answer and admitted another black African, an impressive well-built man in a tailored suit complete with vest. He had a mustache and goatee with flecks of grey showing in it. In one hand, he held a brown leather briefcase.
"You must be Louis Wenzel, I take it?" he asked, holding out a hand which the detective shook politely.
Then the African's deepset eyes met the cold grey eyes which were watching him suspiciously. "And you... I believe you can be no one else. The infamous Dire Wolf, yes?"
"I'm called that," Bane answered in Jufari. "Are you the chieftain who brought this man to our country?"
If he was surprised to find an American speaking his language, the newcomer did not show it. "I am Malaric, of the ruling Bakwanga tribe. We might have much to discuss, Mr Bane, but this is not the time for it. I am here to post bail for my countryman."
"That won't be for a while," the detective scoffed. "The judge isn't even awake yet. He won't be here until ten and he has a lot on his schedule already. I'd guess bail will be set around four this afternoon, maybe a bit later."
Malaric frowned and took a small notebook from his suit jacket, wrote a number on it and handed the page to Detective Wenzel. "Perhaps you will let me know when this is accomplished? I will be returning here today in any case."
"Sure, no problem," the tall man said. "It's nothing personal, Mr Malaric. We just have a constant backlog of details to handle."
In Jufari, Malaric advised Kibba not to speak at all, to accept whatever food or drink was offered and to wait patiently. Then he said in English, "I will take my leave now."
"Let me walk with you to your car," Bane said. "You understand I am not a law officer. Anything you tell me will not be taken as evidence."
"Very well," the African said. Wenzel saw them both to the lobby and watched as the mismatched men headed out into the early morning light. As they walked, Malaric spoke quietly, "Perhaps you are curious about your famous friend Levon?"
"That's on my mind," Bane replied. "He went to Danarak to study under the Elders of the Bakwanga. His calls and letters became more infrequent over time. His friends are naturally wondering how he is doing."
Pausing in front of a new Lincoln town car that gleamed as if it had been waxed seconds ago, Malaric smiled reassuringly. "Ah. I am not part of that inner circle, Mr Bane. Yet I have ears. Levon Bingham has learned much of the Black Lion history and lore. I understand that he has taken up the Cat's Claw heritage in all seriousness and is doing well."
"Glad to hear that," Bane said. "Kwali was a solid teammate and a good friend. I was worried Wakimbe's Claw would never be in good hands again. But what I really want to know is what's going on here. What's with the cow shooting?"
The African grinned openly at that. "Please. Be reasonable. My countryman has not even been formally charged yet. It would not be prudent to say anything." He unlocked the driver side's door. "You understand."
"I suppose," Bane said. "But I will be looking into this. Ever since Arem Kamende and the Night Gorillas turned up, I regard any visitors from Danarak with interest." He almost added, 'you understand,' but caught himself.
"Certainly." Malaric slid in behind the steering wheel, started up the engine and reached over to place his brief case on the seat next to him. In that instant that his attention was on that action, he wasn't watching Bane. The Dire Wolf deftly clipped a small flat metal device inside the front wheel well, up out of side, where it clung magnetically.
As the Lincoln swung around and rolled smoothly away, Bane allowed himself a faint predatory smile. Those tracers were Trom made and had a three hundred mile range. The hunt was on.
II.
Before taking off in pursuit, the Dire Wolf went back into the jail to confer for a few minutes with Detective Wenzel. They agreed that the case against Kibba was weak. Aside from the farmer claiming he had seen the Danarakan driving away from his property in a suspicious truck, there was no evidence against Kibba. The carcass of the cow had not been found, there was no blood in the truck and no rifle had been found in Kibba's possession. Wenzel thought it was likely that Malaric would be able to get Kibba released immediately and Bane agreed.
Back in his own car, the Dire Wolf reached into the back seat for his travel knapsack. Beneath a false bottom, a layer of white cardboard boxes held an interesting assortment of small gadgets and weapons that had been crafted for him by the Trom. He took out the tracking monitor, a device the size of a smartphone, and clicked it on. One side of the monitor was taken up by a screen which showed a map with a grid overlaid. In the bottom corner of this map, a green blip blinked and moved up along the main highway.
For the next half hour, he followed the blip at a distance of at least two or three miles to assure he would not be spotted. Eventually, the blip became stationary. He was way out in the wilds by then, almost in a forest with a road through it. As Bane drove past a house with a garage set back in a yard, the blip flared up and beeped once. He turned around at the first opportunity and went by the house again from the opposite direction.
Bane did not slow down enough to draw attention. He saw a two story house with tan aluminum siding and a separate garage large enough for two cars. The yard was clean and well tended, the house was in good repair. There was no pick-up truck in sight but the shiny Lincoln town car that Malaric drove stood next to the house. Bane nodded and kept going.
All his instincts were for immediate confrontation but he had learned a little restraint over the years. He would keep an eye on that house and on Malaric for the moment. First, he needed to find the field where the cow had been taken and dig around for clues. He might be able to spot something that the cops wouldn't recognize. Bane headed back for the main highway, thinking back about Danarak.
In the Midnight War, Danarak had a history stretching back to the Darthan Age. The modern nation was a fairly successful and stable country on the west coast of Africa, mostly farmland with some mining and manufacturing, but within its borders was an area with easy access to the adjacent realm also called Danarak. This was where sorcerers like Arem Kamenda had come from, where the Claw of Wakimbe traditions centered, where the strangling cult of Night Gorillas was strongest. Bane had been in Danarak several times with Kwali.
As he headed back to Lewiston and went past the county jail, the Dire Wolf felt a twinge remembering Kwali. The big African warrior had been a somber, humorless man who took his duties very seriously. As wearer of the Cat's Claw, Kwali had joined the KDF and helped on a dozen big cases before meeting his death on the Final Halloween. Thinking back on that nightmarish night in Nekropolis, where half his team had died, always made Bane sad and thoughtful. So many of his friends had fallen in those hellish ruins. Kwali. Khang. Leonard Slade. Larry Taper. That had also been the battle where Stephen Weaver had his flight powers burned out. A few months previously, Chen Wong-Lai had been killed in Chujir; Shiro Mitsuru had been tortured and abused to a point where he had been a shattered wreck for years afterward. Bane had disbanded the KDF after the Final Halloween, feeling enough sacrifice had been made.
After Kwali had been killed that night, his talisman went missing. It had been more than a decade before the ancient Cat's Claw had turned up again. A young man named Levon Bingham had found it on Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. Or, Bane reflected, it might be accurate to saw that Wakimbe's Claw had found Levon....
His thoughts were interrupted by the beep of the Link clipped to his belt. He thumbed a button on the device and spoke normally without removing it from its place. "Yeah?"
"Mr Bane? This is Wenzel again. I don't want to say too much on the phone. You know your way around Lewiston?"
"More or less. I've studied the map. Where should I be heading?"
"Up Main Street, past the high school. When you see a Pierpont Street, turn in. Three or four police cars and some yellow crime scene tape will show you where to go."
"Got it, detective," said Bane. "Tell them to expect me so they let me in." There was a click as Wenzel broke the connection. Within a few minutes, the Dire Wolf went past the Lewiston High School with its BOCES annex. He slowed, spotted the corner sign for Pierpont Street and had just enough room to turn in and get his car off the main thoroughfare. There were indeed four police cars taking up the street with their lightbars flashing. On the corner, a uniformed officer was standing sentry. The Dire Wolf got out of his Mustang and felt a bit ashamed at his eagerness to find out what was going on here.
Holding up his leather case that held his PI license and other IDs, Bane approached the cop and was gestured to proceed. On the corner itself was a deli, with the owner peering out myopically from inside the big picture window. Then came a two story house with an attic and a porch that had wicker chairs. Standing on the porch, drawing heavily on a cigarette, was the tall detective. As soon as he saw Bane approach, Wenzel stepped over to stomp the butt on on the street away from the crime scene.
"Detective," said Bane. "What's up?"
"Hey. I talked to those higher up in the chain of command and they approved letting you in. In fact, they urged me to call you. I guess you've got a bit of rep, Mr Dire Wolf."
"Nice to be appreciated," Bane replied. He stepped up onto the porch, but the police detective interposed an arm.
"Wait, wait. CSI hasn't been in there yet. They're running late as usual. I was told you can literally stick your head in the door but not put a foot across the threshhold. Sound okay?"
"Sure. I'm good with that." Bane stayed outside the doorway but leaned forward and took a long look at the interior. Thirty seconds later, he said evenly, "I count seven bodies. That's how the heads and arms and legs add up. Three pistols on the floor. I see two bulletholes in the ceiling. Too much blood for me to figure out any patterns." Still gazing intently, he turned his head from side to side. "I honestly think it would take all day to reconstruct exactly what happened."
Detective Wenzel came up behind the Dire Wolf and whistled. "Damn. You're taking the sight calmly. Two of our officers got sick when they saw this."
"It doesn't bother me," Bane said. "The victims are all black males. I see two bottles of beer on the floor and four Chinese take-out containers. You know... My thoughts are that this was done by a large animal of some sort. The wounds are torn, some of the limbs look chewed." He stepped back and folded his arms thoughtfully.
"Yeah? What else are you thinking?" asked Wenzel.
"This door is too narrow to admit an animal big enough to tear up six men, some of whom were armed. It reminds me of a case in Minnesota recently."
Stepping closer, the tall man almost whispered, "I've heard you have handled some real no-fooling werewolves..."
"Yeah. This wasn't a werewolf. They have a certain--" Bane's voice trailed off suddenly.
"Then what? A tiger? A bear?"
"Maybe something like that," the Dire Wolf said as if far away. "I have a hunch this is tied in that dumb case with the cow shooting. Detective, it's obvious something bad is starting up in this area but this is just the beginning. I'm not going to wait for the forensics army to take samples and photos and measurements, they do that for hours. I have an idea." With that, he turned on his heel and started down on the porch.
Wenzel reached over and took Bane by the sleeve to stop him. The police detective had no idea how risky that was but, as much as he hated being touched by people he didn't know, Bane managed not to react. There was just the barest hint of menace in his voice as he said, "What?"
The tall man let go immediately. "Nothing. I just want assurance you're going to work with my department on this."
"Absolutely," Bane said. "I'll be in touch." He strode quickly down to his car, backed out into the main street after seeing nothing was coming, and sped off. He felt a cold certainty that he knew what terrible force had entered that building that morning.
III.
Further up Main Street, the Dire Wolf drove into a Stewarts convenient mart to fill up his gas tank. He then pulled over into a parking spot to check his tires and oil, then wiped his windows using paper towels he kept in the trunk. He was obsessive about this, because he had learned from experience to be prepared for sudden chases or long drives when on a case. Ravenous as always because of his enhanced metabolism, he went into the store and came out with a twelve inch roast beef sub, a two-liter bottle of seltzer and two bags of trail mix.
Sitting in his car and watching locals go in and out, Bane devoured the food and drank half the seltzer. One of the prices for his abnormal speed was an endless appetite and constant restlesness. When he was done, he felt more relaxed. Taking out his Link, he patched into the phone system and called the KDF headquarters building back in Manhattan. He used the private number for members, not the publicly listed number, and only got a recorded message from Sable. The new team would be in Androval for at least the next few days. So he wasn't going to get any news from them.
Still holding the Link, Bane drew up a list of hotels and motels within a forty mile radius. He missed the days of using a telephone directory for work like this, but nostalgia for inconvenience just meant he was getting old. Studying the list, he saved it on the screen as he pulled out into morning traffic. Time for basic investigation. Over the next two hours, he made his way north and stopped at every motel. Showing his PI license as well as his consultant card for the NYPD, the Dire Wolf asked about any new customers who seemed African, either because of accents or clothing or any other indicator. Once, he fell back on sliding a twenty across the counter to prompt answers. He found nothing that seemed worth following up on.
On the outskirts of town, where the main street connected to Route 214, Bane rolled up to the Hilltop Rest. It was indeed on a hill overlooking the highway, a long one-story structure with a new wing to make an L-shape. The neon sign on a post promised cable TV and air-conditioning in every room, and the blue VACANCY letters were flashing. He saw five weathered cars parked in front of the cabins, and one at the end caught his attention. It was a new Honda without a single dent or trace of rust, and he walked past it to see the interior contained no clutter. There was none of the usual debris even well-kept cars collected, whether an empty can of Red Bull, an article of clothing or crumpled newspaper or a pair of sunglasses tucked up on the driver's visor. To him, this suggested a rental car. The license plates were from New York. It seemed promising.
Bane had been constantly surveying his surroundings, watching for signs of anyone at any of the windows or any glimpse of a person at the edge of the building. This was so ingrained in him by now that he would have had difficulty not doing it. The clean car was in front of Cabin 11. The Dire Wolf stepped up to the door to the cabin. Using a Tel Shai technique, he slowed his breathing and shifted his awareness to his hearing. With ambient outdoor noise and cars going by on the highway, he had limited success with this but he decided that there were two active adult humans in that cabin. Under better circumstances, he had detected heartbeats and even recognized them.
Stepping back, he rapped sharply on the door. Immediately, it opened to reveal an African woman about thirty. She was of medium height and solidly built, with skin so dark it had a gloss to it, and hair that had been straightened and pulled back into a thick ponytail. Her best feature was the pair of large gleaming eyes that watched him intently. The woman was wearing a yellow summer dress of light cotton and was barefoot, with a silver ring on the big toe of her right foot. "Yes?"
Bane held up his open hands, palms together in the sign of peaceful intentions and said in Jufari, "Hello, daughter of the Bakwanga."
That took her by surprise. "How... how you know those words?"
Smiling, the Dire Wolf lowered his hands and raised his voice slightly. "Levon, come on. I know you're on the roof."
So lightly that he made no sound, a young man dropped off the roof of the motel to land next to Bane. He was not large, maybe five feet ten, and slim but muscular in dark slacks and a plain white T-shirt. Levon Bingham wore his hair closely-cropped and bright green eyes stood out startlingly in his dark face. His smile was warm and unforced. "Captain! It has been too many years."
Bane clapped him on one arm and said, "I barely heard you up there and I was listening hard. You've gotten to be a real master at stealth. Levon, we have so much to catch up on but right now there's the situation at hand."
The young man turned to his companion, who had been watching in silence. "Zulayka, this is Jeremy Bane, my Tel Shai captain and a true comrade. Jeremy, may I present my second cousin Zulayka, here as my partner and trainer."
The Dire Wolf said hello and asked if they could step inside. Levon ushered him in, following Zulayka. They entered a standard motel room with twin beds, a couch and some chairs, the TV playing a local news channel.
"Please make yourself comfortable," Levon said. "Something to drink perhaps?"
"Oh, no thank you." Bane pulled a chair over to face the couch, and both Levon and Zulayka seated themselves side by side. The Dire Wolf settled down and said, "I always expected you to show up again in the States sooner or later, Levon. Have you contacted Sable and the rest of the team?"
"Oh, I tried but they are in another realm. Jeremy, just the fact that you are in New Jersey, so far from your usual turf, makes me figure that you are already on the trail of the Fatalists." Levon was still smiling, and he added, "I am really glad to have you on hand."
"The Fatalists? I hadn't heard the name," Bane said. "First, I came here because a man from Danarak shot and stole a farmer's cow. We get so few visitors from Danarak that I'm always interested to see any at all. But that seems minor now... at this moment, the police are investigating a multiple death scene on Pierpont Street. Those men were ripped apart by a huge powerful beast."
Levon became somber instantly. "Sure, I don't deny the obvious. The Black Lion manifested. Those men were Danarakans of the hill tribes. They were Fatalists, a cult related to Those Who Remember and to be honest they were all already under death sentences for their crimes."
"Those Who Remember. They're always bad news. I never understood why that bunch wants to roust the Sulla Chun. They will die as horribly as the rest of us if those monstrosities ever wake and break free. So, Levon, you came here tracking these Fatalists?"
The lambent green eyes studied Bane's face, trying to read his reactions. "Yes. That has been my mission for almost a month now. My training is complete. The Elders of the Bakwanga have approved me as the Heir of Wakimbe... and believe me, Jeremy, I earned it. Whew. They put me through trials that broke nine out of ten guys who competed."
Zulayka interrupted, "Azzalem, it is not well to reveal too much to outsiders."
"Azzalem?" Bane asked.
"That's my new Bakwanga name," Levon said. "I was baptized into the tribe. But let's be honest, I'll always answer to the name my parents gave me. And, Zulayka, remember that I was an outsider too. I am still American, I have no idea who my ancestors were back in slavery days. I may be the new Cat's Claw but that doesn't mean I can turn my back on the memory of my mother and father and grandma."
The Danarakan woman shrugged. "Time will tell. A man cannot walk a path in both directions at the same time. You, Mr Bane. I know of Tel Shai. I know you are the Dire Wolf, the man who slew Arem Kamende and who has fought the Night Gorillas more than once."
"True. You're here to help Levon on his mission?"
"I am not a mere handmaiden," she snapped a bit sharply. "I graduated from college in your California. I know America and her ways well enough to be a full partner to Azzalem. Perhaps I have not been chosen to bear the Cat's Claw but I am as much fighter for justice as he is."
"Certainly glad to learn that," Bane answered. "I know where the Danarakans are staying, the ones who killed that cow. One of them is named Malaric--"
"Him! I knew it!" Levon jumped up with his fists clenched. "I knew it. Captain, Malaric is a warlock and a murderer. He is chief of the Fatalists. I had hoped to find him at that house this morning. You must lead me to him at once."
The Dire Wolf rose to his feet himself, with Zulayka following. Bane said, "I've been wondering one thing. Those Who Remember don't do animal sacrifice. So what do they want with a dead cow?"
"Because," said Levon in a low voice, "they guard something that needs that much meat."
IV.
Talking it over, they agreed to wait until late afternoon to investigate the house where Malaric was staying. As far as they could tell, the main group of Fatalists had been staying in the house on Pierpont Street in town, but the cult also was renting the house way out in the sticks for some reason. Bane called the jail and found that Kibba was not expected to be released until at least five o'clock. No charges were being pressed, mostly because the cops there could not see a way to make anything stick. The cow theft was just an unsupported accusation and there were plenty of other crimes more urgent on the docket. Since it seemed likely that Malaric would come to pick Kibba up at that time and that the Fatalists wouldn't be leaving the target house until then, that would be when Bane and Levon would be checking it out.
In the meantime, they decided to have lunch and catch up on everything. Getting into Bane's car, the three of them drove into Lewiston and found an Italian restaurant that had an open air dining area in back. Here they sat at a round wrought iron table with a glass top and studied the menus. Bane ordered torta rustico, while Levon and Zulayka agreed on classic lasagna with sausauge, ground beef and three types of cheese. None of them wanted wine, though. Bane was happy with just ice water, while Zulayka and Levon drank tea.
The next hour was a tug of war between eating and chatting. Levon had gone on leave from the KDF five years earlier because the spiritual influence of the Cat's Claw was overwhelming him. In Danarak, the Elders of the tribe had taught him how to control the talisman and how to unlock its full potential. The price for this had been that he had to accept being adopted into the Bakwanga. This meant a ceremony of induction where the royal family had taken him as a ward, including the fact that Zulayka was now legally his second cousin.
Then there had been long lessons learning the history and lore of Danarak, training in how to live in the forest and how to identify all the plants and animals, how to predict the weather and deal with the seasons. As the years went by, Levon had become almost Bakwangan himself in his viewpoint and attitude.
"But I never surrendered my identity completely," he said between mouthfuls. "My parents were good to me and my grandma took me in when my parents died. I'm American, I'm proud of that and I will never forget where I come from."
Sipping her tea, Zulayka scowled. She did not try to conceal her disapproval of Bane butting in like this. "Time will tell, Azzalem. You have a long path ahead of you."
"A year ago, the Elders started sending me out to the nations of this world to hunt bandits and tyrants," Levon said. "I've been to Europe, Asia, the Middle East on my assignments with Zulayka as my guide. This is the first time I have returned home."
"'Home?'" repeated Zulayka under her breath.
"As soon as I arrived at Newark Airport, I phoned Sable but she had taken the team to Androval. That was late last night. Using Wakimbe's Claw tracking powers, I located some of the Fatalists and confronted them. You saw the results," Levon said mildly as he wiped his plate with a piece of garlic bread.
"Yeah," Bane said quietly. "I doubt if the forensics will make too much sense of that scene. They're not about to release a statement that a half dozen men were killed by a giant lion in the middle of a New Jersey city."
"The Midnight War is knowledge not meant for everyone," the new Cat's Claw admitted. "Just as well, if you ask me."
The Dire Wolf stretched out his arm to check his watch. "We should head over to that house soon. After this Malaric leaves, we'll sneak in and learn what's going on. With Those Who Remember, you never know how close they are to a Sulla Chun."
"Mr Bane," Zulayka said. "We appreciate your offer of help. But these witchmen are from Danarak. Their leader is a Danarakan. They are our responsibility."
"They are in my country," Bane replied simply.
Levon Bingham put an edge in his voice that had not been there before. "Cousin, this man has saved my life in battle and I have saved his. I am still a knight of the Order of Tel Shai. He is my captain. Jeremy, I will always be glad to fight beside you."
"Thank you," Bane said. "Zulayka, I think I understand your doubts. You don't know me except maybe by reputation. But I've fought Those Who Remember before. We need to stand together against them."
The Danarakan woman began to protest but Levon cut her off. He raised one finger in a reproving gesture. "Cousin. There is but one Heir to Wakimbe. The Dire Wolf will come with us and the matter is closed." He pushed back his chair and stood up. In the afternoon sunlight, his eyes looked stranger than before. In their bright green blaze, the pupils had contracted vertically like those of a cat.
Observing this, Bane remembered Kwali again. Any uncertainty he had still felt about Levon being ready for the role dropped away. The man WAS the new Cat's Claw. He called for the check, left money and went with the two back to his car.
"We need to stop at the motel to change, Jeremy," Levon said.
"Sure. You know, Levon, maybe your ancestors did come from Danarak? It's toward the west coast of Africa, where the Arab slave routes ran. Have you thought about DNA testing just to find out?"
"Azzalem IS a son of the Bakwanga now," Zulayka insisted from the back seat. "Our blood is his blood."
Levon rubbed his chin and took a deep breath. "Well, Zulayka is right in that sense. But if somehow I do come from Danarakan stock, it would explain why the Claw found its way to me. It seems to be almost sentient." He looked over at Bane. "Wakimbe's Claw was missing for ten years, captain. Don't you think there's some sort of untold story there?"
Pulling into the parking lot of the motel, the Dire Wolf said, "Yeah, I'm sure of it. Believe me, a lot of people were searching for the claw. It's one of the most potent talismans in the Midnight War. To tell the truth, I'd love to know where it was between the time Kwali fell in battle in Necropolis and the day you happened to pick it up off the street on Tenth Avenue."
Bane waited in the car while the two partners went inside. Zulayka emerged first. She had changed into dark brown slacks and a loose olive green blouse with puffy sleeves, and she was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Over one shoulder was slung a large brown leather handbag. Without a word, the Danarakan woman climbed into the back seat.
"Zulayka," said Bane evenly. "I understand you resent me being on this case. But think about it. If we weren't working together, we would just get in each others' way coming in from different angles. You see that, don't you?"
She sniffed audibly and then answered in a more reasonable voice. "Mr Bane. The Heir of Wakimbe does not need any help from outsiders. Danarak handles its own problems. But because Azzalem respects you so highly, I will not insist on your bowing out."
"Well, thanks for that much," Bane said. Tact was not his strong point and he was biting his tongue not to tell her off. At that moment, Levon came out of the hotel room.
The new Cat's Claw had changed into the traditional stalking suit. Simple snug tights and tunic of thin black cotton, leaving the forearms and the shins bare. No decoration of any type. The incredibly ancient talisman worn around the neck was all the ornamentation the outfit would need anywhere in Africa or most of the world. A shiny jet-black claw seven inches in length, ending in a needle-sharp point, it hung suspended by a fine-linked silver chain. Even to those with no psychic awareness or training, the Claw of Wakimbe caught and held the eye with a fearful fascination. There was something inherently alarming about it.
Levon Bingham was not a big intimidating man, he was built like a runner rather than a wrestler. He stepped away from the door and walked up to the car with an easy silent tread and a serious expression on his face. The green eyes flared up as daylight struck them. Levon was wearing low soft slippers he could kick off easily. In one hand, though, he carried a garishly bright Hawaiian shirt that was much too large for him. Now he drew it on to conceal the Danarak stalking outfit.
As the Cat's-Claw got into the front passenger seat, he noticed Bane staring. "What?"
"Eh? Oh, sorry. It's just that I haven't seen that outfit in so many years. It has history behind it. It stands for so much." The Dire Wolf started up the engine. "To be honest, seeing it took me off-guard."
Levon grinned, suddenly seeming years younger. "I'm glad. I suppose you still wear those silver daggers under your sleeves."
"Absolutely."
The Cat's Claw tugged open the crew neck of his tunic and tucked the ancient talisman beneath it. "I guess we are ready. Zulayka?"
"I'm fine."
Bane handed the tracking monitor to Levon. "You remember these. The blip shows where Malaric's car is. If it comes within a mile of the monitor, a beeping will start." He eased out onto the highway and headed south, toward the edge of Lewiston.
Along the way, Levon said quietly, "I never met Kwali. He died when I was like, twelve years old, and I hadn't even heard of the Midnight War. But Zulayka has been tutoring me on the previous histories of the Cat's Claw weilders."
From the back seat, the Danarakan woman added, "There is much to learn. We of the Bakwanga have been proudly bearing the legacy of Wakimbe for ages, without foreign meddling."
"But the Chronicles of the Elders don't say much about Jack Denver," Levon said. "What can you tell me about him, Jeremy?"
By now, they were out in the country, with only an occasional business such as a landfill project or a natural gas company showing up. Bane said, "The Lion Man? Well, all I know offhand is that he was a white American, a reporter for the NEW YORK MIRROR in the 1940s. Somehow he ended up with the Cat's Claw. He never learned how to really use it. As far as I can tell, he transformed into an intermediate form. He turned into a bipedal black lion that stood up on its hind legs, with a lion head and paws but sort of human legs and arms. He was bulletproof and very strong."
"A great misuse of a sacred trust," muttered Zulayka.
"I wouldn't be too harsh on him. He didn't know anything about the Claw and he did the best he could. He worked with people like Mark Drum and Sulak. Denver successfully fought Axis spies and criminals until 1949 or so, when he was found dead without a mark on him and the Cat's Claw was missing." Bane sighed. "And then after that, the talisman went missing again for years."
Levon interrupted. "Captain, the blip is approaching. According to the grid, the car is heading in our direction. It's starting to beep."
"Yeah. And we're maybe five miles from the house." Bane swung abruptly over onto a side road, made an illegal U-turn and headed back toward the main road. He pulled over back far enough to not be easily noticed. Seconds later, the gleaming Lincoln town car hurtled past on its way toward Lewiston. Malaric was at the wheel, and they could glimpse someone else in the front passenger seat.
"Here's our opening," Bane said. "I wish it was dark out but we have to take this opportunity while we can."
"I have a suggestion," offered Zulayka from the back seat, "if you males are not too proud to consider it. The two of you creep through the woods to investigate the house and the garage while I knock on the door and provide a distraction."
The Dire Wolf glanced back at her. "They will not be expecting a Danarakan speaking their own language, that's true. Levon and I can take advantage of the distraction to poke around. It will be dangerous for you, of course."
"I am no timid little housemaid to tremble at a loud noise!" she snapped. "I have been taught fighting arts since childhood, so don't think--"
"Stop." The single word from Bane was icy. "I've cooperated with you, lady, you need to do the same for me. It's a good idea. I vote we try it. So spare me the lectures."
Zulayka almost gasped at being defied. "Azzalem, what do you say to this?"
"I agree. It's a good plan and we should try it." He paused. "We are stronger as a team."
V.
The nearest house was more than a mile away. Silent as his own shadow, Jeremy Bane raced through the woods with every sense alert. He was dressed all in black as usual, the slacks and turtleneck and sport jacket, but that outfit was meant more to help concealment at night than on a hot sunny afternoon. His best bet was that he would be aware of any of the Fatalists before they could detect him.
Levon had gotten out of the car earlier, circling around to approach the Fatalists' house from another direction. He had shrugged off the bright Hawaiian shirt and kicked off to the slippers before loping into the forest. Watching him step beind a tree and apparently just vanish, Bane had to smile. Between Tel Shai training and what he had learned in Danarak, the new Cat's Claw was amazingly stealthy. He wished Levon would return to the KDF and take up active membership again. The team could use him. But that seemed unlikely.
Ahead was a huge backyard that had not been mown for a few weeks. Around its edge was a fence of redwood logs. Bane approached more warily, spotted the sentry exactly in the most obvious place to be stationed, and crept up on the man. The Dire Wolf reached into one of the dozen inner pockets of his jacket and took out a flat metal case. Within it were eight small plastic ampules that had a needle point emerging from one end. They had color coding bands, and he took one of the blue ones out before replacing the case and moving forward.
Slowly, placing each foot where it would make no noise, freezing in place behind a treet and next to a bush as the sentry moved even the slightest, the Dire Wolf crept up within arm's length. The man was African, another Danarakan with the distinctive hooked nose and underbite. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt and jeans, with a Glock 19 stuck simply in the back of his belt. The man was sipping from a bottle of Pepsi and shifting his weight in boredom.
The Danarakan capped the soda bottle and placed it on a rock next to his feet. Just before he started to straighten up and was most off balance, the sentry was seized from behind with a hand around his mouth and nose that clamped so tightly he panicked at not being able to breathe. At the same time, something sharp jabbed into his neck and he felt a hot burning sensation. Within another second, he was dazed and disoriented, then he sagged and was let down to the dirt.
Returning the empty ampule to its case, Bane took the man's pulse. For most of his career, he had simply knocked guards out with a sharp blow to the head or neck, but lately he found himself reluctant to keep doing that. Several times, he had come back to find the guard dead from the blow anyway. Twice, the men had started vomiting and seemed unable to regain consciousness. Even if they were proven killers, the damage done by being knocked out made the Dire Wolf uncomfortable. It was one thing to kill in an open fight, but he never liked the idea of killing in cold blood and giving strong concussions was too much like that. He had started looking for other techniques to try.
Searching the drugged man, Bane found nothing unexpected in his pockets. There was a tattoo on the back of the neck, what looked like a Y with two diagonal slashes down from left to right across it. The mark matched what he had glimpsed on the prisoner back at the county jail. Membership in the Fatalists, almost certainly. Hauling the limp body over into some bushes, Bane broke the man's gun and left it nearby. The ampule had contained the same drug that was used in the KDF anesthetic dart guns. So he could expect this Danarakan to be unconscious for more than an hour, then revive slowly and be helpless with nausea and dizziness for maybe a half hour after that.
Leaving the sentry, the Dire Wolf headed toward the house, the rear of which was visible just ahead. Separated by a gravel walkway, the two-car garage had a ride-on mower next to it, with several rakes and a wheelbarrow nearby. Sinking to his knees behind the garage, head lowered and body slumped, was a huge deformed man who seemed lost in depression. Bane slowed to study the man.
The giant Danarakan would be closer to seven feet tall than six, with thick arms and legs, big hands and feet. The massive head was misshaped. A protruding brow ledge and almost no chin, a wide flat nose and thick swollen lips indicated some sort of advanced condition. Bane wondered if the man suffered from acromegaly. The African's head was not completely bald but only had patches of bristly hair in spots. The deformed man wore only a loose dashiki of green and tan, with baggy sleeves and cuffs rolled up. He was barefoot and his toes curled in different directions as if twisted by severe arthritis.
Feeling a vague twinge of sympathy despite himself, the Dire Wolf stalked in closer still. He was almost close enough to touch the unwary hulk. Beneath Bane's sleeves, the silver-bladed daggers grew so hot that they stung his arms. He was in the presence of potent gralic force, the ensorcelled knives were warning him of danger. But he sensed it was not from this man but from within the garage.
Staying just beyond reach, Bane drew his long-barreled Smith & Wesson 38 and cocked back the hammer. The unmistakable sound made the giant African twitch to alertness and he rose to one knee but stopped as Bane said in the Jufari dialect, "Do not move, my friend. A bullet is heading for your head if you do."
From within the hulk, a strange strangled sound rumbled. "As if Death would be such an unwelcome fate." The Danarakan got slowly to his feet and turned around anyway, holding up his empty gnarled hands. "My name is Nantekwa. Who are you, white man?"
"I am called Dire Wolf by some," Bane happened. "You were not always afflicted this way."
"No. It was Malaric. He found one of the dread Old Ones and exposed it. My wife and myself were thrown into the Pit of the Sulla Chun for a day and a night and we survived long enough to crawl feebly out. Malaric was surprised we lived." The misshapen face seemed to be trying to smile. "If you call this 'living!'"
Not lowering his gun, keeping his eyes fixed on the giant, Bane indicated the garage with the thumb of his free hand. "Something's moving around in there. Something big, sounds like."
"It would better for you to learn nothing more," said Nantekwa sorrowfully, his head drooping again as if too heavy to be held upright for long. "Strong men have gone mad when seeing what should not be seen."
"I get it now. That's what the cow was needed for. I bet you guys have been buying mass amounts of meats from every store in the area and it was starting to draw too much attention. That patch of turned-up dirt over there..? That's where you just buried bones and unusable parts, right?"
"You should go now," Nantweka muttered. "It is not too late to save your own life." The giant swayed and took a single menacing step forward. He raised his swollen hands, clenching them into bony clubs.
"Hold it right there," Bane said. "I have no intention of slugging it out with a brute like you. You come at me and I'll put a tunnel through your forehead. Stay put."
The giant snorted. "In the happy land beyond pain, my wife waits for me." He lunged forward suddenly and was stopped short as the Dire Wolf fired at point-blank range. The Danarakan's forehead depressed as the skull fractured around the entry hole and he fell sideways with a thud. The roar of the revolver echoed from the nearby hills like thunder from a close lightning strike.
Bane wheeled and flattened up against the back wall of the garage. If there were any Fatalists in that house, they had to have heard that. He squatted low and peered around the edge of the structure. But it was Zulayka who emerged from that rear door, holding a small flat automatic in both hands, swinging it from side to side as she took in the situation.
From within the garage came a heavy pounding, unbelievably forceful and abrupt. Bane jumped away, not quite quickly enough. The wall of the garage exploded outward, boards and pieces of boards flying quickly like shrapnel. Knocked down by the debris, the Dire Wolf rolled and was up on his feet, backpedaling with his gun still in hand. He had been scraped and bruised by the sharp edges of the scraps whizzing into him, but his immediate reaction was readiness to fight.
Something immense squeezed through the ragged hole in the side of the garage.
For the first time in a long career, Bane could not figure out what he was looking at. It was big, maybe the size of a rhino, definitely alive. It was dark purplish in color. Parts of it were moving independently of each other, whipping about or flapping furiously. But he could not make sense of what was in front of him. Was there a face? Eyes, a mouth? His senses could not focus well enough on the monster to settle on a view. There were too many legs, long thin spidery appendages moving about, too many segments of the soft jellylike body sliding over each other.
His forearms hurt from how hotly the silver blades were burning. Bane dropped his gun and whipped both knives from their sheaths, holding one dagger in each hand. The blades shone as brilliantly as if reflecting searchlights. Was it his imagination or did the creature hesitate just a bit? His knives were ensalir, silver blessed by the immortal Eldarin themselves, powerful against the creatures of darkness. Maybe he could leap in, slash and then jump back out of reach. Then the shifting formless mass before him heaved up like a dark wave about to crash.
Two strong arms seized him from behind and flung him aside. "Get back, Jeremy!" yelled Levon. As the Cat's Claw interposed himself between his captain and the monster, Bane took a few steps back. Then he felt Zulayka grab him by the sleeves and tug him further away from the confrontation.
"Come on, come on!" she yelled in his ear. "Do you want to live or not?"
Stubbornly, Bane tried to shake her off. "I have to help."
The African woman seized him around the body with both arms from behind, digging in her feet. "Back. We both need to get back. This is Azzalem's hour."
Facing the abomination calmly, not flinching a bit, Levon Bingham placed his hand over the ancient talisman around his neck. In an instant, he dropped to all fours. His body swelled outward, changing shape, erupting into the form of a cat bigger than a horse. The Black Lion threw back its maned head and let out a roar that made leaves fall off nearby trees.
VI.
Watching from twenty feet away, Jeremy Bane felt like he could not breathe. It had been six years since he had last witnessed the Black Lion manifest itself and he had forgotten the stunning aura of sheer gralic force that the god of Danarak gave off. Even the shifting nameless monstrosity seemed taken aback, and then the great cat crouched and sprang headlong. Both giant creatures crashed into the garage near at hand, snapping the support beams and bringing the whole structure down in a cloud of dust. Two huge forms rolled violently over and over in the wreckage. The formless creature howled in a shrill piping whine, its ropy tentacles whirling tightly around the Black Lion's body. Then came a decisive crunch. Stillness and silence fell. The Black Lion rose, hawking and spitting vile thick ichor from its mouth. It shook its head again, reared up on its hind legs and roared its triumph in a whiplash sound that traveled far and made people miles away pause and wonder what that noise was.
Now, Zulayka released Bane and rushed past him toward the gigantic cat. The beast's jet black hide was glossy and shone in the afternoon sunlight. Standing there, the Black Lion's eyes met hers at the same level and its breath was hot and strong enough to stir her hair. The great beast rumbled deep in its chest.
"Your work is done for now, oh Wakimbe. Return my kin to me," she sang in a ritual voice.
With almost visible reluctance, the Lion inhaled deeply and shivered, shrank, dwindled down to become Levon Bingham again. He was on all fours and he rose up unsteadily, rubbing his mouth with the back of one hand. "What a taste! Ugh. I need a drink of water. Actually, Listerine would be better."
Bane realized he was still clenching his daggers so tightly that his hands ached. With an effort, he sheathed them beneath his sleeves. The blades had cooled and seemed normal again. The Dire Wolf walked over to join Levon and Zulayka.
"Are you okay, Jeremy?" the Cat's Claw asked. "You were exposed to a lot of malevolent gralic energy at close range."
"Oh, sure, I'm fine. I always bounce back. Levon, I'd forgotten how impressive the Black Lion is. Only Khang had the same presence." He pointed a finger at the wet gelatinous mass inside the wreckage of the garage. "Sure that critter is dead?"
"Absolutely. Ah! I see you already took care of its father."
Bane glanced over at the corpse of the deformed Danarakan lying not far away. "His father..? You mean, Nantekwa was the father of that monster somehow?"
"Sadly enough, it is true," Zulayka interposed. "Malaric has much to answer for. He exposed Nantekwa and his pregnant wife Anamike to the nearness of a Sulla Chun for a day and a night. You saw what it did to Nantekwa. The unborn was affected even more. Poor Anamike did not survive giving birth to her child... the unholy being that was kept in that garage and eventually needed to be fed a whole cow at a time."
"Jeez," said Bane. "Never say you've seen everything. I can't imagine what possible reason Malaric would have to bring such a horror into the world. The whole Those Who Remember cult never made sense to me."
"Speaking of Malaric. He'll be showing up soon," Levon said. "We better lie in wait and take him by surprise. Then Zulayka and I will smuggle him back to Danarak and our Elders will judge him. This is not a matter for the mundane courts of our land."
"And I have some explosives and incendiaries in my car," the Dire Wolf told them. "We should destroy as much of this mess as we can, including Nantekwa's body. Zulayka, I haven't thanked you yet for pulling me away from that monster. I was all set to tackle it without a hope of surviving."
"I admit you have the true warrior spirit, Dire Wolf," she said with a sniff. "But you should realize when it is time to stand aside and let a greater force take over."
"That was quite a sight. It kept changing and its parts kept moving around." Bane shrugged and folded his arms as if cold. "Damn. That thing was indescribable."
Contrary to the last, Zulayka corrected him. "Not exactly. Say, rather, it was barely describable."
8/15/2016
