dochermes | Entries tagged with 2002

"Gorilla Crime Wave"

7/29/2002

I.

Down from a starless overcast night sky came two young women to land lightly on their feet in a county jail parking lot. As far as they knew, no civilians had spotted them. Both were in their early twenties, both an inch or two over five feet in height, both slim and in fine athletic shape. Ashley Whitaker had platinum blond hair and wore an all white field suit where Megan Salenger had short black hair and was in a black field suit with its boots, snug pants and waist-length jacket.

Disengaging from Megan's arm around her waist, Ashley undid the Scunci holding her gleaming silver hair together and brushed it out. "Not exactly comfortable, Megs. If we have to fly a couple hundred miles again, maybe we can rig up a sling or something to hold me."

"I kept at an altitude and speed where you would not suffer from cold or lack of oxygen," Megan replied evenly. "We could not use the CORBY because there is no place to land secretly in this area, and you said driving down here in a KDF car would take too long."

"Yeah, yeah, it's what I get for complaining, I know." The Unicorn shifted her talisman across her back to make it more comfortable. In its white leather sheath, the ancient horn of a genuine Unicorn was a three foot long ivory cylinder, one end tapering to a sharp needle point and the other end flat to be capped with an ensalir band. "It'd be easier if we could operate in plain view. You know, like comic book super-heroes. Having to be all secret and sneaky bugs me."

The Trom Girl sounded distracted. She was taking readings on the Link, an electronic device no thicker than three playing cards stacked on top of each other. "Being a celebrity would quickly weary you, Ashley. You enjoy a modicum of privacy."

"True, true. Okay, Science Nerd, what do your sensors tell you?"

"No gralic force detected in immediate area, which is helpful for our purposes. I'm looking at infra-red sources and there are no other Humans outside at the moment. Visual scan with anomaly recognition says no windows are open and none of the parked cars have anyone sitting in them. Odds of an ambush are minimal."

"Hah!" Unicorn snorted. "Any ambushers would have their hands full with us."

Both women pivoted as the door at the rear of the jail opened and then closed with the click of lock being set. Moving toward them was a mild-looking man about thirty with receding brown hair and a thin droopy mustache evidently meant as a counter to an unfortunately bulbous nose. He was not in uniform, wearing unremarkable jeans, polo shirt and denim jacket.

To Unicorn, Megan whispered, "His readings match. This is Deputy Sheriff Peter Joseph Watzka."

A second later, the deputy said in a low voice, "Glad you two could make it. I only got a minute. If'n I'm not home right away, I'll have to account to my wife for what deviltry I got up to. So let me get right to the chase."

"We're listening," Megan said.

"I unnerstand New York City has an arrangement with you KDF guys where you're sorta unofficial vigilantes and you get called in on cases. None of that down here. Our District Attorney is as strict as an old maid at a school dance, so this meeting will be denied. I will swear in court I never saw you gals."

"Understood," Megan replied.

"It started on February 23rd," Watzka said. He rattled off details of four burglaries in the area, including the latest one in which someone sleeping in the house been brutally murdered. There were no suspects. As best as the police could reconstruct, the burglar had shown physical strength several times greater than even a circus strongman could match. The murder victim had died from having one arm torn completely off and half his face bitten away.

"Wellll, time to head back to New York," interjected Unicorn, to be shushed by Megan.

"I gave you the dates and addresses and names. The brass tells me that's enough. Miss Salenger, you're supposed to have a photographic memory. I got to go. If you KDF people are gonna investigate this, all I can say is good luck!"

Watching Watzka march over to his personal dark red Ford pickup and drive out of the parking lot, Unicorn let out a low whistle. "Hey, Science Nerd, you've been trained in Kumundu body reading as much as I have. Micro-expressions, subvocal tremors, stance shifts... Did he seemed scared enough to wet himself to you?"

"Absolutely," the Trom Girl agreed. "I had my Link scanning him without his knowledge. His heartbeat was one hundred and twenty, and traces of adrenaline in his perspiration were at near maximum. There is much he has not told us."

"A burglar that yanks your arm off is something new," Unicorn admitted. "I've got my anesthetic dart gun but I'm a little dubious about relying on it against a bozo who beats you with your own arm. Luckily, you've got your beam projector, you can turn him into stray little atoms drifting away on the breeze if you have to."

Megan Salenger started to walk toward the far end of the parking lot, where a sidewalk met Caldwell Street. "Ashley, I want you to take out your Link and activate its screen."

"To hear is to obey," the little blonde replied. "Hey, you're sending me a street map of this town."

"Yes. The red blips are where these crimes took place."

"Let's see, one is uptown, but the other three are closer together. Looks like they're on streets close to the Chipewya Creek. What're the dates?"

Megan made an adjustment. "The brightness reflects the order in which the crimes were committed."

"Okey dokey, sure looks like our strongman hit first way uptown and is now concentrating on the Creek neighborhood. That seems to be, lemme calculate, three miles from here. Are we going to walk there?"

"I do not wish to use a cab or Uber right away," Megan said. "The less of a trail we leave, the better."

"Gotcha. Right heel in front of left toe, left heel in front of right toe, pick 'em up and put 'em down."

Striding alongside her teammate, Megan said, "It's possible some motorist may offer us a ride."

"Hah! Are you kidding? Two pretty girls in skintight commando suits? We'll have rides lined up." And as she finished that sentence, a yellow Volkswagen driven by an older woman slowed.

"What ARE you two doing walking down the road in the middle of the night? Get in fer Godsakes!"

( the rest of the story )

"Everywhere At the Same Time"

10/22/2002

I.

"I am the Unicorn!" Ashley hollered so echoes rebounded from the ceiling beams in the crowded bar. She had hopped up onto a chair in front of the table which had no room on its surface for any more overturned shot glasses. In the smoky haze of that room with its red neon lighting advertising COLD BEER and BIKERS WELCOME, she stood revealed as a gorgeous young woman with long platinum-white hair, perfectly cast features and a slim body displayed in white ribbed sweater and snug white jeans. "There has never been anyone like me!"

"You can say that again, sweetheart," one of the men grumbled. "If'n Reggie wasn't snoring, I'd worry he was dead. Gimme a hand with him, bros." Two other men helped lift the insensate Reggie from his chair and carried him toward a back room which held a broken-down couch. The crowd at the WEST SIDE INN was two-thirds male and one-third female, all ranging from their twenties to early thirties with a few grizzled barflies secluded in the corners. The jukebox had gone silent as everyone became enthralled by the way this tiny blonde gulped down whiskey shots without effect while her challengers inevitably staggered away in defeat. In the center of the table was a plastic bowl normally filled with pretzels but now overflowing with bet money.

Unicorn leaped nimbly down to stand next to her companion. "Hey Science Nerd, how much dough is in the kitty?"

In nearly exact contrast, Megan Salenger had black shaggy hair, olive skin and dark thoughtful eyes. She was wearing a black sweatshirt and dark jeans to complete the reversal. "I count six hundred and eighty-three dollars and eleven cents."

"Well then there now," Ashley laughed. She swung around to face the staring crowd. "Boys and girls, the drinking contest is officially over and as the winner... of course!.. I declare that my winnings will right this minute be donated to the grill. Free hamburgers and sausages and French fries for everyone!"

Megan carefully counted out Ashley's winnings to the two men at the bar. One of them tied on an apron that was less than immaculate and began slapping meat patties onto the steel grill between the shelves of bottles and the cash register. Patrons were jostling each other and calling out their preferences as Megan stepped back away from the cluster of bodies.

A college age redheaded woman, with four piercings in every ear and a baggy sweatshirt with NEVER SAY NOT ONCE handwritten across its front, tugged at Megan's sleeve. "That was awesome. Dude! How can a chick that size pack away so much booze? I caught a buzz just watching."

"Ashley has many talents," Megan answered, disengaging herself. "Excuse me, please."

Back at the show table with its thirty shot glasses and empty bottles, the Unicorn was wrestling into her down-filled ski jacket. "You know, Trom Girl, you could do that much drinking, too. You have the same healing factor I do."

"I don't see the purpose in such an activity," the Trom Girl answered mildly. Megan picked up her waist-length KDF field jacket, which had an internal power source and which would keep her comfortable under worse conditions than a chilly Manhattan night. "Your idea of fun escapes my understanding."

"Aw, I think you'll get it someday, Megs. On the tagra tea diet, our bodies process alcohol the same way we'd process cyanide or botulism. It all just passes harmlessly through our innards, which reminds me, that WAS still a good amount of liquid I gulped down tonight. Let's hit the little girl's room before we split."

Escorting her friend to the two doors marked COLTS and FILLIES, the Trom Girl said, "I will remain out here. Since I did not drink two gallons of whiskey, I do not need to urinate."

Unicorn punched Megan lightly on the bicep. "Aw, we need to go out next Friday night, too. I know this karaoke bar in Tribeca..."
When Ashley re-emerged, she pointed at the wall clock in mock horror. "MAYY-agan! You know we were supposed to leave at eleven, why didn't you say anythng?"

Zipping up her field jacket, the Trom Girl replied, "It was after eleven when we got here."

Seeing the two teammates putting on their coats, a half dozen men drew closer. "Please tell me you two aren't leaving! Break everyone's hearts, why don't you?"

"We are both on duty in four hours and nineteen minutes," Megan replied with a noticeable lack of sympathy.

"At least give us your names," said the tallest one there, a rather good-looking athletic type with a brown ponytail. "A phone number wouldn't be a bad idea, either."

Ashley reached up and touched his cheek. For an instant, her impudence faded and was replaced by a wistful tone. "Don't I wish, cutie. But the Science Nerd and I lead crazy lives and there's no telling when we'll be free again. It's the heavy burden of duty we carry, I guess."

"Goodnight to you all," Megan interrupted, yanking her friend by one arm. "Drive carefully."

Two blocks away, Unicorn stopped in mid-stride and glanced back over her shoulder. "Megan, let's choose two of those guys and bring them back with us. You know, just for coffee. And to talk."

The Trom Girl could not keep disapproval from her voice. "Bringing unauthorized persons into the headquarters building will of course alert our duty officer. That's Sable tonight."

"Drat darn heck. Yeah, that's true. This is worse than trying to sneak a boy upstairs when your dad's on the couch in the living room," Ashley sighed. "Too bad the KDF is such a prude organization."

"It is not an issue of morals. You are an adult and entitled to a personal life. But we have many enemies who want us dead or captured for torture. We have to think of the team's security first." Megan took the blonde's arm again. "I have not given much thought to dating, let alone entering a serious relationship, Ashley. It's difficult for Tel Shai knights like us. The Midnight War gives most people nightmares if they learn about it."

"You're right. I guess. I'll tell you something you mustn't forget, Megs. You're Human. You were raised by those cold, emotionless Trom super-scientists but you're not like them. You have feelings. I'd bet anything that when you tumble for some guy, you're going to be in L-O-V-E Love with little hearts flying around your head."

The Trom Girl did nor answer immediately but, after walking a few steps, she quietly said, "Only time will tell."

As soon as they saw Megan's cherry red Jeep Cherokee parked ahead, both women heard their Links buzz at their belts. "Oh, come ON!" groaned Ashley as she unclipped the flat device and held it up. "Hi, Sable? What's up?"

"Also responding," said Megan into her own Link.

"I have a report from one of our observers of an Eldanar warrior woman seen in the city," came the steady familiar voice of their captain. "Seems there's a brawl at the LOST SOULS bar within walking distance of where you two are. No casualties apparently, just some bruises and damaged furniture but I would like to know more. It's winding down right now."

"Got it, we're on our way," Unicorn said. "But seriously, I didn't know the Eldanarin HAD warriors, let alone fighting women. They're so, you know, snooty and dainty and New Age and stuff."

Sable's voice sharpened noticeably, "There's only one in modern times that I've ever learned about. One of Hagen's Seven Swords, an Elf named Perendir."

( the rest of the story )

"The Rasputniks"

2/1-2/2/2002

I.

In the tiny bathroom adjoining his office, Jeremy Bane watched a bullet work its way out of his leg. He had gotten used to this. Almost thirty-six years of a tagra diet from Tel Shai had boosted his recuperative powers way past what medical science could explain. It was a major reason why acceptance to the Order was so prized, because only Tel Shai could offer the secret of tagra. Bane was not indestructible by any means, he felt his share of pain and there were limits to how much damage his body could survive. All of his colleagues who had died in action were proof of that.

With his foot up on the sink, Bane studied the tiny, almost imperceptible movement as the misshapen slug stuck a little bit further out from his calf. There was the same feeling of relief of a splinter coming free. With a pair of tweezers, he gripped the bullet, wiggled it a bit and finally got the damn thing out. It had been in there for two days, since Colonel Schoeber had fired a last gift while making his escape. Bane had felt the satisfaction of seeing the man captured by State Troopers before his car got a half mile away, but he had wanted to keep secret his involvement in the chase that drove Schoeber out of hiding.

Dropping the bullet in the wastepaper basket, the Dire Wolf looked for any signs of infection but didn't expect to find any. That was a Tagra benefit. He dressed the wound snugly, wrapped gauze around the calf and put his foot down. Barely a wince. In a few days, hopefully there might be nothing more than a pale circle on the skin. Bane washed his hands, pulled on a pair of black socks, and walked out to his office with no perceptible limp. Dropping down in his chair behind the desk, he yanked on his boots and let out a sigh. There was a bottle of water on the desk and he drained most of it. It was a relief to get that over with.

After a few minutes, his matter-of-fact mind got back to work. There was a stack of bills in the stand to his left and they weren't going to pay themselves. From the center drawer of his desk, he took out the big red leather ledger, his checkbook and a pen, and sourly got to work. There was really no reason he couldn't employ a secretary to handle the paperwork except for his deep-seated secretive nature. He had always wanted to keep everything to himself, it came from his childhood as a street orphan. Half an hour of writing checks and making entries went by slowly. At forty minutes, he couldn't take it and got up to pace. He pulled the opaque curtains aside to peer out at a drab rainy 3rd Avenue. Bane circled the office. The same enhanced metabolism that gave him his speed also kept him restless. He decided the office needed a big clock that clients could see. Right on the empty wall behind him where only his PI license hung. And a coatrack...

The doorbell rang. Quick as if he had gotten an electric shock, Bane swerved through the open door to the tiny reception room. High on one wall was the closed-circuit TV showing the hall outside. A middle-aged man and a woman in her early twenties. Bane studied them thoughtfully, with his training in body language and in observing concealed weapons. They were tense and worried but no threat, he thought.

Almost instantly, he took in that they were close relations, father and daughter most likely. German descent, good-looking pair with thick black hair and good grooming. The man was wearing a topcoat over a suit, the woman had a modest dark dress with a short jacket. As he watched, the man leaned forward and pressed the bell again. Bane decided. He opened the door inward and said, "Can I help you?"

"Hello? Oh I hope so. You are Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf, aren't you?"

"That's me. Come in and tell me your problems." Bane gestured for them to cross the reception room, just big enough to hold a coffee table and two chairs. As they went into the office itself, he closed the outdoor door after a quick suspicious glance across the lobby of the building. The door locked automatically as he followed his visitors. To the right as they entered was a big desk with three plain straightback chairs facing it and he motioned for them to seat themselves. This was why he should have thought to buy a coatrack, he reminded himself. The Dire Wolf went around and lowered himself behind his desk, unhurriedly scooping all the loose papers into a drawer.

"I don't know either of you," he said. "Let's get some introductions out of the way."

"Certainly." The man looked to be his late forties, developing a moonface and some grey in the bushy mustache. "I'm Henry Fischler, a respiratory therapist at Mount Sinai. This is my daughter Holly. She's a student at Columbia." He hesitated. "I must apologize for not setting up an appointment, sir, this is rather an urgent situation..."

"Oh, that's all right," Bane answered. "I can be hard to locate. What brings you here?"

Fischler looked down and Holly also sat with her eyes lowered. Finally, he said, "My daughter complained of a throat infection a week ago. My first thought that it was thrush. She uses an inhaler and as you may know, if you don't rinse your mouth every time, thrush is a possibility. I took a culture, prescribed a standard antibiotic and after an unusually long period the infection went away. But something about the culture disturbed me. I could not put my finger on it. I asked a colleague to do some further tests."

Bane said nothing. Actually, he had never heard of thrush and was taking this in faith for the moment.

"It was then my daughter confessed she had had a romantic weekend with a young man she had just met. This leaves me less than jubiliant, as you can imagine, but she is an adult and her sex life is really her own concern. Until my colleague returned the culture to me in an agitated state. It was something that people only develop who have been in close and prolonged contact with corpses!"

Now a bright predatory gleam sparked in Bane's grey eyes. "Holly, you want to add something?"

Holly Fischler straightened up and looked him right in the eye. "Mr Bane, the man I met told me he worked in a law office downtown. The way he dressed and the quality of his apartment, I had no reason to doubt him. I don't see how he could have any contact with bodies, it just seems impossible."

"Life is full of surprises," Bane remarked without sarcasm. "I don't suppose this guy could get this way working at a morgue or medical school, doctor?"

"No. Absolutely not. The infection indicates prolonged contact with cadavers while not wearing protection. I can't imagine any law-abiding professional who might develop it."

The Dire Wolf leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the desk. "The next question is why you don't report it to the police? I am sure they'd be interested."

"We discussed that. But maybe there was some mistake in the lab, maybe there is a similar infection we don't know of that could be contracted quite innocently." The doctor cleared his throat as if the topic of infections bothered him. "And to be honest, if there was some criminal activity, seeing my daughter's name in the papers and how she contracted it... well, we both would rather avoid that."

"I see. So, you want to hire me to investigate this man and find out if he's up to anything shady, how he contracted this infection, and keep it all quiet. Is that it?"

"Yes. Exactly." Dr Fischler exhaled sharply as if relieved to finally get to the point. "I must say I know of your work, Mr Bane. I personally knew the family you rescued from Samhain back in the 90s, and I have been following various reports since. Your record is amazing. Maybe the average person has no idea what horrors come out into the city at night, but some of us do and we feel safer knowing you are here."

Bane gave a faint smile. "Well, I enjoy compliments as much as the next guy, but we have work to do. Holly, I need a name, address and detailed description. Don't worry, nothing will be written down."

For the next ten minutes, Bane got details from her, memorizing everything. He started on hints of an accent, any signs of a limp or bad vision or hearing, any tiny item that might be useful. When it was over, Holly was giving him a quizical look. "Now, the question of my fee. I suppose a flat one thousand dollars would not be a burden on you?"

"Oh, no, certainly," Fischler took out his checkbook. "In fact, it seems quite low from what I understand."

Bane pulled out a seperate leather ledger, entered the date and the client's name and the fee. He wrote out a receipt and traded it for the check with Fischler. "I found if I didn't charge for my services, I couldn't claim I was acting for a client with certain protections. Now, if questioned by the police, I can claim confidentiality. It's useful." The Dire Wolf pushed back his chair and started to rise. "I think I have enough to go on. Hopefully there's an innocent explanation, and I'll let you know." Fischler held out a hand, Bane shook it and they headed for the door.

( the rest of the story )

"Children of the Golden Jaguar"

6/29-6/30/2002

I.

Jeremy Bane stepped out of his rental car onto the sidewalk of a 96-degree day in Los Angeles. He was a New York City boy and didn't know if he was going to get used to this constant brilliant sunlight and dry air. It made him feel as if he were in an adjacent realm like Maroch. Worse, for the first time in his life he was having trouble finding his way around. Los Angeles didn't seem to have a plan, it just went on for miles in every direction. He had a pile of maps in the glove compartment of his Jeep Cherokee but it sure was going to make action difficult if he had to keep pulling over to study maps while the bad boys got away.

Ah well, I'm just getting old and stodgy, he thought. I can adapt. I've hiked through the jungles and ice fields and swamps. LA isn't any worse. Already, his body was adjusting. More than twenty years of a tagra diet from Tel Shai had boosted his immunity and regeneration properties past what medical science could explain. Even in his black turtleneck, slacks and sports jacket, he was starting to feel comfortable. Standing in front of a Rite-Way pharmacy, though, he went in and bought a pair of BluBlocker sunglasses. Not only would they be more comfortable, they would conceal the distinctive pale grey of his irises.

Now to start looking. On the next block was the HAPPY DUCK. The Dire Wolf did not smile at the painted sign in the window of a demented-looking duck with a leer. He didn't have much sense of humor in the first place. At ten, the restaurant was just opening. Bane walked into a cool dim interior that smelled of kimchi and flowers. Behind the counter, an elderly man glanced up. He was wearing slacks and a white dress shirt without a tie. "Yes?"

"Annyeong haseyo," Bane said and continued in Korean. "My name is Dire Wolf. Your manager knows me from a long time ago. Please inform him I am here."

The man gave the barest possible bow and went behind a hanging curtain. A second later, a very tough-looking Korean man stepped out and grinned. He was not good-looking in any way, with a short bristling crewcut over a flat face and unfriendly eyes. Jack Hwang was in his early sixties, but the body under the white T-shirt and jeans was hard and muscular.

"Mr Bane! So good to see you. I had no idea you were in the area."

Still in Korean, Bane said, "It's been a long time since Winter Snow kicked the Black Mantis into the river. I don't think we will see fighting like that again."

Hwang nodded in agreement. "Times change. Fighters train different, they take steroids and painkillers. Listen, can I help you?"

Bane stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I am here on a mission. Yes, I am still a Tel Shai knight, still hunting ghosts and chasing tigers. May I take Insun for a walk?'

"A... walk? That is not why she works here. Perhaps a massage. She uses hot stones and walks on your back. It would be most refreshing."

"No, just a walk. I will pay for her time."

Hwang dismissed that with a handwave. "Please. The man who pulled three Black Mantis off me and threw them into the river? I owe you much. Her time is free. Walk with her all day if you wish."

"I appreciate it, Jack." Bane looked around. "Very nice place. I can tell by the aroma the food must be great."

"We try. Please wait here." He went through a door and was gone for a few minutes. Bane remembered the fight decades ago between the Winter Snow School, which practiced Hapkido, and the Chinese gang Black Mantis. The battle was short but so brutal. As he thought about martial arts of those days, Hwang returned with Insun Choi. Bane had never met her. Insun was barely five feet tall, about forty, with a presentable face. She had a double eyelid fold. This place was discreet, so she wore dark pants and a light blue blouse rather than a too-short skirt and halter.

"I do not know you, sir," she said in English. "Perhaps there is some mistake?"

"Do as you are told," Hwang ordered her bluntly. "This is a man of honor. You will be as safe with him at your side as if you were surrounded by bodyguards." He gestured toward the door. "Please stay to chat when you are ready, Dire Wolf."

"Thank you," Bane said and led her to the door. They stepped back out in the heat and light, and he started walking.

"Insun, I know you only through someone who fights crime here in the city. Not the police, a private investigator. He is not available now or I would go to him directly."

They went past store after store, loud music coming from apartments overhead. "Will you tell me your business, sir?"

"Do you know the name Tel Shai?"

"Oh, yes. A legend. My parents believed it was an order of knights who had Ki powers."

"I am a Tel Shai knight. I have spent my life fighting bandits and tyrants."

She smiled for the first time. "I completely believe you. Your voice... You have conviction."

Bane noticed there were not as many people on the sidewalks as he was used to. Everyone seemed to stay in their cars until they had to rush indoors. "Insun, my concern is not with normal street gangs. Drug dealers, thieves, they are not my prey. I hunt those with special powers, who have forbidden knowledge. I want to know about the Children of the Golden Jaguar."

That stopped her in her tracks. She glared at him as if he had said something filthy. "You must be mistaken. There is no such gang, they are just a story."

"Any names? Addresses? Just point me in the right direction."

"No. You are crazy. I must return-" She froze again and pointed. "Look. Abe Normal."

Bane frowned. A big man, shirtless, was running headlong down the sidewalk right at them. He held a gun in one hand. Bane shoved Insun Choi into a doorway, out of harm's way.

"Let him pass!" she shouted but Bane stepped right into the man's path. This Abe Normal had a nearly shaven head, a long narrow face that held rage in it. He was well muscled and ran like a track star. The Dire Wolf blocked him and stood with lowered arms.

"Bloody 'ell, mate!" Normal shouted, slamming out an arm which Bane seized and levered down hard. The shirtless man hit the sidewalk face down and the gun would have gone off but the Dire Wolf had wrestled it away with his other hand. Bane got the biggest surprise he had received in years. Face down on the hot pavement, Normal kicked back with his heavy boot and caught the Wolf right on the jaw. He fell backwards to a seated position and got another vicious kick to the face as Normal spun around, then leaped up.

The man had a funny expression on his face, as if he had been shown something new when he thought he knew everything. "We need to talk, my darling. Later for you." And he was off again.

Bane got up,rubbing his jaw. He still held the man's Glock. How was that guy so fast? Bane felt he had met someone his equal, which was rare in his long career. Turning to ask Insun, he saw she was gone. Well, no surprise. Maybe later he would go back to HAPPY DUCK but now he wanted to return to his car and move on. Bane picked up his sunglasses and turned to face a woman who had been watching him with an amused smile.

Somehow he felt he was in more danger than before. A lifetime of fighting had left him with sharp instincts.

( the rest of the story )

"God Has Fangs"

8/19/2002

I.

As he left Grand Central and stepped out onto 8th Avenue, Levon Bingham had what he called "a savannah flash." For an instant, the hazy city sky turned a brilliant deep blue with a hot white sun blazing down. The sounds of cars and trucks receded, he felt for a brief moment there was soft yielding grass under his feet. The young black man froze, waiting, and the moment passed. Under his blue work shirt, the Claw of Wakimbe tingled warmly against his skin. Taking a deep breath, Levon started crossing the street with the crowd, lost in thought as usual.

These visions were coming more often recently. So far, they had not been a danger, but he worried what would happen if he had a savannah flash while he was driving. In his mid-twenties, Levon Bingham was stocky and muscular, just medium height. He had very dark skin, with his hair cropped so short it was almost shaven. His features were sensitive and a little sad, and people tended to like him on sight. In the past few months, his irises had gradually turned a bright green, startling in his dark face. Cat's eyes. Today, Levon was wearing new sneakers, blue jeans and a blue work shirt over a plain white T-shirt. He had enjoyed a night off from KDF duties, staying with friends in Queens and sitting up all night watching scary movies while they drank beer and laughed.

Under his shirt, suspended from a finely-linked ensalir chain, a seven-inch black talon hung against his skin. The Claw of Wakimbe was unimaginably old, surviving from an age of the world that archaeologists did not even suspect, the Darthan Age of thirty thousand years ago. Levon was the new Cat's-Claw. He bore the power and the burden that many men had carried before him, the ability to summon the Black Lion Himself. This seldom left his thoughts for long.

As he strode briskly east along 42nd Street, Levon decided he had to tell someone of what was happening to him. Twice, he had begun to lose control of the Black Lion and twice it had been difficult to change back to his normal Human form. How had Kwali managed? From everything he had heard, his predecessor as Cat'-Claw had transformed back and forth at will with no problems. The Link in his back pocket beeped twice. Levon stepped into the doorway of an electronics store and took the small device out. "Hello?"

"Hey, good morning!" sang a voice much too chipper at eight in the morning. "Just wondering if you'll be here for breakfast. If not, I'll eat all your French toast, no problem."

"Hi, Unicorn," Levon answered. "I'm on my way. Save my portions, I'm starving."

"Oh, all right," came the blithe voice. "The bacon will be going fast, you better hustle." With a click, she signed off. Levon shook his head. He wished he had her personality, but he was nothing like Ashley Whitaker. She came from a privileged life where her mother lived in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Levon had grown up with his grandmother over in Flushing. Now that Grandma was gone, his only family was in West Virginia and he hadn't seen them in years.

Within a few minutes, he was hurrying along East 38th Street and up the stoop of the old ten-story building that was the headquarters of the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Before he could touch the door, buzzers sounded and the locks clicked open. Unicorn's voice sounded from a concealed speaker, "Better hurry, I'm looking at your plate."

With a low chuckle, Levon passed through the tiny foyer and into the front hall. The welcome smell of bacon and coffee, and the chatter of friendly voices came from the kitchen at the far end of that hall. He went past the reception room on one side and the emergency ward on the other, past the wide staircase and the small elevator, and through the door to the kitchen to enter a warm, inviting arena.
There was a dining room on this floor, but the team seldom used it. They preferred the informal crowding on the breakfast nook under twin windows.

Three of his friends were there, already seated and digging in. Sheng Mo-Yuan, known as Argent, had the largest servings piled on his plate. The young Chujiran warrior looked up with his mouth full and nodded at Levon. To his left, Sable Reilly lowered her coffee mug and said, "Hi, Levon. Help yourself, everything's warm." And on the other side of the table, wiping a last piece of French toast in the syrup, the tiny blonde known as Unicorn grinned impishly at him. "Just in time to rescue your food, buddy."

"Good to see you guys," he said as he got a plate from the cupboard and shovelled three pieces of French toast, some bacon and scrambled eggs on it. The syrup and butter had been kept warm on the stovetop. He didn't like coffee, so he poured a tumbler of grapefruit juice and brought everything over to the table. Levon seated himself and started eating as he suddenly realized just how empty his stomach was.

Sable nibbled on a strip of bacon. Team leader now that Jeremy Bane had stepped down, she watched her crew thoughtfully. Sable was pretty in an understated way, with glossy black hair combed straight back from a high forehead, huge dark eyes and full lips. She wasn't really aware of her looks, her mind was always so serious and responsible. As she wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, she said, "I think we have a case for today. Only the four of us are available. Josef has taken three days leave to accept a bodyguard commission and Megan is reporting to her Trom superiors out in New Mexico. They'll join us when they can."

Standing up to bring his plate and silverware over to the sink, Argent asked, "What's on the agenda, captain?" Sheng looked like a Northern Chinese, but he was actually from the realm of Chujir. His hawklike nose and prominent cheekbones gave this away to those who knew about the adjacent realms. In his tan T-shirt and khaki slacks, the slim muscular body was accented. He rinsed off his plate and left it in a basin of soapy water to return to the table. "Something big?"

"I'm not sure yet," Sable answered. She poured more coffee into her cup and sipped it black. "I was told of recruitment of drivers and shooters in the underworld. And our observer got a glimpse of a man with a fixed grin on his face."

Unicorn looked up, suddenly serious. "A grinning man? You think it's Sepulcher?"

"That's what we need to find out," Sable answered. "In an hour, I want everyone reporting up by the CORBY. If Sepulcher is active again, it means a massacre is being planned."

( the rest of the story )

"HAG OF THE DESERT: Garden of Blades"

5/12-5/22/2002

I.

In the nearly empty changing room with its highly polished cedar walls and floors, Megan Salenger reluctantly removed her clothing. She had not brought any of the advanced KDF equipment with her, not the suit of silk-thin armor nor the communications Link nor the anesthetic dart gun. It was an unassuming pile of Navy blue slacks, longsleeved white blouse, simple pumps and panties that she neatly folded on the floor.

At twenty-three, the Trom Girl had the sleek athletic body of a swimmer or gymnast, with small firm breasts and narrow hips. She stood three inches over five feet tall, with a shock of tousled black hair over a foxlike inquisitive face. One benefit of having been raised by the cold super-rational Trom was that she had always followed a planned dietary and exercise regimen. Megan was about as healthy as a Human could reasonably achieve.

Hanging from a simple hook on the door was a white robe. She pulled it on, finding it had apparently been selected for her individually. The one-piece garment of thin linen had long sleeves which reached exactly to her wrists and its hem cleared the floor by an inch. There were no pockets and no hood. As she let the robe drape her, Megan felt an unaccustomed uneasiness.

It was rare that she could not contact her team. Nor her superiors on the Trom Council. She had no way to communicate with the outside world unless through chance or reconnaisance she found a telephone. Even though she had known this coming in, the siotuation still troubled her. Megan stood up straight, squared her narrow shoulders and left the changing room to face five of the Desert Kin.

They were all young women, well under thirty, and it seemed they had been deliberately chosen to represent an ethnic variety. One was a tall thin black girl with an oval face and short-cropped hair, one a pale redhead with green eyes and a snub nose, one curvy girl either Greek or Sicilian. Of the remaining two, one seemed Southeast Asian, possibly Vietnamese and the final Desert Kin was definitely from Central Mexico with some Mayan in her background. The assortment could not be accidental, Megan reflected. And they were all very good-looking, bordering on gorgeous. Their teeth and skin were perfect, their figures slim or voluptuous as appropriate, their hair shiny.

What she really found unsettling was the fixed smiles on their faces. They all looked so pleased with life and so beatific that it alarmed her. Their attitudes seemed forced. "I guess I'm ready," she announced with as much confidence as she could manage.

"Dear one, Sister, we will escort you to the garden," said the Vietnamese girl. "Be of good cheer. You have placed your feet on the correct path."

"Blessed be Our Lady of the Desert," added the black girl, still smiling as she placed a hand on Megan's back and gently pushed her toward the door.

Going along with the Desert Kin, the Trom Girl padded on bare feet along cold stone floors far beneath the earth. Soft diffused light came from indirect panels set high up on the bare sandstone walls. At long intervals, the corridor diverged into a Y-shape and they invariably went to the left. Several times, another of the Desert Kin hurried past on some mission, carrying bundles or sheaves of papers, and everyone smiled pleasantly as they passed.

Eventually, they arrived at double doors of polished cedar set at the end of the corridor. The five young women all gave each other immensely pleased smiles as they pressed the doors inward and urged Megan through, yet they themselves did not continue but remained outside. She went through into the chamber beyond.

Uncertain how to proceed, the Trom Girl stared around at a huge high-ceiling room filled with greenery. Many of the plants she did not recognize, including huge purple orchids three feet across and pointed ferns that swirled upward in spirals. The air was warm and damp, so fragrant that it made her dizzy.

Coming to meet her was a tall woman in one of the white robes. Just under six feet in height, solidly built, she had an imposing presence. She was the first of the Desert Kin that Megan had met who was middle-aged, with strong severe features and watchful hazel eyes. The thick black hair had strands of silver in it.

"Greeting, little Sister," she announced and indicated a plain stone bench. As the woman lowered herself to one end, Megan compliantly sat down with her body turned to face the leader of the Desert Kin.

"I don't know how to address you," the Trom Girl said.

"Call me Sister Lily for now," the older woman replied. "Your own name has not been revealed to before now. It is Sister Crocus."

"The first flower of Spring where I come from," Megan said. "Yes, I like that."

"It is well-suited to you." The same complacent half-smile touched the lips of Sister Lily. "You have been accepted here after passing hard trials and proving sincerity. The Wisdom of the Night is not given lightly."

So true, Megan thought. Her cover identity as 'Avery Scott' of Binghamton, New York, had been painstakingly prepared two years ago when she had first become a KDF member and a Tel Shai knight. Phone calls and searches of local newspapers would confirm that Avery Scott was a real if undistinguished person who had moved to Manhattan for a job as an intern at a real estate agency. Even personal visits to the office where she allegedly worked or the school she had supposedly attended would provide confirmation. Every KDF member had two such separate cover identies created with considerable pains and expense.

"Soon, you will be granted audience with Our Lady," Sister Lily said but her voice sounded like it was coming from an increasing distance. "The great privilege of being able to help her in her Work will be yours. Soon, Sister Crocus, you will assist in bringing the Wisdom of the Night to a suffering world which desperately needs it."

Megan was vaguely aware of the woman's pleasant contralto voice but everything else was becoming foggy. Was she getting enough oxygen? All these potent scents from the thousands of flowers added to a smothering aroma. Particularly, the scent of the deep purple orchids almost touching her face washed over her.

The Trom Girl involuntarily relaxed and let the soothing warmth and mixed fragrances flood her senses. All the stern discipline of her upbringing by the cold scientific non-Human minds of another Race fell away like a cast-off robe. She did not realize that she was now smiling in the same complacent way as the other Desert Kin.

( the rest of the story )

HAG OF THE SEAS: Goombah Island

4/22-4/23/2002

I.

Just after five on a warm misty afternoon, Bane walked along the streets of Sickle Harbor. Studying maps before arriving here, he had seen how the name must have originated. Protruding from the Northern California coast was a strip of land that curved into a semi-circular shape irresistably reminiscent of a sickle complete with handle. For more than a hundred years, boats had docked here and a small town had grown up, just under the size where it would get its own post office.

The Dire Wolf paused next to a hardware store and took in his surroundings with his inevitable wariness. Being suspicious of everyone in a strange place was so deeply ingrained that he could not have dismissed it with any amount of effort. Just over six feet tall, lean and ominous in his all-black outfit, Jeremy Bane was unsettling to anyone who did not know him. The pale grey eyes under dark feral brows watched the townspeople passing by, and the locals walked a little quicker when they saw him. The people in this town were apparently quite normal in appearance and wardrobe, from the three teenage boys sauntering insolently past to the little old lady trudging along holding a plastic shopping bag filled with food. Every one gave him an worried look as he passed.

Being regarded with uneasiness and even alarm did not trouble him. He was used to it and regarded it as useful. Bane moved down the main street, past an old-fashioned barber shop and stopped on the corner. Sitting next to his feet was a ratty black and white cat with a scrap of ribbon tied around its tail. The animal yawned and stretched and sauntered off.

The next block over was taken up by a trolley car that had been painted bronze and made into a diner. A simple blue neon sign on the roof read HOOLIGAN'S. A piece of cardboard in the long grimy window listed prices of items like hot roast beef sandwiches or clam chowder, with a few notable misspellings... 'Omelit with cheese' in particular caught his eye. The Dire Wolf decided this would be as good a place as any to start asking questions.

Inside were some round tables covered with white cloths, with wooden chairs spaced around them. Along the far wall was a counter lined with red leather stools, and behind that was a grill and oven. A refrigerator stood to one side with Post-It notes stuck all over it. Half hidden beside the refrigerator was a bucket of dirty water with a mop in it. Behind the counter, scrubbing a frying pan in a porcelain sink, was a huge hulking brute in white pants and short-sleeved shirt, with an apron tied over his bulging middle. Neither the apron nor anything else in the diner seemed particularly clean. The bare wooden floor had sawdust strewn over its surface.

There was only one other person in the diner, sitting on a stool at the end of the counter and sighing as if his heart was broken. Bane watched him uncertainly. He was middle-aged, quite obese with a round stomach and an equally round red-tinged nose that matched. The man had a short bristly mustache under that nose, slitted brown eyes that seemed almost shut and a mournful expression. From the way he was dressed, he had possessed considerable funds at some point... he was wearing grey striped trousers, dress shoes, a white shirt with a knitted silk tie and a dark grey suit jacket. A derby perched well back on his head.

But, Bane noticed at once, although the clothes had been expensive and tailored at one point, they were old and threadbare. A button was missing on one jacket sleeve. The shoes were scuffed, one had an instep starting to come loose. It had been a while since that shirt had been pressed or laundered. The soft chin and cheeks had two day's worth of stubble. Evidently, this stranger had come into a long run of bad luck. The Dire Wolf walked past him and dropped down on a stool midway up the counter.

Seeing a customer, the cook wiped his hands vigorously on a rag which he threw across one broad shoulder. "Welcome to Hooligan's, buddy. Whatcha want?"

Ravenous as always because of his enhanced metabolism, Bane felt his stomach rumble. "How about a nice thick hamburger? Fries or onion rings, and a glass of iced tea?" he answered.

"Ready in a blink," Hooligan laughed, mashing a thick wad of raw meat together between his mitts and slapping it down on the sizzling grill. A handful of onion rings from a bucket followed.

"Say, Hooligan, you might as well make that two," said the man in the derby. His voice was mellow and cultured. Bane immediately thought that the man sounded educated.

"Yeah?" snorted Hooligan. "What are you gonna use for money, Cadger?"

The man called Cadger turned pleading big brown eyes on the Dire Wolf. "I assure you, I'm expecting a royalty check in the mail. Tuesday at the latest..."

"No problem," Bane said, surprising himself. "Why not. Give my friend whatever he wants, okay?"

"Oh, and some mustard and pickle chips would be a touch of the divine," added the man. "Thank you so much, you will surely be rewarded by fate."

Leaning over, the cook rumbled, "He's a mooch, mister. Cadger'll try to get the fillings out of your teeth if you don't watch him."

Blissfully munching away on the hamburger, Cadger seemed not to hear. Watching the man eat, Bane found himself slightly amused. He had seen addicts react less happily over getting heroin. He himself dug into his own burger, which was greasy but not that bad. The Dire Wolf pushed his plate of onion rings over within reach and Cadger blithely helped himself.

When the food had vanished, Bane took a final sip of the iced tea and said, "Maybe you guys can give me directions. I've come to Sickle Port for a reason. I'm looking for one of the Three Sisters."

He might as well have said he was holding a live hand grenade. Hooligan froze in place and his face went white. Cadger peered forward, his eyes nearly closing again.

After a long moment, the fat man whispered, "Three Sisters?"

"Well, one of them anyway. The Hag of the Seas. I understand she has been known to be in this area." Bane glanced back and forth. "You two seem a little distressed."

"Out," growled Hooligan, slapping a wide flat hand down on the counter. "Right now, OUT!"

"Sure." The Dire Wolf placed more than enough cash on the counter and unhurriedly stood up. As he left the diner, he found Cadger accompanying him. Bane stood outside on the sidewalk and waited expectantly.

"The Hags of the Seas, the Mountain and the Desert," muttered Cadger. "Names not to be lightly spoken in this parts, Mr..?

"My name is Bane. Jeremy Bane. I've already tangled with agents of the Hag of the Mountains and now I find the Hag of the Seas is the only Sister I could get a lead on right now."

"Mr Bane... I dare say I can tell you are a man used to danger. It shows in your eyes and your voice. Perhaps I can introduce you to a local inhabitant of some renown."

"Yeah, who would that be?"

The fat man toyed nervously with his necktie, adjusted his derby and looked around him before answering. "Jake the Peg, the greatest enemy the Hag of the Seas ever had."

( the rest of the story )

"
"HAG OF THE MOUNTAIN I: Daughters of the Sunrise"

3/1-3/12/2002

Helena Petrides

I.

From forty feet behind the rear of the mansion, the guard thought she heard something. She leaned forward and stared into the darkness beyond the lawn, where elm trees rose to mark the hundred acres of forest that belonged to Sunrise. The tall woman reached to her belt for her flashlight and her other hand went to her coat pocket to feel the reassuring solidity of the Ruger. Then something stung the side of her neck, burning like the worst hornet sting ever. She slapped one hand up to her neck and just had time to pluck out a thin metal needle before the drug entered her system. In a second, she was confused and disoriented enough that she could not manage to yell. In another second, she was swaying and beginning to fall.

Flashing across the distance from the trees in an instant, a gaunt man all in black leaped to catch the unconscious guard before the woman could hit the ground. Jeremy Bane propped her against the cold stone wall of the mansion where she would be out of sight. Bane rose and glared suspiciously all around. He was wearing the full field suit, black boots and heavy pants and waist-length jacket with a dozen pockets full of weapons and gadgets. The visor on his helmet was lowered, a faint greenish sheen showing its light-amplifying function was working. To him, everything even in the gloom seemed clearly lit.

The Dire Wolf spotted nothing and heard no one else in the area. The anesthetic dart pistol was holstered behind his left hip and he carried a dozen more of the darts in the lower left pocket of his jacket where he could use them by hand. So far, he had encountered only the one guard. Bane was not happy about the mission. The building he was entering was the main headquarters of the movement called Sunrise. Call it a church or a cult or just a front for criminal enterprise, it was not the usual target for him. He had doubts about his mission tonight and doubts could lead to hesitation which would be disastrous. Normally, he was focused and single-minded in his goals.

The Dire Wolf moved over to the small back door. Unclipping the Link from his belt, he took readings on the small electronic device and found no traces of an alarm system. That simplified things. He tried the door, found it unlocked and slipped through into a dim kitchen with only a single nightlight burning in one corner. The room still smelled faintly of beef stew, which must have been the evening meal for the Daughters of Sunrise. Bane moved through double swinging doors into a huge dining hall with a long table that could seat sixty people at a time, with two smaller tables flanking it. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, there were standing buffet tables and benches along the mahogany-paneled walls. This room had a single lamp burning on an end table, and by its light he saw the portrait of Father John.

Twice as large as life size, the handsome square-jawed face of a man in his early fifties smiled down with a benevolent firmness. Father John had short crisp grey hair and deepset dark eyes. This was a photograph but it had been tweaked enough that it almost seemed like a painting. Bane would see that identical portrait a dozen times throughout the mansion. Moving past the dining room, peering out carefully to a grand hall with a marble staircase, the Dire Wolf thumbed his right ear pod to raise the helmet's visor. He preferred to rely on his own senses. Deciding the coast was clear at the moment, he hurdled up the staircase faster than most people could run on a level surface and froze as he reached the first landing.

The furnishings were all solid and imposing, showing wealth without being gaudy. A row of massive wooden doors faced him, separated by chairs or potted plants or standings holding small statuary. In an open space on the opposite wall, that same portrait of Father John smiled pleasantly over a case holding a bound set of his speeches. Around the corner, the sound of quiet regular breathing could be heard. Bane stole down the hallway so silently that he seemed to float. After his decades of Kumundu training, he would need to exert a conscious effort to make noise when walking. He peeked around the corner, ready to react to any attack instantly.

Leaning back in a chair propped up against the wall behind her was another guard. This one was engrossed in a news magazine. She was dressed in a plain white blouse and dark pants, studying the magazine with a surly demeanor. She looked like someone waiting for an appointment with a doctor. Moving like a shadow, Bane took a dart from his own jacket pocket, reached around the corner and jabbed it into the side of the guard's neck before swinging back out of sight.

There was a vague grunt of discomfort, then the sound of deeper breathing. The Dire Wolf came around to catch the sleeping guard before she could slide off the chair. He set the sleeping woman up so she would stay in place, reclaimed the spent dart and then on second thought picked up the magazine from where it had fallen and spread it across the cultist's lap. He thought neither guard had gotten even a glimpse of him. The Trom-formulated drug in the darts would usually keep a person senseless for about an hour, then leave another fifteen minutes or so of nausea and dizziness. He planned on being gone long before that.

Bane opened the door nearest the slumbering guard and stepped into an office that could have belonged to an Oxford professor from an earlier generation. A massive dark wood desk with two landline phones, bookshelves with reference books and literary classics, prints of historical events on the walls, even a three-foot globe of the earth standing in one corner. This was one area where no portrait of Father John was to be seen, possibly because he did not needed to be reminded of his own presence.

Light from the open doorway was sufficient for the moment. Before he did anything else, Bane picked up the lamp on the desk and found that its base unscrewed. He opened it and stuck a small electronic device inside that adhered magnetically, tightened the base again and replaced the lamp. Taking the Link from his belt, the Dire Wolf quickly began snapping shots of loose papers on the desk, of the appointment book by the phones, of the contents of the desk drawers. He did not do more than glance at what he was photographing. There would be time to study the results later. Only the bottom drawer was locked but before he could use the Trom device to open it, he heard singing.

An eerie beautiful melody that sounded vaguely Celtic drifted up from downstairs, women's voices singing acapella. He could not make out the words and suspected they were in a language he had not heard before. Bane went down the staircase slowly, keeping close to the wall until he saw that the procession of robed figures were gazing down at their feet and not likely to spot him. They seemed to be all female, wrapped in baggy golden robes which reached to the floor and which had cowls that shrouded their heads completely.

They were proceeding at an exceedingly slow pace. Walking in single file, each cult member took a step, paused, then took the next step. They were marching at a glacial pace to match their song. As he waited impatiently, he saw that the last woman in the procession was tall, maybe five feet nine or ten, and this gave him an irresistable idea. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he waited until the final member of the procession passed by him before acting. Holding an anesthetic dart in one hand, he clapped his other hand over the woman's mouth to clamp it shut while jabbing the dart into her neck.

In a few seconds, the cultist had gone limp. Bane placed her in the shadowed space beneath the staircase and yanked off the golden robe. The woman was quite young, high school aged, with frizzy black hair and a round face. Beneath the robe she had been wearing dark pants and white shirt but Bane hardly noticed her appearance as he was quickly tugging the robe on over his head and moving forward to join the tail end of the procession.

Hunching down slightly, the Dire Wolf was relieved to see that no one had noticed the abrupt replacement of one of their number. The entire maneuver had been quick and almost silent, and the singing had helped cover up the unavoidable rustle of cloth. Bane brought up the rear, walking with the same rhythmn as the others, head down. Ahead, he saw the line of robed figures was passing through double doors that stood open to reveal a chamber blazing with brilliant light.

( the rest of the story )

"The Land Beyond the Law"

10/1/2002

I.

There were two uniformed officers in the hall outside. Their image showed on the monitor mounted high on the wall of the tiny reception room. Coming to a halt on his way from the inner office, Jeremy Bane studied them warily. Every detail seemed authentic, from the shoes to the regulation haircuts. He couldn't spot anything that gave them away as imposters. Both men were about his own height of six feet even, both in their early thirties, both fairly fit-looking. The Dire Wolf watched as one pressed the buzzer again.

Now in his mid-forties, Bane still looked almost the same as he had at twenty-one. He was still gaunt and restless, still wearing all black, still regarding the world through cold grey eyes in a narrow feral face. He opened the door to the hallway casually enough, but he did stand back just out reach as he did so. "Yes, officers?"

"Are you Jeremy Bane?"

"I might be. Why do you ask?"

The nearer cop sighed. This close, it could be seen he had suffered a little acne as a youth, enough to help identify him. "Lt Montez sent us to come get you."

"Am I under arrest? Or being detained as a material witness?"

( the rest of the story )

"The Heartless Men"

1/20/2002

I.

The old man left his car parked in a tow-away zone on Third Avenue, right near the warning sign. It was the least of his concerns. At seven o'clock on a cold winter night, he slowly got out from behind the wheel and walked stiffly down the block with the dogged determination of someone who is drunk or ill but wants to conceal his condition. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. A little under six feet tall, rather overweight, dressed in a dark overcoat, he had a round sullen face and a noticeable bald spot.

Standing at the corner of 44th Street, he paused before a small four-story yellow brick building that held several doctors'offices, a spa and a graphic arts company. Moving through the glass double doors, he entered the lobby. To his left was an elevator and a short hallway. Ahead were wide stairs going upward. On the wall by his right hand was a plaque listing the various businesses occupying the building, and he leaned forward to peer at the one listing he was looking for. There. Right on the first floor. DIRE WOLF AGENCY. As he read this, he swayed and almost dropped.

Slower and slower, the man turned and trudged across the lobby. He made it to the short hallway. At its end was a metal door that led outside, with a sign EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. On the wall to its left was a plain dark wood door with a brass plate that read DIRE WOLF AGENCY. The man did not get that far. Before his hand could reach the doorknob, he gave a low mournful groan and spun to fell face up. The back of his head hit the carpeted floor and bounced once, his eyes staying open. Inside the Dire Wolf agency were two rooms; the smaller reception area held only a few chairs, a low table with a magazine or two, and not much else. The inner door suddenly swung open and Jeremy Bane stepped out.

Now hitting forty-five, the Dire Wolf himself had not changed much over the years. There was no thickening of the waist, no softening of the jawline. Only a grey hair here and there and two faint lines at the corners of the thin mouth showed time had passed. Bane was still a tall, lean man who dressed all in black and who watched the world through cold grey eyes. Sitting at his desk in the inner office, he had thought he had heard something and checked the tiny camera he had installed himself in the hall outside. There was a man lying on the floor right outside his door. Swiveling the camera, he had spotted no one else out there and now he opened the door to step out into the hall.

For a long minute, Bane did not move. He stood over the body, studying it, memorizing every detail. He knew the man, but he barely recognized him... twenty years had left its marks on that face. Bending over, Bane reached into his jacket and pulled on thin black latex gloves. Very lightly, barely making contact, he examined the body and found no obvious signs of violence until he opened one button on the faded blue work shirt. There was a hole in the man's chest, a big one, its edges long ago sealed as if healed. Yet there was no heart within that cavity. A strange gleam sparked in the Dire Wolf's eyes and he let out a deep breath. The Midnight War was on again. Going through the man's pockets, Bane found only keys and money and a cigarette lighter. No wallet, no ID.

Standing up, Bane went to the lobby and warily looked through the glass door to the street outside. No one he could see. Taking the Link from his belt, he called a specific extension on 20th Street and hoped he would get Montez. For the longest moment, there was no answer and then someone picked up.

"Lieutenant Montez? This is Jeremy Bane. Yes, again. And again, I have something for you. I just found something in front of my office that I think you will want to see. Bring forensics. No, there's no hurry. He's not going anywhere and neither am I. Yes. Yeah, I know you love hearing from me." Breaking the connection and putting the Link away, Bane jammed the gloves back in his pocket. As always, he wore all black- slacks, sport jacket and a turtleneck, almost a uniform for him. He did not have to wait long before he saw the flashing red and blue lights outside and two uniformed officers came into the lobby, followed immediately by the obese bulk of Lieutenant Joseph Montez. Bane settled back for a long two hours of questions as the CSI people did their work. After the first twenty minutes, Montez took him over to a corner of the lobby.

"I saw the video from the lobby camera," he said bluntly. "The guy walked in under his own steam, but unsteady. He dropped by your office door. We can see his feet but we can't see you coming out. So right now, it looks like you are not going to be charged with anything. Did you remove anything from the body?"

"No," came the single word. "I did check his condition and found he was dead. And I did notice the funny thing about his chest."

Montez grimaced. He was once been a handsome man with thick wavy black hair and a movie-star smile but the pounds had been been put on steadily and now he was seriously overweight. "Yeah. That. What do you make of it, Bane?"

"So far, I don't know what to think any more than you do. There's a hole where his heart should be. I took a good look. The edges are clean. No blood. Frankly, it looks to me as if the wound had healed long ago, but of course there's no way he could be walking around like that."

"Of course! It's something that just couldn't happen, just like a hundred other things that just couldn't happen and most of them seem to end up at your feet, Mr Dire Wolf!"

Bane raised his eyebrows mildly. "Montez, you worked with Inspector Klein this last year before his death. I know you had long talks with him about who I am and the work I do."

"That's right," Montez spat angrily. "Klein was a good man, a good cop. I know he used you as an unofficial weapon. Look, Bane, I'm not blind. I know that there are weird things going on at night in this city. I know there are things out there preying on people, things that just should not exist. I didn't want to believe in them, I'm a good Catholic boy and I don't want to believe in the monsters that run around in the dark of the moon. But I have to accept what I've seen and I had to agree with Klein when he told me you were the best defense against these things."

Bane had looked over at the forensic examiners. They were packing up their equipment and a couple of EMTS were putting a stretcher down to load the body. "The CSI will be coming over in a minute, Lt.... They're almost done."

"Let me finish. So Klein convinced me that the city benefits from you. That you can go out after these monsters and psychos and take them down. But I don't have to like it! I don't like it at all."

The Dire Wolf did not react. With the death from a heart attack of Inspector Klein not long ago, he had expected to have to start all over again struggling against suspicion and resistance from the NYPD. But Bane had established himself over the years. The police did not exactly trust him, they certainly never made public statements about his unofficial status handling cases that reeked of the supernatural and the occult. But they were pragmatic enough to accept how useful Bane had become.

Montez waddled over to confer with the examiners for ten minutes, then returned to Bane. "One more time, pal. You know that man?"

"I can't identify him," Bane said. "Did they find anything useful?"

"Yeah, there's one thing, in the hole in the chest were a few chips of rock. Black rock. They haven't identified it yet. Those poor bastards, they're not going to sleep for a few days because they can't figure this out. The guy should have been dead, yet the video shows him walking in here. I can't imagine what their reports are going to say."

"They've got their problems, we've got ours. I'll tell you right now this is from the Midnight War. It's supernatural. There is no rational explanation."

Montez shuddered visibly. "I hate the spirit world. I hate ghost stories, I got the creeps so bad right now."

"Come into my office and we'll talk further," Bane offered.

"No, no, thanks but I got a truckload of paperwork to do tonight after all this. Listen. I know I don't have to tell you to stay in the city, I know you're going to investigate this on your own."

"Without a client and with no fee in sight," Bane smiled wryly. "I'm not much of a detective."

Montez nodded at him and turned to stomp off without saying anything more.

( the rest of the story )

"The Horror From the Frozen Waste"

12/3-12/6/2002

I.

The entire world seemed to be an absolute contrast of black and white, the utter darkness of an overcast sky without stars or moon above and hundreds of miles of snow and ice below them. The stealthcopter CORBY sped through the night with eerie silence. Someone standing on the frozen ground below would have heard nothing more than a vague whisper as the craft whipped by overhead. Nor was it showing any lights. Breaking a dozen laws as usual, the CORBY was a black silent shape that was almost impossible to detect.

In the cabin, Lauren Sable Reilly was at the control sticks. She was wearing the full KDF field suit, including the helmet which was patched in to the ship's systems so she could read displays directly on the inside of her visor. Sable had not spoken for forty minutes and Unicorn couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"Hey, captain," blurted out the little blonde in the co-pilot seat, "Why the hell is this place called Greenland anyway? It should be called Frozen Useless Waste if you ask me. Did it used to be nice and something happened or what?" Ashley Whitaker was also wearing the field suit of heavy boots, snug pants and waist-high jacket with its inner layer of armor and dozen hidden gadgets. But she had left her helmet off, and the long platinum blonde hair shone like silver in the subdued pastel lights of the cabin.

"I really have to concentrate," Sable snapped, but continued in a softer tone. "We have winds out there of seventy miles an hour with gusts up to one hundred, and even the CORBY needs to be flown carefully under those conditions." She reached over and patted her teammate on the shoulder. "Unless you want to take the stick?"

"Yeah, right," Unicorn said. "Like I'm half as good a pilot as you are. Sorry, Sable, I just can't keep silent for too long. Tell you what. I'm going to crawl in the back and maybe ask Trom Girl to come up here. Okay?"

"That's a good idea," Sable answered. "I want her to start taking some readings. Yeah, go ahead."

Unbuckling the restraint straps across her chest and shins, Ashley slid open the clear partition behind the seats and squeezed through into the rear compartment. This was a simple metal compartment, with a bench on one side that sat three people comfortably. The other wall was taken up with rows of drawers holding supplies and equipment. As Unicorn entered, a young woman sitting on the floor in front of those drawers glanced up.

Megan Salenger was a Human orphan who had been raised by the Trom, but although her mind had been raised to genius levels, she still retained normal emotions. At twenty-three, she was a slim woman of medium height, with a shock of thick black hair and dark alert eyes in an inquisitive face. Like the others, she was wearing a KDF field suit but hers had even more gadgets and devices built into it. As Unicorn entered the compartment, Trom Girl slid the drawer shut where she had been taking inventory.

"Hey there, science nerd!" Ashley sang out cheerfully. "Everything in its proper place?"

"As far as I can tell," answered Megan. "But it seems someone has hidden three KitKat candy bars in the medical supplies."

"Well, sure. What if I get low blood sugar? Or just depressed?"

Megan got up on her knees to face the blonde. "Aren't you on co-pilot duty, Ashley?"

"Aw, captain wants you to start taking readings. I guess we're getting near the UN base she mentioned." Unicorn turned and leaned back against the wall of equipment drawers. "Maybe she'll even explain why we're out here in so-called Greenland."

"We'll see," Trom Girl said as she crawled up through the partition, closing it behind her. Unicorn stretched her legs out and grinned at the two men seated on the bench opposite her. "So you boys having as much fun as I am?"

"About the same, I figure," Josef grunted. He had been dozing, it seemed.

Next to him, Sheng Mo-Yuan lowered the newspaper he had brought and tucked the pen inside it, next to the half-finished crossword puzzle. He looked Northern Chinese, but something about the beaked nose and high cheekbones contradicted that. Actually from the realm of Chujir, Sheng had the ability to use gralic force to enhance his body's strength or speed or durability but only one attribute at a time. He smirked at Unicorn and said, "Let me guess. Sable was too quiet and you can't keep from talking that long, right?"

Ashley laughed quietly. "Jeez, you guys are getting to know me too well. I can't get away with anything."

From the cabin, Sable announced, "The United Nations Research Facility BOREAS is just ahead. We'll be landing in three minutes. Everyone get gear ready, including helmets. The reading is nineteen below out there, not counting the wind chill."

( the rest of the story )