dochermes

"When Thousands Fled In Terror"

5/4- 5/5/2013

I.

Just before midnight, Johnny Packard pulled his Harley into the garage next to the Provenzano's venerable Oldsmobile and pulled the sliding door down so it locked into place. Having a secure place to leave his bike was one reason why he had chosen this house to rent a room. He stretched and sighed wearily, left his helmet hanging from a handlebar and grabbed his black Stetson out of the saddlebag. He would never leave it out of sight. The cursed Darthan token still tucked in its beaded hatband was what made him the Brimstone Kid in actuality as well as name.

Standing five feet five in his boots and weighing no more than a hundred and fifty pounds, Johnny was a wiry energetic man. He seemed to be about thirty, but exposure to the elements and a rough lifestyle had given him a weathered look. The shaggy red hair and deepset green eyes gave his lean face a distinctive look. When he had pulled in off the street, he had seen that no lights were on in the house, meaning Mr and Mrs Provenzano had gone to bed for the night. That was fine with him. He was in no mood to sit and chat with them.

Memories from his previous life had started coming back.

Walking as quietly as he could, the Kid went through the connecting door, across the kitchen and into his rented room at the rear of the house. This had been the room of the Provenzano's son Charles before he had gotten married and moved out of state. It was close to both the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen, which Johnny had been given free use of. He closed the door behind him and did not turn on the light but simply sat down on the bed which was within reach.

In the darkness, the Brimstone Kid tugged off his boots and unbuttoned his denim jacket. He had been wearing two gunbelts across his chest in an X under that jacket, each holstering a heavy Colt .45 revolver. Getting them off was a relief. Dropping the jacket on the floor next to the bed and placing the gunbelts on top of it, he groped for the nightstand and placed his hat where he could instantly grab it.

Finally, Johnny stretched out on top of the covers and folded his arms behind his head. All day, he had been getting images in his head and they were connecting now into a narrative. This had happened several times since his Preincarnation, and he had always welcomed remembering what he still regarded as his real life. But this time, he was uneasy and apprehensive without knowing why.

Lying in the dark, letting thoughts wash over him without resisting, Johnny felt that the time in his memories was after the turn of the century, a decade after 1900. He caught a reference to the war about to break in Europe, which meant maybe 1913 or 1914. He himself seemed to be about fifty, wearing Eastern clothes including a bowler hat he found himself toying with.

Where was he though? Not New York City, not even the Northeast. Maybe Missouri? St Louis seemed right. He began to remember running down dark streets where gas lampposts were scattered far apart, he felt again the pain of a bruising brawl with two big men who tackled him from a shadowy doorway. There were images of bright gunflashes in the night. What had been going on? He had gotten his fool self in hot water all his life. Was this how he had died?

Then, sharp and horribly vivid, came the sight of a skeleton in a coarse burlap robe, moving about as if alive, grinning with skinless jaws and clapping bony hands together. No. Wait. He had one better glimpse as the apparition held up a torch. In that light, the contours of a normal body could seen as a vague outline. The monster was a human being, but somehow every part of him except the bones was invisible.

Johny shuddered. Now he could remember. The Skeleton. A deadly sorcerer, responsible for many deaths and much misery. He saw himself standing over the horror's outstretched body with bright arterial blood spreading out on the robe. Johnny felt himself holstering one of his Peacemakers beneath his Colt, its barrel still hot. "Yore done for this time, amigo, make no mistake about that," his voice said.

"You fool!" came a hollow ghoulish voice in reply. "The final victory shall be mine. I had time to lay down my most powerful curse. It is Darthan magick of the darkest kind, drawing on that which suffers beneath the Burning Pyramid..."

"What'dya mean by that, ugly?" he had said. "Talk sense."

A wet coughing spell convulsed the warlock. The skull spat up blood and struggled to speak. "You will not be around to see it, hellbound one. My spell will grow and deepen for a full hundred years. Then the world of Humans shall fall. Every last one will die as they deserve!" He gasped and wheezed.

"Godammit, NOW yore gonna die? When I need ya to talk? Skeleton, what curse? What are yuh talking about?"

The skull coughed up more blood, turning to one sides. "The Wall Between the Worlds. A fiend from Hell itself, freed at last.. in one hundred years from this night... Blood will run in rivers..." Then the grisly head lolled to one side and the death rattle sounded.

Suddenly sitting up in the dark, breathing heavily, Johnny Packard rolled over and leaped to his feet. He had to go. Right now. He would leave a note for Mr and Mrs Provenzano and grab only a few needful items. The nearest airport was in Denver, he could get there in a hour and see what the next flight to New York City was. He would find his former teammates in the KDF, and the Dire Wolf, warn them of what he had recalled. But he had a sinking feeling even they would not be able to stop the coming disaster.

( the rest of the story )

"Worst Assassination Attempt Ever"

9/30/2014

I.

As a few minutes before nine, Jeremy Bane walked up to the four-story yellow brick office on 40th Street and 3rd Avenue. It had been more than two weeks since he had last been in his office. He had been wandering upstate, getting as far north as Cortland before making a vague semi-circle to the east and coming back down to the Hudson Valley. At Syracuse, the State Troopers had recognized him and had asked if he wanted to help out busting a drug ring from Colombia but he had politely told him he was already occupied with something now and moved on. All the way back to Manhattan, he had regretted his decision and had even turned around and started back up before deciding he had to stand by his decision. There was nothing Midnight War about ecstasy and heroin, and the police were better trained and equipped for that sort of thing. Maybe if vampires or Trolls had been involved...

Now, on this warm September morning, Bane stepped through the sliding glass double doors into a cool dim lobby. To his right was the walk-in clinic Emergency One. To his left was a bank of mail boxes. He unlocked the one marked DIRE WOLF AGENCY and found only a yellow index card that read PLEASE SEE MANAGER. Bane shrugged and walked up a flight of stairs to a wooden door with a frosted glass panel STEVEN GOLDFARB - BUILDING MANAGER. He knocked and a pleasant woman's voice told him to enter.

The Dire Wolf entered a tasteful reception room, nicely carpeted, with prints on the walls and a door to an inner office. Behind a desk sat a young, busty woman with lovely shiny black hair she took great care with. She was wearing a dark suit over a white silk blouse and put down a phone as he entered.

"Ah, Jeremy. We have something for you."

"Hello, Ellen. I've been away."

The manager's daughter handed him a plastic supermarket bag absolutely stuffed with mail. "Wish I lived as interesting a life as you do! All I get is tweets about what my sister had for lunch."

Bane took the bag and glanced in it. "I'm thinking about retiring."

"What, close the Dire wolf agency? Who would keep the creatures of night under control?"

He gave her one of his faint smiles. She was not jesting. The Goldfarb family had been victimized many years ago by the Preinarnators and a young Jeremy Bane had stepped in to intervene and save two children. Old Steven Goldfarb never forgot and it was the reason he overlooked the many building regulations Dire Wolf broke regularly.

"I'm don't need the money, Ellen. Maybe I'm only fifty-seven this year but they've been rough years."

"Oh, come on, you look maybe thirty at the most, and a really great thirty at that. I wish my boyfriend kept as slim and trim as you. Don't retire. I'd miss all the crazy characters who come here to see you."

Bane turned away. "Maybe I'll keep the office for consultations. Appointment only."

As he left, Ellen sang out cheerfully, "In any case, pick up your mail more often!"

Bane turned outside the door and trotted down the steps to the first floor. He did look young, despite all the damage he had survived. Partly this was the Tagra tea diet Tel Shai provided him with, partly it was that he never drank or smoke and had kept in peak athletic condition his entire life. There were few grey strands yet in a full head of black hair, and only faint lines at the corners of his mouth, he had not changed much. At the bottom of the stairs, he swung right down a short narrow hallway that ended with a metal EXIT ONLY sign. To the left was a brass plate DIRE WOLF AGENCY. Bane unlocked the door and stepped into a tiny reception room barely big enough for two chairs and coffee table with a few newspapers. It was stuffy. He turned on the overhead fan and tore off the sheet on the wall calendar.

Opening the door to his office, Bane turned on the air conditioner to blast fresh air in. Closing the door behind him, he flicked the overhead lights and crossed over to the desk. Strangely, he felt little enthusiasm where normally he was eager to get started. His phone blinked to indicate he had voice messages. Hanging his black sport jacket over his chair, he lowered himself down and started dividing the mail into the stacks. Bills and notices over to the left. Reports from his network of agents, to the right. Junk, in the wastepaper basket. Actual letters from people he did not know went into a stack in the center.

The bills and legal notices could wait. Everything had been paid up before he had left. The reports from his agents he skimmed through quickly. Bane paid retainers to a dozen or so people to keep him updated on anything relating to the Midnight War they spotted. Most were in the NYC area, but there was Golden Jaguar in Los Angeles, the Chen family in Hong Kong and Chelsea Muir in Lodon. He glanced over the reports, but nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be up. The truth was, the Midnight War had been in a slump for years. With the original KDF, Bane had wiped out most of the real masterminds like Karl Eldritch, Wu Lung, John Grim and Arem Kamende. Few crime lords of that caliber had emerged since. The creatures of the night and the denizens of the adject realm were appearing more rarely and more cautiously. The human race was mostly facing problems of its own doing these days.

By now, it was getting past ten-thirty, and Bane was still restless as ever. He got up, stretched, and paced around the office for a few minutes. The Trom security devices he had installed still blinked green. The protective Eldanar talisman over the door was cool to the touch. Bane squatted before the waist-high refrigerator next to the bookcase. Nothing perishable was ever in there. Bottled water, bags of peanuts and dried fruit, some corn chips and saltines. He took a water bottle and the corn chips and plopped down on the long leather couch under the window on 3rd Avenue.

Glumly, the Wolf stared up at the ceiling as he munched. Maybe it WAS time to retire. He had been fighting madmen and monsters all his life. Let the youngsters in the new KDF take over. Although he lived simply, Bane was a millionaire many times over; he could spent his time on the beach at Hawaii or skiing the Alps, eating gourmet food in Europe, just visiting old friends and colleagues around the world. When was the last time he had seen Steven Weaver? Or Tang Ming? For that matter, when had he spent more than a few days at Tel Shai? Bane had a sudden vision of himself with a white beard and a beer belly, politely listening to tales of old times in some beachfront bistro late at night. With a shudder, he jumped up and went back to his desk.

Going through the letters from people he didn't know, Bane discarded most of them. Some were offers for regular detective work, divorce cases or employee theft or runaway teens. Later, he would type out replies referring them to regular detective agencies in the NYC area. But some of these requests for his help were intriguing. Reports from three different observers in Oklahoma of what sure sounded like a group of pterodactyls. A baby was missing, and any number of dogs. Then, someone had seen chalky white-skinned naked men with red eyes coming up to parked cars in Florida. That was a new one. There were a couple more curiosities, including a report from California of an impending gang war between the Children of the Golden Jaguar and the Roar Devils. He wouldn't mind helping out Marisol and her Jaguars, they were okay, but LA just rubbed him the wrong way. Bane went through the requests again more thoughtfully, then put them back in their envelopes. From his desk, he took out a big manila envelope and managed to get all the letters in it. He had reached a decision.

Shrugging into his jacket, Bane turned off the lights and the AC, went through the tiny reception room and out into the hallway. The sunlight through the glass doors startled him after the subdued lighting off his office. Out on the street, he suddenly perked up and began striding quickly west toward 38th Street and Lexington Avenue.

( the rest of the text )

"Seventeen Twins"

7/5-7/6/2004

I.

A muggy evening in early July, with tempers short everywhere and drivers taking crazy risks. Jeremy Bane crossed 20th Street in lower Manhattan and trotted up wide stone steps to the front door of the police station he knew best. The glass door was unlocked, but he had to be buzzed in from the tiny lobby into the waiting room by a uniformed cop sitting behind a counter. The officer knew Bane as soon as he came into view, and nodded in a not unfriendly manner. Six feet tall and gaunt, dressed all in black as always, the Dire Wolf was easy to recognize. The pale grey eyes under the feral black brows never changed, nor did the wary suspicion in them.

The waiting room had two benches with the usual despondent winos and sullen petty thieves waiting to be processed, as well as two well-dressed middle-aged women likely there to bail someone out. Beyond a flanking pair of plain wooden doors stood a desk elevated on a platform so that people had to look up, a rather obvious psychological trick that nevertheless worked. On one side of the desk was the flag of the State of New York, on the other was the flag of the United States, and on the wall behind was a large portrait of the current Mayor of New York City... all this to impress the gravity of the situation on first offenders.

The Dire Wolf had been here many times under different circumstances. As he approached, the sergeant behind the desk put down a clipboard and grumbled, "You again. I suppose we can expect five or six bodies this time?"

"I do my best," Bane answered. As he spoke, a man in a lightweight tan suit stood up from a straightback wooden chair beside the desk and tucked a large manila folder under one arm. He would have been quite good-looking if he had been able to keep his weight down but it had been a losing battle for some time. He grinned as he saw the Dire Wolf again.

"Hiya, Bane," said Lt Joseph Montez with a Lower East Side accent, stepping forward. "Got a beauty for you this time."

"Evening, lieutenant," Bane replied. "I came as soon as I got your call. What's the situation?"

"Follow me. Through this door. Let me ask, did you ever hear of Milo Nicosia?"

"Nicosia? Sure," said the Dire Wolf. "Career criminal, lots of heists all over Europe. He never quite made the ranks of the very best, but he's done all right over the years."

Montez led the way down a dim corridor lined with rows of doors with frosted glass panels, behind which frequent arguments could be heard. At the end of the hall was a nook with a coffee machine, some Danish on a tray and two chairs, and next to this was a solid wooden door with the number 11 on it. The lieutenant rapped on that door sharply, an officer peered out and then let the two of them in.

It was a good-sized room with white plaster walls, lights in the ceiling that were brighter than they needed to be, and a chipped old wooden table surrounded by some folding chairs. Sitting motionless in two of those chairs were two men who looked alike. Both were tall, skinny, with thinning black hair and a prominent ratlike nose under which a trimmed pencil mustache sat. Both men wore polished black loafers, blue slacks and a bright orange crewneck shirt. They were gazing down at the floor and did not seem to be aware of Montez and Bane entering the room.

"I don't suppose they confessed?" Montez asked the officer.

"Nah. Not a peep. They just sit there."

He snorted angrily. "I wasn't hoping for much. Well, Mr Dire Wolf, whaddaya think?"

Bane had stepped toward the prisoners and started to speak, then stopped. He was staring, bending closer and studying the two men. For a long moment, he was as unmoving as they were. "Good job," he said at last. "I can't tell if it's plastic surgery or Hollywood make-up artists or what, but I can't tell one from the other."

"They look alike, huh?" asked Montez with a grin.

"Exactly alike. Every detail I can spot. Fingerprints?"

"Fingerprints match each other, which is to say they match Nicosia." Montez pulled out a chair and plopped down opposite the two motionless prisoners. "Funny."

"It has to be surgery then," Bane said. "Unless.."

Montez glanced over at him. "Unless it's something from your weird area of the twilight zone, the Midnight War. That's what I was thinking. That's why I called you tonight."

"I see. Yeah. What are the circumstances of their arrest?"

"Okay. See, this guy here? He's Nicosia One. He was nabbed swiping some goodies from Schneider's Jewelry in Time Square. Didn't resist arrest, just came quietly. Wouldn't answer questions, just sat there like he's deaf. And an hour later, THIS joker, Nicosia Two, was busted down on 32nd Street and Lexington, after breaking into a pharmaceutical storeroom. Same story, silent as a clam. When Two was brought here, the officers in charge nearly had cardiac arrest and they brought me in because I am well known as the investigator to go to where weirdness happens." The lieutenant leaned back again. "And that's because I usually drag you into it."

"I'm glad you did," Bane muttered absently. He was scrutinizing the two identical men in fascination. "Not sure what we're dealing with here. Has a doctor examined them?"

"Can't do that without consent," said Montez. "Or if they appear to be in distress, which they're not."

The Dire Wolf reached out to take the wrist of the nearer man, then stared up at the clock on the wall for thirty seconds. "Pulse is fifty-eight per minute. Way slow. Skin is clammy, I'd guess temperature at ninety-one or two. I can see them breathing, deep but slow. Surprising they're not in a coma, but they are sitting upright without trouble."

Getting up again, Montez straightened with a little effort. He had been in good shape not so long ago. "Little disappointed, Bane. I expected you to know immediately just what these boys are."

Bane did not reply right away. After a minute, he started to turn toward the door. "I want to check a few ideas, lieutenant. Keep me informed if anything happens with these two."

"And where are you going to be? If I might ask."

"I'll be looking for the real Milo Nicosia."

( the rest of the story )

"The Teen Tyrants"

11/1-11/5/2012

I.

Four o'clock in the morning. In a furnished basement complete with a huge flatscreen TV and professional quality sound system, three fifteen-year-olds set up their chairs behind a polished mahogany table that had been upstairs in the dining room. According to Bossy Girl, they had at least two months before the family who owned this house would be back from their South American cruise and the three Tyrants could trash the place if they liked.

The one called Bossy Girl took a seat between the two boys. She was a strawberry blonde with a good trim figure and an oval face that was basically pretty despite some acne. The purple sweater and purple jeans she wore clashed horribly with her coloring. Maybe this was deliberate. She gave her two partners impatient stares as they took their time getting settled.

To her left, Friction Boy tilted his head back as far as it would go to get the last drop from the can of Death Sentence Energy Drink. He was a tall gangly kid whose arms and legs seemed too long for his body. Lank black hair hung down over his face and swung over his neck. Friction Boy was also in a monochrome outfit, a bright red long-sleeved shirt and red sweatpants. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and enjoyed a belch.

"That stuff will kill you and I'm not kidding," Bossy Girl told him. "Someday your heart will just blow up inside your chest."

"Who cares?" he said. "It's my heart and my life."

On the other side of the girl, the second boy laughed. Halo Boy had a square good-looking face under a buzzcut so short he might as well have shaved his head and gotten it over with. He was wearing a black pullover with white collar and cuffs, but wore white pants that had vertical black stripes and the effect was slightly confusing. "There's worse stuff you could be drinking," he said. "Like what your old man finishes off every night-"

"I told you to shut up about my dad!"

"Both of you, stop talking," Bossy Girl barked in a voice that had a strange echoing quality to it. They obeyed instantly but fixed resentful glares at her. "That's better," she said. "Let's get real here. We have three applicants tonight, I bet Rubber-Arms will be showing them down here any minute. Let's impress them."

"Hah!" snorted Friction Boy, tossing the empty can under their table. "If they know enough about us to wanna join, they must already have a healthy respect for the Tyrants."

"True that," Halo Boy agreed. "Even the cops have learned to leave the Teen Tyrants alone. We've got this miserable little town under our thumbs."

Raising one hand in a typically imperious gesture, Bossy Girl said, "Has either of you heard any theories about why so many kids are developing weird powers? Doesn't it seem... ominous?"

"Nothing on the news. I checked Whazzup.com for the local chat and there's nothing," said Friction Boy.

"It sure worries me," Halo Boy admitted. "People seem afraid to even talk about it. In the past year, there must have been twenty high school kids suddenly being able to change their eye color or to turn TVs on and off by looking at them. But no one is willing to say anything."

"Maybe they're right to be afraid," said Bossy Girl. She looked back and forth at her two partners. "Look at the three of us. Since last winter, we have been able to rob Sedgewick blind and the cops act like nothing is happening. What's going on?"

She paused as the door at the top of the wooden stairs opened. A boy their age stuck his head in and said, "They're here." He was wearing a white T-shirt with the logo SCARABS FINAL WORLD TOUR on the front.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Bossy Girl snapped. "Come on, let's go."

Led by Rubber-Arms, two more girls and a boy came down the stairs hesitantly. They seemed a few years older than the three already seated at the table, maybe seventeen or eighteen.

"Welcome to the Teen Tyrants auditions," Bossy Girl announced as if speaking to an audience of thousands. "Let's get this over with. You, the Oriental chick, what's your ability?"

"Uhhh, hi," said a tiny Asian girl barely five feet tall. She was bundled in a down-filled parket and ski pants. In one hand, she held up a gallon jug of bleach. "I call myself Iron Stomach."

"Yeah? I've eaten Chinese take-out," scoffed Halo Boy. "I think we all qualify for that name!"

Ignorning the chuckles from the Tyrants, the girl unscrewed the cap on the white plastic jug and showed them the unbroken aluminum seal. "See? Untouched. Pure bleach." She peeled off the foil, raised the jug to her mouth and took several long gulps.

Next to her, a taller girl with auburn hair and green eyes sniffed audibly. "Whew. That's bleach all right."

Lowering the container, Iron Stomach licked her lips. "See? Not hurt in the least. I can eat rat poison or drink kerosene and it doesn't bother me. That's my power."

Bossy Girl slapped her palm down on the table so hard everyone jumped. "REJECTED!" she shouted. "Why are you wasting our time with a power so useless? Rubber-Arms, get this loser out of here."

The Asian girl's face screwed up as she fought not to cry. "But I-- I thought--" The boy in the white T-shirt placed a hand on her back and steered her toward the stairs.

The next candidate was a black kid bundled in a maroon hoodie and baggy pants, with his face shadowed in the cowl. He was an inch or two over six feet tall but with a noticeable paunch. "I guess I'm up to the plate, then. Call me Street Skunk. You see, I developed these glands a little while ago and when I feel threatened or angry..."

"Rejected, rejected!" Bossy Girl yelled. Her voice developed that far-off echoing quality again. "Do not use your power. Leave this building and never return."

As the applicant meekly obeyed, Halo Boy exhaled and covered his face with both hands. "Jeez. Your power sure came in useful, Beth."

"Use our code names, Halo Boy," she retorted. "Don't slip up again. Okay, girlie, you're up next. Name and ability?"

The final candidate grinned and stepped up to the table. She was tall at five feet eight, showing off toned legs in snug white shorts and with a long-sleeved blue pullover. Aside from the rich chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, her most striking feature was a pair of bright lime-green eyes. "I call myself Celsius Chick," she said confidently. "Here's a quick demonstration."

The teen pressed her open palms in front of her and bowed her head as if in prayer. Instantly, the air in that basement swirled violently as the temperature dropped below freezing. Frost formed from the moisture on the table and walls, and the Teen Tyrants saw their own breath hang as vapor in front of their faces.

"Wow!" said Friction Boy. "That's awesome. I'm shivering."

"Not bad," Bossy Girl admitted. "I see your ability could be useful in robberies."

"Wait, wait," Celsius Chick held up a hand. "That's only half of it." Again, wind rushed through the room and the air temperature shot up within seconds to be unbearably hot and muggy. The sudden change in extremes left the Tyrants breathless.

"Awright, awright already," said Halo Boy. He was wiping a sweat-covered face with the back of his hand. "We get it. Knock it off."

The basement returned to its normal warm dry levels. Standing with arms folded across her chest, Celsius Chick smirked at the three teens lined up in front of her. "I can actually make things much hotter or colder, enough to be fatal. If necessary..."

The Tyrants looked back and forth between themselves, nodding and reaching an agreement. "You certainly seem qualified for membership," Bossy Girl said. "We do have to get to know you better. You'll have to stay here for a day or two and go with us on a looting expedition. You down with that?"

"Oh, absolutely," answered Haley Lawson. The Windcatcher lowered her arms and placed her fists on her narrow hips, still smiling with relief. She had never worked undercover before.

( the rest of the story )

"Mummy Wanted For Questioning"

9/2/- 9/3/2001

I.


Behind his desk, Jeremy Bane leaned back and kept a straight face. "Mr Schmidt. I don't think you realize the sort of thing I handle..."

Sitting in one of three plain wooden chairs facing the desk, a serious little man with wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose sniffed. "The Dire Wolf Agency has the highest recommendation. I took the liberty of phoning my wife's nephew, who is on the police force. He said you always get the job done."

"It's nice to be appreciated," Bane said. "But you know, some detective agencies specialize in domestic disputes ending in divorce, some handle insurance fraud. I have my own area where I work best."

"The fee will be handsome. Quite generous," Schmidt went on as if he hadn't heard. "As a representative of the Golden Pantry supermarket chain, I can assure that all your expenses will be covered."

"That's not the problem-"

"Now, we have good reason to believe that Walter McConnell has been buying chicken in bulk from normal sources and selling them to us with the misrepresentation that they are free-range hormone-free. As you can imagine, this-"

Bane stood up and put his palms on the desk, leaning forward on stiff arms. "Mr. Schmidt. I am NOT going to look into chicken fraud. I track down monsters and psychos and serial killers. I handle the supernatural. You are wasting your time and mine!"

As Schmidt blinked and seemed personally affronted, Bane went on in a gentler voice. "My abilities are in combat. You should be looking for an investigator with experience in your sort of case."

"Well. I suppose. If you're sure," Schmidt mumbled, getting up and picking his brief case off the chair next to him. "I, ah, I guess I will be leaving."

The Dire Wolf came around his desk to escort the man through the tiny waiting room and out into the hall. "No hard feelings, Mr Schmidt. There are lots of PIs in Manhattan who can do a better job on your case than I would."

After the man left, Bane leaned back against the door and shuddered, Fraudulent chicken sales!

He crossed the tiny waiting room, which held nothing but two chairs and a low coffee table with some magazines, going back into the office itself. As he entered, he was facing a wall which had a long leather couch, an end table with a lamp at each arm. Over the couch was a wide window looking out on Third Avenue. That was one reason he had taken this office on the ground floor. If necessary, he could slide through that window and get out on the street within seconds. Bane swung to the right and circled around behind his desk. It was almost bare. There was a reading lamp, a cordless phone in its charger and an IN/OUT stack of trays. He faced a bare wall and thought, I have to put something there. He sat back in the swivel chair and was lost in thought.

Jeremy Bane was in his mid-forties, six feet tall and lean to the point of looking gaunt. In a narrow face, two pale grey eyes looked out with startling intensity. He had just found a first grey strand in his black hair, and was frankly surprised there hadn't been a lot of them, considering the life he led. As always, he was wearing all black- slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, almost his uniform in the Midnight War. Now the doorbell rang. The Dire Wolf jumped up and walked briskly to the door to the hall, glancing up at the closed-circuit monitor and recognizing who was outside. He opened the door and welcomed in a rather short, middle-aged man with curly greying hair and a decrepit white raincoat.

"Inspector! I thought you might come by." Bane escorted him to the office and motioned him to a plain wooden chair.

Francis Klein sat down carefully, with a slight grunt of discomfort. He was past the usual retirement age by a year. "We got a lot to talk about, Mr Dire Wolf. Nice little office. You haven't been here long, eh?"

"Two weeks. You know, I never closed my practice, even all those year with the KDF. Every two years, I renewed my license and claimed the reception room as my office. It's nice to have a trade to fall back on."

"I'm getting near the end myself," Klein said. "I should have a nice pension after all these years on the force and with Social Security, I'll be all right. I wanted to ask, what happened? What's going on with the Kenneth Dred Foundation?"

"They're still an ongoing team. Still in the building on East 38th Street. Sable is the leader. I'm renting them the building-- you know, Mr Dred left it to me in his will, with all its contents. But they're operating on their own."

Klein gazed thoughtfully at the man behind the desk, whom he had tried to bust several times a decade earlier, before he realized what kind of work the Dire Wolf was doing. "They're just kids, Bane."

"No younger than I was, or the other members of the original KDF when we first started. That was a long time ago. They're ready. Sable is a good leader, they have handled all their cases the past six months or so without my butting in." Bane nodded as if to himself. "I have to step away. If I stayed there, they would never really be self-reliant."

"It's a surprise to me," Klein said. "You got any ash trays here?"

"No," Bane answered. "I picked this office on 44th Street, close enough that I could be reached in a really extreme emergency. Or that I could contact them if I was at the end of my rope, for that matter. But I want to let them be their own team."

"So, the Dire Wolf Agency is open again. Brings back memories. When I met you, the first KDF team had been disbanded and you started your PI practice going in that building. To me, it's like old times. Where's Cindy?"

Bane hesitated just a second. "She has accepted a teaching position at Tel Shai. That's the mystic Order where we learned most of our skills. Her Teacher in telepathy died at an advanced age, and the other Teachers unanimously asked her to take the post. Cindy agreed."

"But you two are still a couple, I hope?"

"We won't be seeing as much of each other," Bane said. "Cindy won't be leaving Tel Shai. Once you become a Teacher, you stay there. But I will visit as often as I can."

"You been through a lot of changes in a short amount of time. You seem to be taking it okay."

Bane shrugged imperceptibly. He was not one to show what he felt. "Life goes on, things change. I'll still be doing business the way I always have." He gave Klein a quizzical look. "Which gets to the point. Is there some reason you dropped by, Inspector?"

"Other than chewing the fat?" Klein chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, I've gotten used to this. When something weird and creepy and hard to explain happens in the five boroughs, everyone in the NYPD looks at me. And by now, they expect me to come drop it in your lap."

"All unofficial and off the record, of course."

"Of course." Klein fished a cigar from an inner pocket but didn't try to light it, he just toyed with it. "Yeah, I got something. The crime itself didn't happen in the city, it took place in Egypt. A month ago. You know, there's been rioting and such going on there. Crowds in the streets, throwing rocks and starting fires."

"Sure. It's been on the news."

"Well, one night, the police were bustin' heads and the populace was bustin' them right back. During the uproar, three men broke into an annex of the Cairo Museum. They shot a guard and a worker dead." Klein stuck the unlit cigar in his mouth. "They stole a mummy."

Bane sat up and his voice changed. "Go on, Inspector."

"I got a report that this was not an ordinary mummy. According to the experts, it used to be a Nubian slave in service to one of the more obscure Pharaohs. The funny thing was, this mummy was found walled up inside a tomb, slumped in the space between an inner wall and the outer one. He had been buried alive, three thousand eight hundred years ago."

"Cute. What else?"

Klein touched the side of his nose with a finger. "Confidential, got it?"

"Got it. Go on."

"The mummy's name seems to be Akhbet. I don't know if that was the poor sap's real name or if they just stuck it on him for convenience. Anyway, it seems someone was caught sneaking the mummy into this country. They came up through the border near New Mexico in a van, and the border patrol stopped them. Two more men dead, and the mummy got through. That makes it a federal case, of course." Klein paused. "The funny thing is the way the patrol were killed. They weren't shot. Their necks were broken."

Now the Dire Wolf had come fully to life. His grey eyes caught the light. "What else?"

"This is the part that made the boys upstairs give me a heads-up. Both patrol agents were armed. One fired three shots, the other fired once. No blood anywhere. They had trauma on their necks consistent with a strong hand seizing them and snapping the bones. And there was mold on their skin."

Bane got to his feet. He couldn't help it, the same enhanced reflexes that gave him his speed also made him hyper. Despite himself, he started to pace and Klein had to turn in his chair to watch. "Hmm. Interesting. There was something similar in the 1940s, in Massachusetts. Certainly there have been cursed mummies before." He wheeled abruptly, making Klein jump. "What does the NYPD have to do with this?"

"You're gonna love this, Bane. Two nights ago. A student in Queens was walking home from a neighborhood bar just after midnight. He saw a big guy stumbling along and thought he might need help, maybe he's a diabetic or something, so the student goes up and asks what the problem is. He gets slugged for his kindness. The mug knocks him down with a slap that almost kayos him. In the light from a streetlamp, the student gets a good look. He says the man is wrinkled and dry and yellow, with his lips showing all his teeth. Really not a pretty sight. The student runs home, understandably scared, and when he looks in the bathroom mirror, there's a big smear of mold where the guy hit him. He has to go to the emergency room, his jaw turned out to be dislocated."

"That's it. I'm in." Bane went back behind his desk but didn't force himself to sit down. "Any more details, Inspector?"

"Nope, that's all. You realize, Bane, that officially I never told you any of this. I wasn't even here today."

"Fine," the Dire Wolf answered. "Same as always. I need the name and address of the student who saw the mummy... or what might be the mummy," he corrected himself.

Klein got up. "You should see the memo I got. You'd laugh. Because of the assault on the student, it says, quote 'Mummy wanted for questioning.' "

( the rest of the story )

"Princess of Darkness"

12/20/2008


I.

It was dark by four-thirty this time of year and the sullen overcast sky helped. Nancy couldn't wait any longer, she had to get out into the night. Even though she no longer felt the cold or much of any other physical sensation, she paused to throw on a long black cloth coat and to grab a felt hat. Looking normal, or nearly normal, was a form of camoflauge for her. She left her rented room at the top of the rickety stairs and stopped to regard the full-length mirror that stood in the hall. It amused her that she still cast a reflection, but then she was no ordinary vampire. Her uncle's spell had given her many of the properties of vampirism while leaving many normal functions unchanged. Nancy Sinister, Princess of Darkness.. the Living Vampire.

Grinning at her in the mirror, her reflection showed a young girl, not more than five feet three and maybe a bit too thin to look her best. She had been seventeen when she had "died," and she wondered if now she would always be that age. The former Nancy Gideon had lank black hair that hung to her shoulders, a pale oval face with bright blue eyes and full lips that she had started applying black lipstick to recently. With her white skin and black hair, looking Goth was another form of camoflauge. The heavy eyeliner was another touch.Nancy inspected herself closely, adjusted the hat at a saucy angle, and trotted down the stairs to the front door.

She had to pass the living room, and trying to sneak past Mr and Mrs Giordano was hopeless, so she popped her head in for a second. "I'm going for a run, you guys. I feel so much better when I keep at it on a regular basis. Then maybe meet a few friends at the Dew Drop Inn."

"Nancy, aren't you going to eat?" asked the old lady. "We have ziti, more than enough. Just smell that aroma."

"I'd love to, but you know my allergies. No pasta, no bread, no tomato or cheese. It's too bad, but I don't want to go to the hospital." She grinned wickedly when they could not see her face. "I'll grab a bite somewhere!"

"Be careful, dear," mumbled Mr Giordano over the newspaper he held closer to his failing eyes every night. "I wish you would run with a friend."

"I'm always careful, I'll be fine. Night." She went out into the chilly December night and closed the door behind them. That had been a little bit of a strain. Nancy had not fed for a week and the craving was strong tonight. It was lucky that Mr and Mrs G were elderly, and their thin lukewarm blood was not much of a tempation to her. She could rent the room from them without having to fight the urge to attack them.

As soon as she was out in the night, Nancy Sinister felt bursting with vitality and bloodlust. Even though she could walk in bright sunlight, she was basically a creature of the night. This was a quiet, well-kept neighborhood in Staten Island, with little crime and not much to fear. Except her. She started walking slowly down the perfect sidewalk, past the neat little yards and the fresh-painted houses with their clean windows. She felt horribly out of place, but that was good. No one would be looking for the Undead in such a mundane middle-class American slough.

A white Toyota slowed down as it passed her, and she made eye contact with the driver. Chubby middle-aged white man in a suit and tie...prime prey material, she thought. The car kept going but made the next turn and she walked slower. This was going to be easy. Sure enough, the Toyota circled around and came up behind her again. Nancy stopped and smiled, and the fool pulled over to the curb.

"You need a ride, miss?"

"Sure. We can go for a ride," she answered and climbed in. The man thought she was a streetwalker, that was the usual way to approach one without mentioning money or sex. The Living Vampire buckled her seatbelt and smiled sweetly at him. "Maybe we can help each other out."

"I'd like that. You know a good place nearby?"

"Oh, I think so. Go straight a few more blocks." As they rolled up alongside a vacant lot with dried dead weeds and a FOR LEASE- NORTHEAST REALTY CO sign, Nancy told him to stop right where the lot began. "No one's gonna bother us here."

"Sounds good. You know, I don't normally do this but you are just so pretty-" His words ended there as she seized his head with unnaturally strong hands, bent it to one side and sliced her canines into his throat like sabers. The man convulsed and gurgled, but she held him motionless as he fed. His blood was salty and a bit thick, she thought, but still tasty. It took no more than five or six minutes to drink all she wanted, and as she withdrew her fangs, his bleeding stopped. Nancy licked her lips and swallowed hard to get the last of the blood from her mouth before it would thicken. Now she felt better. The craving had eased up. The Living Vampire studied the area warily, saw no one in sight, and climbed out of her door.

This had to be done quickly. Unbuckling the victim's straps, she roughly shoved him over onto the passenger seat, forcing his legs over the center console. She climbed behind the wheel herself, grabbed the keys still in the ignition and started the car up. Fighting down laughter, Nancy pulled out after a red Dodge truck went by and sped off. Grand theft auto was the least of her crimes. She saw the gas tank was full, which was good. It seemed prudent to her not to leave any prey near her residence, that was just common sense, so she would go over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and dump both him and the car in Brooklyn.

Forty minutes later, finding a rundown neighborhood with no one on the streets in the wind chill, she pulled over and parked the car. Searching the corpse revealed a roll of three hundred dollars, which would be useful. She didn't like using credit cards from the prey because that left a trail. A quick search of the car uncovered nothing else she wanted, so she waited until no one was in sight and got out, walking briskly up the street. She felt great. A few pints of blood had really hit the spot.When she had first become Undead, she had gorged once or twice and paid for it by feeling bloated and sluggish for the following day. Not any more.

After she had been walking a few minutes, Nancy began to think about her next move. Not long ago, she had gathered more than twenty Undead under her control, a growing army of the night for her intended apocalyptic attack on the living. That had ended so suddenly. A strange man with grey eyes and two silver daggers, with his Asian henchman, had found the abandoned church and wiped her warren out. She herself had promptly escaped as she saw the slaughter begin. His name had been Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf, and the more she found out about him, the more firmly she felt that they would inevitably clash again. She knew there were vampire hunters, very dangerous ones, but this Bane character was something special. The stories about him had to be exaggerated.

Nancy strode briskly through the night, past a convenient mart and toward a 24-hour pharmacy. She was not tired in the slightest and the winter winds didn't affect her. She felt like she could walk until dawn. Only.. why was she going THIS way? Why was she not heading for the bus stop she knew was nearby, where she could hop on and get to Manhattan? She stopped and turned her head to the left. The bus stop was that way. There was nothing for her here and yet... somehow it seemed important. This was starting to worry her, but she might as well go with it. Nancy suddenly made herself stop as she decided to head for the bus stop, but she found herself walking in the original direction again anyway.

Weird. What was going on here? Maybe this was some vampire trait she was just developing. Nancy hurried through the darkness and saw a small one-story house set back from the street, up on a rise. It might have once been a neat little cottage but seemed to have been neglected for a long time. Not a single light showed. As Nancy approached, two tall dark forms came through that gate to meet her. Their pale faces loomed up in the murk and the red glint in their eyes let her know she was not dealing with the living. They were shrouded in long dark cloaks.

"Okay, what's the deal, boys?" she asked blithely.

"Nancy Gideon, you have been summoned here," said one of them in a hollow sepulchral voice. "You are granted audience."

"Really? That's nice. And who am I granted audience to see?"

"The Vampire Lords...." answered the mournful tone.

II.

Just as it was getting dark, Jeremy Bane entered a familiar sports bar in Times Square and heard the low buzz of conversation over a hockey game playing on two TVs mounted high up on the walls. His eyes adjusted instantly to the dim light. In a booth in the back, he spotted a familiar figure. In his mid-seventies, thin and spare, the man had a mop of blond hair mixed with grey. Bleak nodded to him. Of course the guy was sitting where he could watch the door to the street and where he was close enough to dive through the swinging kitchen door if there was trouble. Bleak would never miss positioning himself that way.

Bane also took in everyone else in that bar in a glance that analyzed potential threats. It was a combination of his Kumundu training and a life spent in the Midnight War that made him survey the situation this way. Only one person there was a possible hazard. Over by the bathroom, peched on a stool was a tall black guy who sat in a way that left him open to move in any direction; he was sipping a beer but his other hand was in his jacket pocket. After another split-second, Bane dismissed suspicion. The man was not tense or watchful, merely cautious within normal limits. Everyone in the place had body language and positioning that showed them as harmless.

Moving up to the bar, the Dire Wolf ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, a bacon cheeseburger, an iced tea and a Budweiser, asking that the items be brought to the booth in the back. Then he strode over to join Bleak. At fifty, Bane had not changed much physically. He was still six feet tall and gaunt as a real wolf, still regarding the world through watchful grey eyes. He would always be the Dire Wolf. Sliding into the booth facing Bleak, he said, "I got your message, but this was the soonest I could get here."

"S'all right," replied Bleak. "Listen, I got news you want to hear." The faded blue eyes were intense. "I got a tip someone bad is in the area."

Bane raised one eyebrow. "Go on."

"Baron Dralescu. He's been spotted getting out of a limo in Brooklyn. Prospect Park area. Definitely him."

The food arrived and they were silent until the waitress had left. As Bleak dug into the burger, the Dire Wolf said, "Dralescu! Never met him. I've heard stories of course. What is one of the Vampire Lords doing so far from Eastern Europe?"

Bleak had to chew for a moment before he could gulp and answer. "I got a theory. You know the Lords are conservative. They like the arrangement they've established for hundreds of years and they like the Undead keeping a low profile. The more that living people think vampires are just folklore, the safer they are. But some one has been stirring things up."

"Of course.... Nancy Sinister." Bane put down his roast beef still untouched. "The Living Vampire. I met her twice and I've been trying to track her down for weeks now. Dralescu doesn't approve of her approach." He picked up the sandwich and finally took a bite.

"Absolutely. She managed to get every bloodsucker in the New York area under her thumb before you and Argent wiped them out. I hear only three or four escaped. Maybe she's planning on doing it again, maybe she has some other wild scheme. In any case, she's a loose cannon and the Vampire Lords want to rein her in."

Bane frowned more than usual. "Nancy has claimed a record number of victims in just three months. Even the general public is starting to catch on that something new is prowling the night. I'm getting annoyed that I can't catch her."

"Huh. She's only a kid. You'd think she'd be easy to track."

"No, because she breaks all the rules," the Dire Wolf snapped. "She can walk around in direct sunlight all day. She casts a reflection. She doesn't react to garlic or holy objects or any of the usual weapons we use against Undead. She has the powers of a vampire but not the weaknesses."

They were both silent as a man passed by close enough to overhear, then Bane continued. "And I think she's more creative than real vampires. She's unpredictable. It's hard to get any leads."

Bleak finished the beer, set the mug down with a thump. "All right. I'll be heading home. I've got my friends on the lookout for her. They'll call me and I'll call you, and you can settle things."

"Sounds good," said Bane. "For now, give me that address in Brooklyn and I'll investigate. Thanks for the lead, you've always steered me the right way." He took two fifties from his inner jacket pocket, but Bleak pushed his arm back.

"Not for vampires," he said coldly. "I take money for most Midnight War tips, but I have a special grudge against the Undead. Fighting them is its own reward."

"I know what they did to you," Bane answered quietly.

"Yeah. I wasn't always called Bleak."

III.

Not a single light was turned on, no candle burned. Those who dwelt in that house could all see perfectly well in complete darkness. Nancy went with the two vampires without resisting them. She had heard of the Vampire Lords and was curious. In the living room, all the furniture had been removed except for a throne. This was a high-backed chair of dark wood, elaborately carved, set against one wall. On this throne sat Dralescu.

Nancy dd not know what she had been expecting, maybe an old man with white hair or maybe a sort of seductive glamorous guy with European charm. Baron Dralescu was an all-out horror. There was no hair on his head, not even eyebrows. A long beaky nose extended from a bony face in which two red-irised eyes glowed visibly. The ears rose to sharp points and, as he grinned at her, two long canines gleamed in the darkness. Dralescu was wrapped in a dark robe of thick material, with a high collar and a gold-linked chain which held a round amulet.

The ancient Undead raised a skeletal hand with nails so long and sharp they were weapons in themselves. "Bring her before me," he hissed in a whisper, and the two vampires obeyed.

Nancy stood in front of the Vampire Lord with her arms folded, weight resting on one leg casually. "Well, they didn't choose you for your looks," she laughed.

"Kneel," rasped Dralescu and his voice had a strange echo to it.

Somehow she found herself dropping to her knees. Nancy gasped in indignation and struggled to rise again but it felt as if a huge weight was pressing down on her shoulders. She placed her palms on the dust floor and pressed hard, trying to get up, but couldn't.

"You have much to learn, little one," Dralescu whispered. "Nancy Gideon. I knew your uncle, Ezra of Red Sect. He had the weaknesses of the living but his knowledge of the forbidden arts was impressive. So he cast the spell which I thought no one knew these days, and made you what you are. A Living Vampire."

"Let me UP!" she yelled, struggling without result. "I swear, I'll rip you apart!"

Baron Dralescu leered down at her. "I have had four hundred years to develop my powers, child. My will is stronger than iron. You are my slave now, like Fyodor and Anton behind you. I will give you your orders and you will obey."

"Like hell!" Nancy screamed and got to her feet, swaying and almost falling. She took two uncertain steps toward the ancient monster, drawing back her fist with the grim determination to punch him in the face. As she lurched within reach, Dralescu backhanded her with a noise sharp as a crack of thunder and Nancy flew halfway across the room to slide up against the bare wall. She rolled over and leaped up again, growling. Now her own eyes had turned bright red and her fangs had extended.

"Your kind is rare indeed," said the Vampire Lord calmly. "I do not wish to simply destroy you because you have not learned respect yet. Kneel, I say! Bow down to your master."

Again, Nancy found herself flung down to her floor, on her knees with her head forced down. She snarled and struggled, fighting the tangible will power of the ancient creature on that throne. "You goddam freak! You can't tell ME what to do!"

"You are stubborn. Breaking you will take time. Very well. Rise and approach me."

Just like that, she was free. the Living Vampire jumped up and then got hold of herself. This monster had some sort of hypnotic power she couldn't defy. Better to go along with him, she thought. "All right. You should know I'm not Nancy Gideon any more. That girl is dead. I call myself Nancy Sinister, Princess of Darkness. Maybe we can work something out between us."

The bony face smiled. "Yes. Forcing you against your will would take too long. But if you cooperate... Very well. Know that I am Sergei Dralescu. Once I was a general who commanded fifteen thousand men. Four hundred years ago I became one of the Undead, and all this time have I developed my abilities. You are a child both as one of the Breathing and as one of us. Yet because of your unique state, you offer many possibilities."

He paused so long that Nancy snorted impatiently. "Yeah? Like what?"

"You are free of many of the limitations vampires face. You are a daywalker, are you not? That alone could be extremely useful. I have been told that not long ago you gathered your own followers, that you had a score of vampires under your command. Yet they were destroyed." The crimson eyes fixed on hers. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, that's right." Nancy brushed back her black hair from where it had fallen across her face. Her eyes faded back to their normal pale blue as she started to relax. "So what's your point?"

"Consider this, little one. Here and in Europe, I have more than a thousand of our kin under my control. Imagine if you become one of my lieutenants, if I give you twenty vampires who will follow you as long as you in turn obey me. Isn't that better than being on your own against all the living?"

"I suppose," she mumbled. The Living Vampire glanced back over her shoulder at the two Undead who stood guard behind her. "But what kind of orders are you talking about?"

"I will send you with a dozen of my strongest followers. Tonight! You will slay our greatest enemy."

"Oh, I have no problem with that." Nancy grinned wickedly. "I've already met him twice. Guy with two silver knives, right?"

"Not the Dire Wolf," whispered Dralescu. "His time will come. The worst enemy of the Undead is a man named Bleak."

IV.

Almost at a run, Bane crossed midtown from the sports bar to the building on Third Avenue where his office was. Ignoring the blinking on his desk phone that meant messages, he knelt and unfastened hidden latches so he could swing the waist-high bookcase to one side on its casters. Beneath was a shallow pit he had chiseled from the concrete himself. Hauling up an old-fashioned trunk, Bane took out his field suit and quickly stripped off his regular clothes. He was wearing the flexible Trom armor that looked like dark wet silk but which offered better protection than heavy Kevlar. Long years of practice let him tug on the boots, snug pants and crewneck shirt in a few seconds. The waist-length jacket with its inner layer of Trom armor and a dozen concealed weapons and gadgets. A gunbelt held a long-barreled Smith & Wesson 38 behind his left hip. Placing the helmet on his desk, the Dire Wolf returned the trunk into the pit and picked up a strange rig from a pile of specialized equipment, then slid the bookcase back over the pit so nothing showed.

Bane hefted the leather harness thoughtfully. It had six loops which held thick wooden stakes sharpened at one end and with a steel band around each one in the middle for balance when throwing. Kenneth Dred had ordered this made for him when they had first met, so long ago. 1977. Sometimes it sank in on Bane just how long he had been fighting the Midnight War. He yanked off the field jacket and fastened the harness diagonally across his chest so he could reach the stakes quickly, then replaced the jacket but left it unzipped. He took up the helmet in the crook of one arm and glanced around the office to satisfy himself everything was in order.

Throughout all this, the matched silver daggers had remained sheathed on his forearms. He seldom let them get out of reach. Bane left his office, hurried through the lobby and out into the cold night air. Swinging left, he raced down to the IMPERIAL GARAGE on 40th Street to claim his dark green Subaru Outback. The tiny blue and red lights on the driver's visor blinked steadily, and he got in, started it up and drove out into traffic with a faint predatory smile on his face. He headed south. Long ago, he had realized he was as much a creature of the night as the monsters he hunted. Now he felt alive for the first time in weeks. As he headed over the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn, the Dire Wolf went over everything he knew about this Nancy Sinister.

There had been living vampires before, but they were rare and none had been reported within his time. Nancy's uncle Ezra had been a member of Red Sect, and he had cast the Darthan spell which had first created vampirism back at the Corruption itself thirty thousand years ago. Nancy Gideon had most of the attributes of the Undead without their weaknesses. In the few months she had been cursed, she had caused a lot of trouble and claimed at least twenty random victims. It was a good thing that her victims did not become vampires in turn, or Manhattan would be seriously infested by now. Nancy Sinister seemed to be naturally cunning and clever. So far, Bane had only managed to track her down twice and both instances she had gotten away.

Not this time, though. He swore he would finish her off and end her threat for good tonight. Bane soon found himself driving through a residential area not far from Prospect Park. There was Mullaney Street, as Bleak had told him. The Dire Wolf pulled over on a side street and lowered the helmet over his head. Immediately, the inside of the visor lit up as the Trom light amplifiers kicked in. It was not quite as good as being in noon sunlight, but he could see well enough to read license plates even in the winter night. The Dire Wolf checked his gear one final time, got out and locked his car, then began walking through the darkness toward the house where a Vampire Lord was reported to be waiting.

Ahead, he saw the small one-story house Bleak had described. Although no lights were on and the house needed fresh paint and some work on the gutters, there was a shiny new Lincoln parked alongside it. What a giveaway. Bane turned the right ear pod of his helmet and adjusted the telescopic function of the visor, zooming in on the house and studying its immediate vicinity. There. A tall thin figure stirred alongside a birch tree next to the house. After a few seconds, he spotted another sentry walking in from the other end of the property. These vamps were careless, they figured they could not be seen in the dark winter night.

The Dire Wolf slid the visor up into its track inside the helmet. He preferred to rely on his own honed senses and instincts in combat. Thirty years of Kumundu training at Tel Shai and the tagra tea diet had given him night vision equal to that of any nocturnal animal. Silent and swift, he leaped up the slight hill toward the house, moving instinctively to not step on anything that might make a noise. In his all-black outfit, he was close to invisible on this moonless overcast night. Bane raced in without a sound, drawing a stake from the harness across the chest.

The vampire standing by the tree stiffened and sniffed the air audibly. They could smell the blood of living people. The Undead turned and saw the figure in black hurtling toward him, but too late. The stake was already spinning end over end in the air to thump hard directly into his chest. Truly dead at last, the creature fell straight down without even a gasp. Bane crouched low over the body and froze motionless. The other sentry was approaching in confusion, having seen only a brief flash of motion. "Anton...?" he whispered in his hollow voice as he drew near.

When the creature was close enough, the Dire Wolf leaped up, spinning, blasting a steel-capped boot to the center of the lifeless face with brutal impact. Even though an Undead could feel no pain, that savage blow knocked him off balance and he fell on his back. Just as he hit the ground, Bane pounced and slammed one of the stakes into the vampire's chest with both hands. This time, there was the faintest sigh of air leaving lungs because the Undead had taken a breath with which to speak.

Standing, holding his own breath, Bane listened intently but could hear nothing suspicious. All his instincts were crawling with the sensation of imminent danger, but he saw nothing nearby. He had to leave the stakes in the deanimated vampires, which left him with four. The Dire Wolf inhaled deeply, straightened and marched up to the front door of the rundown cottage, gripped the knob and yanked the door open.

In a bare room stripped of all furnishings except for heavy drapes over the windows, Baron Dralescu sat on his throne and watched Bane enter. The Vampire Lord did not stir, except for the movement of his lambent red eyes as they followed the intruder.

"About time I found you," the Dire Wolf said calmly, closing the door behind him. "Where's Nancy?"

"Dire Wolf..." hissed the ancient creature. "You are as arrogant as I had heard. Kneel before me! Swear allegiance to your new master."

Bane felt the waves of mental force wash over him, potent enough in their intensity, but he knew how to deflect them by concentration. It had been one of the earliest skills he had learned at Tel Shai. "You're wasting your time and mine, Baron. Where is she?"

The Vampire Lord rose to his feet smoothly enough, his taloned hands working the air as if he could already feel them sinking into his enemy's flesh. "I have sent her on her first mission in my service, Breather. Hah! You will be sorry you learned where she is bound."

"Come on, come on!" Bane snapped. "Let's skip the sinister speeches. Where is Nancy Sinister?"

"She has gone to slay the greatest enemy of my kind," Dralescu said. He chuckled low and added, "The Human you call Bleak."

"That's all I needed to know." Bane thumbed a stud on the crest of his helmet and a bright white beam glared out to illuminate the entire room. He did not need it to see and his eyes adjusted almost instantly, but the Undead was taken back by the blinding flare that shone on him and he raised one hand to cover his eyes. A wooden stake was whistling through the air. Dralescu slapped it aside and roared as he rushed forward toward his enemy. The vampire's fangs dripped wetly in the bright light and his powerful claws stabbed toward the living man who dared defy him.

Silver flashed in the bright light from Bane's helmet, too quickly to be followed and Baron Dralescu screamed as he fell to his knees. Ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin, those silver daggers had slain many creatures of the night over seventy years. The Vampire Lord crouched on the bare wooden floor, clutching at his sliced-open chest and unable to rise. "Ensalir...." he gasped.

"Yep, ensalir. Sacred silver. These daggers were given to me to Kenneth Dred himself, and he received them from the Eldarin. Goodbye, Baron." Bane kicked the crouching Undead hard with one boot, knocking him over on his back. One dagger sank to the hilt in the unbeating heart and the other slid deeply across Dralescu's throat, almost severing the head. Bane hesitated. He knew that the silver daggers had disrupted the Darthan spell which had animated the corpse of Baron Sergei Dralescu all these centuries. But he wanted to be sure. Sheathing his daggers and fetching the wooden stake that the Undead had struck aside, the Dire Wolf plunged it into the creature's heart and leaned on it with all his weight.

Bane let out a relieved breath and turned off the light from his helmet. He had wanted to put an end to Dralescu for years. Now to go help Bleak. The Dire Wolf headed from the room, back out into the night and although he moved quickly, he did not seem to be frantic. If these vampires expected to find a helpless old man in Bleak, they had another think coming.

V.

In the white Toyota Camry she had stolen from her victim early that night, Nancy Sinister pulled over next to a waist-high stone wall that ran around the estate. High wrough-iron gates stood open, and a gravel driveway led up to a huge four-story mansion that sat up on the hill. Small lamposts cast subdued light along the driveway. The Princess of Darkness whistled appreciatively. "This guy isn't hurting for cash," she said.

Next to her in the passenger seat, one of Dralescu's vampires made a sour muttering noise. "Bleak has slain many of our brethren. He was known as Single Cross back forty years ago. Long have we ached to slay him."

"Aye," came a hollow voice from the back seat where three more of the Undead sat. "Bleak must die."

"Well, tonight's the night," Nancy said lightly. "Listen, you stiffs know I'm a special case, right? I can walk in sunlight, I can laugh at holy objects. Most likely this geezer will have a few crucifixes nailed up, stuff like that, but that won't bother me. Let's get going." She turned off the engine and slid out from behind the wheel. Slower, more stiffly, the four Undead followed her.

One came around to stare down at Nancy. All these vampires looked very similar and were dressed in identical long black coats, so she hadn't even tried to tell them apart. They were just her soldiers. Now, the one who had sat in front intoned in a ghostly voice, "You do not seem to be truly one of us...URK"

His voice was choked off as Nancy seized him by the throat and lifted him up off his feet, using only one arm. "Take a good look, loser," she hissed. Her eyes had turned bright red and her fangs had lowered. She shook the creature violently. "I am more of a vampire than you will ever be. I am a new breed. You had better be afraid of me!" She threw him back against the car, then swung around to glare at the other three. "The rest of you have any problems with me being in charge?"

The vampires lowered their heads and muttered inaudibly. One said, "Our Lord Dralescu has commanded us to obey you tonight. After that.. we shall see."

"Really? Well, we SHALL see." Nancy turned sharply toward the mansion, her black hair swinging, and stared up at it. "There's our boy. Time to rock and roll. Follow me," and with that she started striding quickly up the gravel driveway. The four Undead trod close behind her.

As she approached the house, Nancy felt a trepidation she had not known since her days among the living. This Bleak character had a lot of vampires thirsting to kill him, she expected there would be some sort of defenses set up, but she saw nothing. The gate had been left open by the road. She couldn't spot any closed-circuit cameras anywhere. It puzzled her. The more she studied the mansion, the more imposing it looked. Very old and well-kept. The huge front door was seven feet high, flanked by carved wooden pillars, with a bronze knocker and the name plate CROSS. Two lights were on in cast iron settings over that door. She stepped up to it and tried the lever handles, finding it was unlocked.

The Living Vampire hesitated for the barest second, then stepped into a foyer big as much living rooms, with benches and stands holding potted plants and a massive oak coatrack had held a single down-filled jacket on a hook, with a scarf and leather gloves on a shelf beside it. Two swinging doors were set in front of her. For an instant, she considered sending one of the others in first but she realized that would be showing weakness. She pressed through those doors into a huge drawing room, high-ceilinged and lit by a crystal chandelier eight feet above her head. Scattered on the marble floor, which was decorated with alternating black and white squares, were clusters of couches and easy chairs, with a long table running one wall. Against the far wall was an ornate fireplace, but nothing burned within it. To her left, a bannistered staircase rose to where a walkway ran around the drawing room, with rows of doors on the second floor behind it.

"Kind of impressive," she admitted. "Come on you guys, let's spread out."

As the four vampires moved past her and began to fan out in different directions, one approached a tall cabinet of polished dark wood. His foot stepped on a black tile and it sank down slightly with a click. Before he could react, that cabinet door sprang open and three slim wooden shafts fired out at him like arrows. One sank into his right arm, one missed but the third slid home into his heart with a solid thud. The Undead fell over backwards as if he welcomed true death.

Nancy hissed, "Nobody move. Hold it. He stepped on a black square. There are gonna be more traps, all of you watch where you put your big feet." They began moving forward again, stepping carefully. But as one of the vampires trod gingerly on a white square, that tile depressed with a click and a tapestry on one wall drew aside to reveal a lifesize crucifix of white marble. Beautifully carved, the figure of Jesus was lifelike in every detail, even to the crown of thorns. The three vampires convulsed at the sight and fell to the cold floor, writhing in pain and unable to rise.

"What is WRONG with you fools?" yelled Nancy. She leaped over, found the cord and tugged it to cover the crucifix again. The sight of it had not affected her. "It's just a piece of stone, it can't hurt you." She kicked them and grabbed them by the arms to force them to get up. "Some terrifying monsters you guys are." It took a few minutes before they regained their nerve. The Living Vampire slapped one of them hard enough to kill a normal Human. "Come on, let's get going."

Again, they started to move, one of them heading toward the staircase and two others towards the door at the far end of the gigantic room. Once again, a tile clicked underfoot and they all froze absolutely still. The sound of water rushing could be heard. Around the edges of the room, encircling them, were shallow troughs they had not noticed before and now cold clear water was being pumped through those troughs.

"Running water!" wailed a vampire. "We cannot cross that. We are trapped here!"

"Aw, knock it off," Nancy told him. "I'm here. I'll find a way to block it. Keep going." But this time she was the one who stepped on a tile that set off a hidden trap. The chandelier overhead suddenly blazed up brighter than a searchlight. Full-spectrum light identical to sunshine flooded the huge room, as if it were high noon. The three vampires dropped to the floor and rolled about in agony. This time Nancy could not roust them. One of the Undead convulsed and went limp as he passed into true death, the other two were not far behind.

The Princess of Darkness snarled in rage. The artificial sunlight did not bother her. She swung around and saw the old man who had entered the room from a side door. Bleak watched her with a mocking smile on his weathered face. Below average height and spare, he was not an imposing figure in his slippers, dark slacks and white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled back. Oddly, he was chewing something and the crunch was clearly audible.

"You!" she yelled. "You think you're pretty smart with these traps. But you're dealing with me now." Nancy rushed at and seized the front of his shirt with one hand just as he spit a mouthful of gralic chunks in her face. The stinging and burning took her by surprise. The garlic clung to her skin and she had trouble getting it off. Gasping as much with indignation as pain, she staggered back away from Bleak. Her nerve broke. She started to run toward the front with no other thought than escape but she stopped short as she reached the open front door.

There stood Jeremy Bane, with a silver dagger in each hand, staring at her with merciless pale grey eyes.

"Wait, wait, hold it," she said in a little girl voice. "I'm just a minor. You wouldn't hurt me..."

The Dire Wolf did not speak. He lunged forward like a fencer and one of the daggers pierced her heart cleanly. Nancy Sinister reeled back, trying to seize the knife and pull it out but she stumbled and fell onto her back. She was still clinging to her sorcerous half-life, making gurgling noises and holding the dagger by its hilt.

As Bleak came over, Bane nodded to him. "I already took care of Baron Dralescu and two of his goons. Looks like your traps nailed those four. That just leaves this vampire." He took a wooden stake from his harness and offered it to the old man. "You want to do the honors?"

"No...." wheezed the Princess of Darkness, trying to get up but failing. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. "Please don't."

"Get your sticker out of her," Bleak said. As the Dire Wolf pulled his dagger free, Bleak immediately jabbed the pointed end of the stake just beneath the Living Vampire's left breast and leaned down on it with all his weight. She went limp and her red eyes faded back to light blue as animation spell left her corpse.

"Now it's over," he said, getting up again with a little difficulty. "Glad to see you, Jeremy. You always had a knack for showing up at the right time."

Bane glanced around at the four lifeless forms sprawled on the marble floor. In the brilliant light from the chandelier, they looked harmless,even a little pathetic. "I don't think you needed my help much, old friend. You had the situation under control."

With a snort, Bleak went over and plopped down in an easy chair. "I'm too old for this stuff anymore. The most excitement I can handle is opening the mail these days." He pointed at the body at Bane's feet. "I suppose I should feel a little sorry for her. So young. Just a kid. But then I remember my Alice and Alicia."

"She knew what she was doing," Bane snapped as he came over to sink into a chair next to him. "She asked her uncle to cast the vampirism spell. This was exactly what she wanted." He shook his head angrily. "Well, I hope she enjoyed it while it lasted."

9/10/2014