dochermes

"Watercolors In the Rain"

3/27/1985

I.

Standing in the doorway to the KDF rec room, Jeremy Bane said, "I have no idea what you're doing."

Cindy Brunner twisted her head around to give him a chagrined smile that had melted many hearts. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of two VCRs that had dubbing cables running between them and then from each of them up to the big wall-mounted TV. Three separate remote controls, a stack of six VHS tapes and a manual added to the confusing sight. "Drat, neither do I."

"It looks as if you're trying to make copies of movies," ventured the Dire Wolf. As always, he was wearing what amounted to his uniform of all black slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which made him look even taller and leaner than he was.

The telepath jumped up to her feet with the ease of both youth and perfect physical conditioning. At twenty-six, an inch over five feet tall and maybe a hundred pounds even, she had never looked better. The long straight blonde hair was glossy and the dark blue eyes bright. Both the Tagra tea diet and her Kumundu training had gotten her blazing with life. "Yeah. Well, it's taking a while. Somehow I keep recording what's on TV instead of from the store tape to the blank. I think I should unhook everything and start over again slowly."

For once, Bane's pale grey eyes were not cold but relaxed, even mellow. She was one of a small handful of people who ever saw him that way. "Good luck. Anyway, I came to tell you we're going to have a visitor in a few minutes."

Cindy glanced past him. "Um. He's at the door now, actually."

A second after she spoke, the buzzer sounded out in the hall. Bane wheeled and strode out of the rec room at a walk faster than most people could run. He went past the row of bookshelves which lined the front hall, past the wide staircase leading up, past the office where he met visitors to the Kenneth Dred Foundation.
Stopping by the solid oak front door, he slid open a panel set at eye level to reveal a bank of controls. He pressed the speaker button.

"Good morning, please come in. We'll be with you in a moment," the Dire Wolf said. He hit a second switch which unlocked the outer street door, allowing the visitor to enter the foyer. Bane activated the advanced Trom sensors and watched as the monitor screen lit up.

Cindy had come up behind him, tugging down her loose grey swearshirt that read SCARABS WORLD TOUR 1983 across its front and back. "His mind is calm but worried. I'm picking up he has long-term stress from responsibility. Not anger, not tenseness from impending action. He's not here to attack us."

"Thanks, Cin." Bane was studying the image on the monitor screen of a sturdy man in middle-age, well-dressed in a light brown suit and tie. A neatly kept goatee and mustache, plus touches of grey in the dark hair, added to the professional impression. Along one side of the screen, pale green letters rolled off details about the man.. exact height and weight, heartbeat and blood pressure, EKG results, levels of adrenalin in trace perspiration. All these factors had been scanned within a second.

Most importantly, the sensors showed no weapons. Nothing of metal other than some keys, no chemical signatures of possible poisons or explosions. The Trom security system had cleared their visitor. Bane swung the inner door open and said, "Come right in, Dr Fairchild."

Cindy caught Bane's eye for a second and she nodded approval. Her telepathy was skimming over the surface of Fairchild's mind, too lightly for him to be aware of it but she had found nothing to alarm her.

Stepping into the hall, Dr Benjamin Fairchild extended a hand which Bane shook. The man did appeared worried, with dark circles under his deepset eyes and a general worn down expression. "I'm glad you agreed to see me right away. I came at once."

"Let's see if we can help. Dr Fairchild, this is Cynthia Brunner, my partner at the Kenneth Dred Foundation. Come on, let's get started." He gestured for the man to enter the open office to their right, where Cindy touched the back of a chair for the man.

Bane himself circled around behind a massive desk and took his own seat under a gorgeous hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937. As Dr Fairchild got himself settled in the plain wooden chair facing the desk, Cindy remained standing. She folded her arms over her bust and gave the visitor a reassuring half-smile.

"First, let me mention that I've been doing research into the effects of sleep deprivation on dreams," Fairchild began. "I'm attached to the Osborne Medical Institute in Jersey City. So I have all the proper credentials. The staff and the scientific community see me as a solid, responsible professional."

Bane said nothing, merely raising a feral eyebrow to indicate the doctor should go on.

"But, and there's always a 'but,'" continued Fairchild, "Despite all my atheism and materialism and skepticism, I have increasingly encountered phenomena which I simply can not explain and can not ignore. I have heard of your Kenneth Dred Foundation and the work you do. In fact, I have learned quite a bit about the Midnight War."

"That's not something the general public ever hears about," Bane said. "It's probably better that way."

"Yes. The world is scary enough without adding awareness of the Midnight War to it. Be that as it may, right now we have a patient at the Institute. She volunteered for some deprivation experiments but something went wrong. Mr Bane, Miss Brunner, it's quite inexplicable but Joan Brunswick has been asleep for forty-eight hours as of this morning. Physicians have been tentatively trying to wake her with medications but with no results. And according to her EEGs, she has been having strong dreams the whole time."

Leaning a narrow hip against the desk, Cindy interrupted. "There's something more than natural causes for this, then. That's why you came to us?"

"Yes. I hesitate to say this, it sounds ridiculous, and yet... I have been gathering folklore data on something or someone called Meremoth. A living, intelligent presence that preys on sleeping victims."

Something changed in that office. Bane was already sitting up straight, his face alert and interested but suddenly those pale eyes lit with intensity. "Preys on them how?"

"In their dreams," replied Dr Fairchild. "Meremoth is a dream parasite."

( the rest of the story )

"Speaker For the Green Empire"

4/2-4/5/1991

I.

"Is this the craziest sight you've ever seen?" asked Millicent Elmendorf. In the damp early Spring breeze, she thrust her hands into the pockets of her light windbreaker and shivered. "It really made me wonder if I'm starting to lose it. I made it to sixty-seven without any Senior Moments, but this...!"

Standing next to her, Cindy Brunner smiled reassuringly. The petite blonde was still wearing her insulated waist-length Winter jacket that would keep her comfortable in a chill much worse than this April dawn. "I wouldn't worry about it, ma'am," she said. "Jeremy and I are reaching the same conclusion. This is pretty weird but then the world is a much weirder place than most people realize."

Jeremy Bane made no comment. He walked along the forty foot length of the fallen oak and glared down at the exposed roots. At the best of times, the Dire Wolf was a grim unfriendly presence and now, faced with a mystery like this, the pale grey eyes grew more intense than ever. "This tree wasn't cut down, obviously. But I can't imagine any way it could have been pulled up out of the ground without using a giant crane that would have torn up your yard. The ground is undisturbed."

"Look at the bottom of that tree," the older woman said. "See how it's split vertically? Doesn't it look as if the damn thing had, well, LEGS...?"

"It didn't grow this way, either. You can see where the bark split as the trunk was forced apart to make the two parts. I guess you could drive wedges into the tree to force it to separate like that, but it would be a lot of work. And why would anyone do it anyway?" Bane was scowling more than his usual sullen expression showed. "And all this was done in one day? No footprints, no signs of heavy machinery? The ground is sure soft enough this time of year."

Cindy had walked back a hundred feet past the end of the property line and now she turned around to call, "Oh, it gets crazier! Check this out." She pointed down at where a wide hole ten feet deep was surrounded by upturned dirt and small stones and broken-off roots.

"This is impossible," Millicent mumbled as she followed Bane to the site. "That's where the oak stood, all right. It was already big when I was just a little girl. What power on Earth could have uprooted it like that? Not a tornado, surely. There weren't any storms this whole month and nothing else was damaged."

The Dire Wolf retraced the path from the hole in the ground to where the mighty oak lay. As he dreaded, distinct depressions sank in the damp lawn at intervals, alternating left and right on either side of the center line. "Mrs Elmendorf, there IS no rational explanation for this. I have to tell you that this was the supernatural touching your life. The Midnight War is here."

"What do you mean? I can't handle this uncertainty, tell me what's going on!"

Cindy Brunner stepped closer to the older woman and softened her tone. "It may seem impossible but look at the scene. Somehow, don't ask me how, that oak tree got up out of the ground and was walking on two legs toward your house."

"I never heard of such a thing," Millicent said, "It's insane. And yet... I don't know what else to think."

"There's something even scarier to consider," Bane told her. "Accepting for the moment that the tree somehow became animated, WHY was it heading straight for your house?"

( the rest of the story )

"The White Wolves of Zimborlin"

4/22/1987

I.

4/22/1987

I.

Jeremy Bane could not remember the last time he had stepped out into public without the flexible armor under his clothes, without his gun or his gadgets, especially without the silver-bladed daggers strapped to his forearms. He was wearing plain canvas sneakers, denim jeans and a dark green T-shirt , which left him feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed. A six feet tall mass of highly defined lean muscle, Bane was a few months shy of turning thirty but he seemed younger somehow in his discomfort. He stood outside the front door of the Hawk Island complex and felt a brisk April breeze drift in off the Atlantic. They were only ten few miles off the coast of northern Maine.

Looking over the assemblage of twenty Midnight War heroes socializing on the asphalt gathering ground, he did ease up slightly. Surrounded by friends like these could not be anything but reassuring. Two long redwood tables held trays of cheese and fruit and crackers, as well as bottles of sparkling water, soda, even some beer and wine. Long benches and lawn chairs were available but most of the heroes milled about and chatted in small clusters.

The founding members and most associate members of the Kenneth Dred Foundation were there, but so were several colleagues not seen often enough. Samuel Watesa, the greatest Houngan of his era. Mary Cassidy, the Unicorn. Andrew Steel. Bent old Dr Kobal. Cheval. Even the reclusive Dr Matthias Mage had appeared briefly to greet everyone before taking off again. Everyone was catching up on events, reminiscing, discussing current events of the mundane life. A portable sound system was playing old rock songs that almost everyone would like or at least not object to. Bane turned his head and sniffed as a tempting odor reached him. He went back inside the long 0ne-story complex and down the hall to the galley.

This was a brand new display of gleaming stainless steel and dark wood paneling. Both ovens were going full blast, as well as the top burners supporting various pots and pans which steamed and burbled. Unmistakable aromas of roast beef and lamb prompted his stomach to growl. Straightening up as she closed one oven door was a gorgeous blonde woman, six feet tall and fit as any athlete in a brown pullover with a front zipper and tan slacks. Princess Valera of Androval gave him a smile that was like a present. "Captain! Eager to eat, I presume?"

"I have never smelled anything more tempting," he honestly said. "What are those spices though? I can't place them."

"Ah, well-guarded secrets of Melgar cuisine," she teased with her blue eyes gleeful. "One half hour more, Jeremy. The dining table in the next room is not set, but I brought some decent china and cutlery to use for a change."

The Dire Wolf shook his head. "Waiting is sure going to test everyone's discipline."

Over by a prep counter, the newest and youngest KDF member grinned widely. At just eighteen, Tang Ming was a petite girl from Hong Kong whose powers of enhanced awareness and martial skills had qualified her to join. "I am helping too! With my perception, I can tell if anything is about to burn."

"Why, you insolent little thing!" said Valera in mock outrage. "What do you mean, 'if anything is about to burn?' Really. How are those mixed vegetables you were chopping?"

"They will be crisp and delicious," Ming promised. "Particularly the bamboo shoots. I had six brothers and sisters back home and often helped my mother prepare meals."

"Now you are saying I remind you of your mother?! Jeremy, you see what I have to endure?"

"Hee hee hee," was Tang Ming's comment as she went back to work.

Seeing Bane was heading back out of the kitchen, Valera called after him, "Jeremy, this was such a great idea. We all needed this."

"Thanks, Princess," said Bane simply. He went back past the front office and meeting room to step back out into the early afternoon sunlight. The past six months had indeed been grueling for his team. One crisis after another, they had faced their biggest threats in a rapid succession. There had been Arem Kamende's most ambitious scheme. Then clashes with the Preincarnators, then with Those Who Remember and Simon Cohen. Wu Lung's army of the BlackMantis and finally the Ship of Skulls battle with that traumatic exposure to a creature of the Sulla Chun. He had thought even his team was becoming worn down and stressed out. His proposal for a social gathering away from the Midnight War for a day had been met with cheers.

Hurrying to meet him was a blonde carrying an acoustic guitar nearly as large as she was. Her flip-flops making slapping noises, wearing only blue bikini panties and a blue sleeveless tanktop, Cindy Brunner evidently was having trouble catching her breath. She was laughing too much.

Bane watched his lover and partner for the past eight years and waited for her to get a grip. He himself had never displayed a discernable sense of humor but he realized she made up for his lack. In a second, the telepath, "Oh my God. Jeremy! It's too much. The Olur was dancing. You have to see this!"

"Watch him dance?" repeared the Dire Wolf. "Hell, I can hardly look at Dinsdell without losing it."

"Over here. Oh, no, he acting out pantomime now." Cindy seized Bane by one wrist and dragged him over to where most of the assemblage was standing in a rough circle.

( the rest of the story )

"The Pit of Snakes"

4/20-4/21/1983

I.

With the faintest flicker of pale blue light, three figures appeared from nowhere, abruptly standing on a hill under a clear Spring sky. In the middle of their grouping was a woman in a bright Kelly green one-piece jumpsuit, who swayed and almost lost her footing. The fact she was holding hands with the man on her right and the woman on her left gave her enough support to remain standing.

"Whew," she said and took a deep shuddering breath. "That took more concentration than I expected." Tall at five feet eight, slim and athletic, Karina seemed to be in her late teens with auburn hair cut in a shag and deep luminous green eyes that her jumpsuit had been selected to match. Her appearance did not hint at the full truth. The body standing there was that of a nineteen year old college student named Barbara Hoyt but it was now the willing host to the ancient spirit of the warrior-goddess of Myrrwha. Karina had existed since the Darthan Age of thirty thousand years ago, inhabiting with permission the physical forms of one host after another.

"I thought your ability to cross into other realms was effortless," said the black man to her side as he helped steady her. Ted Wright wore one of the dark field suits with its heavy boots, pants and waist-length jacket that had an inner layer of the flexible Trom armor inside. He was very dark-skinned, with a serious thoughtful face and there was grey beginning to scatter here and there in his tightly curled beard and short hair. The Blue Guide always seemed worried and anxious because that was both his nature and a result of his rolr as one of the healers of the Midnight War. "Your vitals seem good. Heartbeat is a bit fast at one hundred and nine."

"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry, Ted." Karina straightened and took the small travel bag from its strap on her shoulder to lower it to the ground. Her snug jumpsuit had a thin vertical black stripe down each side of the body, and she wore ordinary white sneakers but she had no pockets. "I'm used to just traveling between realms by myself. I've only taken one person at a time with me before."

Standing to Karina's left, Cindy Brunner gazed around the countryside where they had just materialized. She was a tiny blonde, not much over five feet tall, with dark gold hair that hung straight down her back. Cindy wore a field suit like that which Ted had on, although her jacket showed an impressive bust ledge over an otherwise thin little body. Her dark blue eyes moved quickly around the area.

"I'm picking up Human minds, not too far away," she said. "Maybe... six or seven adult males. Kind of rough, raw minds. Not really bad people, though." She frowned and turned back to her friends. "They're riding horses."

"Good, Cin. We're ready for company." Wright unclipped a small flat device from his belt and examined it. "Ah, too bad. Technology doesn't work in this realm. All our gadgets and weapons are going to be useless."

"Yeah, we sort of expected that," Cindy said. "That's why our team all has innate powers."

Karina laughed. "Do we need electronic gimmicks and anesthetic dart guns when we have the Midnight War's best telepath, the best gralic healer and the best unarmed combat fighter ever?" She jabbed a thumb at her own chest. "By that last, I mean myself, of course."

The Blue Guide shielded his eyes from the sun with the flat of his hand, peering up the hill. "Evaho. None of us have been here before. I suppose our first step is to meet those horsemen Cindy detected and see what the situation is. Then we can worry about finding this Walking Snake sorcerer."

The blonde telepath raised a hand, "No need. They're riding this way. I'm getting a clearer sense of their attitudes. They're kind of direct, uneducated farmer types. Simple, but not in a bad way. Still, there's a lot of anger just under the surface."

The three KDF members stepped out into plain sight, as much in the open as possible. Higher up the hill, dense forest began but they stood on wild grass that grew shin-high. Overhead, a bird circled and then wheeled away... a raptor of some sort, much like a hawk.

Seven men came down the slope on horses, bent over their saddles with weariness, faces grimy with sweat and dust. They were big, sturdy men in simple leggings and tunics of coarse material almost like burlap, and each had a short sword at his belt and a bow with quiver fastened to the saddle behind him. The riders were darkly tanned and weathered, their brown hair was tied back behind the neck and they had roughly trimmed beards. As they saw the three unexpected strangers standing before them, the riders pulled their horses short.

"Pergamir!" yelled one. "What does this mean?"

The lead rider was also the biggest man there. He had wide shoulders and a massive barrel chest, and his hair and beard had scattered grey hairs which in a Melgar indicated considerable age. The leader leaned forward in his saddle and gazed down thoughtfully at the three strangers.

"Know you that I am Pergamir son of Harakon. I gather that you are not from this realm but from another. We have seen no people with black skins here, yet you do not seem like a Danarakan nor a Veganoran to me. And you, my lady, surely with that sunset-colored hair and emerald eyes, you must hail from Myrrwha itself."

"You are widely traveled, good Pergamir," Karina replied. "I am indeed a daughter of Myrrwha. My friends here are, like myself, knights of the Order of Tel Shai."

( the rest of the story )

"The Collars of Rimnor Kje"

9/22/1981

I.

In a silenced chamber deep beneath busy city streets, two huge beefy men watched their master with naked fear in their eyes. The Darthan sorcerer took one sip of the amber-colored wine from his cut crystal goblet, then regarded his distorted reflection on its surface with smug satisfaction. Rimnor Kje was tall and spidery thin, frail-boned with narrow shoulders and long-fingered hands. Like all his Race, his unpigmented skin was white as milk, as was his fine-textured hair which hung straight to his shoulder blades. The only trace of color showing on his body was found in the green irises of his oblique eyes.. eyes which held even more refined cruelty than was required of a Kje. His ears rose to distinct points.

All the luxuries he desired had been brought here to this real world. The throne he lounged upon was carved of ivory inlaid with veins of green jade but it had soft cushions to make him comfortable. Ornate silk tapestries hung on the walls, an ebony figure of the Dread Draldros stood on a pillar, delicate bronze chimes rang even with no wind present. At his right hand stood a pedestal bearing shallow bowls of dried fruits and seasoned nuts, as well as his decanter and goblet. Kneeling by his feet was an exquisite Eldar damsel whose resistance had been broken so that she would pleasure him at once on command, no matter who was present. She bowed her head, letting the golden hair fall down to cover her face.

Rimnor was in good spirits because he had spent an enjoyable afternoon in the torture chambers below them. For days now, he had been teasing and taunting the captive from Androval. By nature, the Melgarin were brawny, good-natured creatures who made excellent subjects for abuse. Lately, Rimnor had been experimenting with a salve of his own devising, the antithesis of an anesthetic... Rimonr's lotion made its subject more sensitive to pain, to the extent that a light breath on bare skin was as agonizing as a white-hot blade being applied. When the Melgar collapsed into pleading and begging with no pretense of pride left, the Kje had ended the session. Best to give the guest a day to recover his nerve before beginning again.

But he had left Maroch for a purpose. Rimnor could not return to the sacred isle yet. He glanced sternly behind him at his bodyguards. They were Chujiran slaves raised from infancy for their task, skilled with many weapons, kept muscular and fit to a fanatical level. Both wore soft leather boots, cloth leggings and tight-sleeved tunics over which two halberds crossed in an X to support the scabbards of long-bladed knives. He had renamed them Blossom and Petals with typical Darthan humor. Responding to his gaze, the guards knew that their alertness was being checked and they stood up taller, gripping the hilts of their weapons.

In the wall facing him, a door panel slid aside and an old man leaning on a staff walked in with the precision of someone who has fallen a few times and is wary of falling again. He was not a Dartha, but a Human like the guards. His hair was white and thinning, his back bent inside his coarse dark robes. Approaching the throne, he sank awkwardly to one knee and bowed his head.

"Shantul, you may speak without being granted leave," Rimnor said in his silky tones. "Your years of service as my steward have earned you that much."

"Thank you, my lord," the old man responded. He rose with great care, using his staff as a lever. "The prisoners have been prepared."

"Very well," the Dartha said. "Have Grum bring them before me. Emira, depart." Obeying his words, the Eldar woman rose to her feet and hastened through a doorway hidden by a tapestry.

"As you command," said the old steward. Tucking the staff under one arm, Shantul clapped his hands twice. Stepping through the doorway were three captives who had been stripped of their clothing and dressed in ragged tunics which reached to the knee. Around the neck of each was a flat band of the red metal Gremthom. As the prisoners entered the chamber, an immense bulk loomed up behind them. Grum was a Fighting Troll, seven feet high and wide enough that a Human could stand behind him and not be seen. Two tusks jutted up from a prognathous jaw, his conical skull was hidden by a coarse black mane and his eyes glowered under a protruding brow ledge. The Tunnel-Dweller carried an iron cudgel in one thick-fingered paw and his massive muscular form wore only a red kilt suspended from a leather belt. The huge brute stood behind the captives, slapping the heavy head of his club into the palm of his other hand with a repeated thumping.

One of the prisoners was a young woman, not much over five feet tall, with dark blonde hair hanging loose to the middle of her back. A man standing beside her was about sixty years old with shaggy grizzled hair and a weathered face, but still in good athletic shape. It was the other man who held Rimnor Kje's attention. Only a few years over the age of twenty, he was lean and intense with pale grey eyes under feral black brows. Those eyes met the Dartha's venomous gaze without flinching.

"Knights of Tel Shai," Rimnor Kje said with barely repressed glee. "You come here not as warriors nor as champions, but as mere bait to lure one of your fellows to his destruction."

( the rest of the story )

"The Vengeance of Karl Eldritch"

8/28-8/29/1980

I.

After the Tel Shai knights had been escorted from the room, old King Gowain sank wearily into his chair. He felt ill at the deceit he had been pressed to carry out against those who had so recently helped him. Lifting his goblet, he saw only a thin film of wine remained in its bottom. Then he heard something and lurched to his feet. On one wall hung a life sized portrait of his father, Ulmic the Bold, in full armor. This painting now swung open from behind, and a huge bulk filled the space behind it.

"What? Who knows of my secret passage..?! Oh. You." Gowain dropped back into his seat.

"You did well, my lord," said Karl Eldritch. He wore the tan uniform of the palace guard, the loose blouse and trousers and high polished boots, but without insignia of any kind. Instead of the usual saber, he bore a strange metal device strapped to one hip, and a long knife at the other. At six foot seven and more than three hundred pounds, he was the biggest man to have ever been in Bruenig. Eldritch kept his head shaved, and his pale hazel eyes stabbed out from beneath heavy black brows.

"Can I keep nothing from you?" demanded the King wearily. "Since I accepted you as my advisor, your influence has grown too much over the court. The army. The people. You were meant to be a power behind the throne, not the throne itself."

"You have nothing to fear from me, your highness," said the huge warlock with a smile. "I am not Bruenigan. How could I wear the crown? No, I am content to merely help you against your enemies."

( the rest of the story )

"Running Out of Thrills"

4/1-4/29/1999

I.


Exactly at midnight, the last of the four Adrenalati took his chair at the elegant green baize-covered card table. The others sat nursing their drinks, while one drew deeply on a clove cigarette before snuffing it out in a crystal ashtray. Cards were scattered on the table, but that was just for appearances. None of them cared about gambling anymore. They had reached new depths of being jaded even for the wealthy. Around them, the furnishings had cost fortunes, from the heavy maroon drapery to the marble counters to the genuine paintings by Kruipshank and LeDroit. None of this mattered to them at this point. Their pulses were only made rapid over something wicked.

As Ellsworth Eberhardt pulled out his King Francis era chair and took his seat at the head of the table, he was as impeccably dressed as ever. His white dinner jacket was tailored precisely, he seemed so clean-shaven and well-groomed that it was as if he had just stepped from a salon into the meeting room. Eberthardt was tall, slim, in his early fifties. The crisp brown hair had a sprinkling of white throughout it, the long face smiled at his friends with barely repressed glee. He picked up his bourbon on the rocks, sniffed it thoughtfully and took a long sip. "Everything went perfectly," he drawled. "The clueless police will be scratching their pointed heads."

Sitting to his left, the wide bulk of Mike Meade shifted restlessly. Despite the expensive clothing and the careful preparation, he still had a rough, unpolished look to him. Meade had started on the streets, son of immigrants who lived in the back of their deli and saved each coin to send their son to a good school. Recruited by ROTC, rising quickly to lieutenant in the Army, Meade had gone back to college after his tour of duty and had prospered in business. With his lantern jaw and flat nose, deepset brown eyes under heavy brows, he was intimidating without effort.

Meade watched their leader with a vague hostility. Ellsworth Eberthard had grown up with servants and every advantage on Martha's Vineyard. To be fair, he was a genius in computer design and troubleshooting and he had made his own millions. Meade had to admit the Adrenalate's leader deserved to be where he was. He made no answer but merely nodded.

It was Emilie who spoke in her low husky voice. "You were right. That was the first real jolt of life I've felt in weeks." A slender ash blonde with delicate features, Emilie Keyser wore a strapless burgundy dress and a simple turquoise and silver chain around her neck. She was watching Eberhardt with new appreciation. "The idea that I might get caught arrested, that was exciting! I believe you have found the solution to our, shall we say, ennui?"

"You and your word of the day," scoffed her brother. Emilie was just under thirty, while Kenny was five years younger. There was not much family resemblance. Both had light blonde hair, cloudy blue eyes and fine features. But the insolence and disrepect in Kenny's expression could not be concealed for long. He wore a neat dark grey suit, with matching vest and thin black tie over a crisp white shirt, but he alone did not seem at ease in it. "It was a real kick, Ellsworth. Just as you promised. And kicks keep getting harder to find."

"I am so glad to hear that," said their leader. "And the tokens of your misdeeds?"

Each placed an object on the card table. Mike Meade's token was a platinum cigarette lighter, Emilie's was a thin new leather billfold. Her brother Kenny bounced a steel money clip holding a thick wad of fifties. Leaning forward, smirking despite his best efforts, Eberthardt dropped a pair of rectangular emerald earrings trimmed in fine gold wire on the table.

"Now I'm impressed," Kenny chuckled. "How'd you do that without her noticing?"

"When you're a little older, I will tell you. Our first sins are petty, as you can see, but we will escalate quickly. Before we end the game, the sheep of this city will be looking over theirs shoulders in raw terror." He raised his tumbler in a gesture of salute. "My dear friends, the most exclusive club in Manhattan meets tonight to plan our next outrage. To the Adrenalati!"

They all raised their glasses. "The Adrenalati!"

( the rest of the story )

"When She Commands, the Wise Obey"

4/6-4/9/1998

I.


Inside the front hall of their headquarters building, Cindy Brunner checked her appearance again in the full length mirror that stood by the coat rack. It was not like her to do this, and she normally skipped make-up but today had applied some blush to lessen her freckles and a little mascara to blonde eyelashes that otherwise were light enough to need some emphasis. Only an inch over five feet tall, trim as any gymnast, the telepath was wearing a cream-colored blouse with a scoop neckline, a snug black skirt and shoes with reasonable heels. She had also added a fine-linked gold chain necklace and stud earrings. Reaching to the rack, she tugged on a short-waisted black jacket and adjusted it.

Standing behind her with arms folded, Jeremy Bane looked the same as he always did. At six feet and one hundred and seventy pounds, he was wiry and lean; the all-black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket only emphasized this. In a narrow feral face under short black hair, the Dire Wolf's infamous pale grey eyes stood out as vividly as ever. At the moment, though, those eyes held rare affection and amusement.

"Cin, I've told you before you're naturally beautiful, haven't I?"

"Hhh? Oh, sure, but it's always nice to hear it again." She swung around and grinned at his quizzical expression. "I don't know why I'm fretting like this. I HAVE heard wild gossip about this Miss Ayesha.
She breezed into town from nowhere and immediately rented a penthouse that millionaires can't afford. She seems to travel with two dozen servants, no one knows much about her, and --get this-- she's always veiled. No one knows what she looks like."

Bane made a scoffing noise. "She must have a passport or visa. Otherwise, she couldn't be staying openly in the country."

"Well, yeah. I'm sure some officials have seen her photo. But it's funny how her face is a mystery."

Moving over to lightly place his hands on her narrow shoulders, Bane kissed Cindy on the forehead. "Don't want to smudge your lipstick."

She reached up to squeeze his hands, continuing her train of thought. "And then yesterday, her secretary, a guy named Basim, asked to make an appointment with us. Well, with you."

"Still a couple of minutes before ten," the Dire Wolf said after glancing over at the wall clock. "This could be anything, Cin. Midnight War stuff, a client with criminal trouble for our agency, maybe even some espionage back-stabbing from the Mandate or INTERCEPT. I don't remember a woman named Ayesha."

Before the blonde telepath could respond, the doorbell rang. Bane took a long stride over to the door and pressed a button on a wooden wall panel. The street door opened as he did this, and he said, "Please step into the foyer, we'll be with you in a second."

As Cindy watched from beside him, Bane swung open the panel to reveal a monitor screen and a complex instrument panel. The screen lit up to read off a series of words and numbers in green. Anyone standing in the foyer of that building was scanned by Trom sensors more sophisticated than any CAT scans or MRIs in use.

"No ID from the NYPD or the FBI, nothing from the intelligence agencies identifying him. Normal Human male, forty-eight to fifty years old, North African DNA, blood pressure and heartbeat all within normal range..." she read off.

"No gun, no chemical signature of poisons or explosives," the Dire Wolf continued for her. "But look at that strapped to the small of his back. Steel dagger, blade four and a half inches long. He can reach back under his coat and grab the hilt easily enough."

Cindy shrugged. "I say we let him bring it in. Otherwise we have to explain how we know about it. And we're both on the alert. Not to mention the flexible armor under our clothes."

"Fair enough." Bane closed the door and stepped forward to swing open the inner door. "Good morning, Mr Basim. I'm Jeremy Bane and this is my partner Cindy Brunner."

A short wiry man in a tailored tan suit shook their hands gravely in turn. He had the dark skin, hawklike nose and sunken cheeks of an Egyptian but he looked weary and older than his age would indicate. "I am pleased to meet with you both. The car awaits, if you will join me?"

"Oh, we're going somewhere?" asked Cindy.

"Naturally. Miss Ayesha wishes to receive you. She commands I bring you there."

"She commands...? Well, okay." The little telepath raised an eyebrow at Bane. "We're ready to go visit Miss Ayesha, aren't we?"

"No problem." The Dire Wolf gestured for Basim to step back out onto the concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk, while he and Cindy followed. As the doors closed behind them, buzzes and clicks indicated the security alarms had armed themselves.

Double parked on East 38th Street was a black limousine gleaming as if it had been waxed while they stood there. Basim held the rear door for Bane and Cindy, then climbed into the front passenger seat himself. The car rolled smoothly forward with the silence of a well-tuned motor.

Leaning back against the elegant beige leather interior, Jeremy Bane said, "Some information telling us what this is all about?"

"We are but humble servants of our great mistress," came the reply from the front. "When She commands, the wise obey."

( the rest of the story )

"Tournament of Psychos"

4/17-4/19/1993

I.

At best, Jeremy Bane was restless and jumpy. Having to wait for an appointment was getting on his nerves badly. The morning seemed to drag on forever. The Dire Wolf circled his office over and over, hands clasped behind him. He straightened the mess of old newspapers on the coffee table in front of the couch. He dusted the bookshelves with a rag. He checked the condition of the bizarre creatures from Ulgor for the third time. In the five foot high tank, the water bubbled clear and the food flakes had been gobbled up.

The starfish with one red eye in its center, the fanged sea horse, the hermit crabs who seemed to be building a tunnel in the colored gravel using their saliva as glue... all were fine. He smiled back at the baleful stare that the starfish fixed on him.

On the wall behind his desk was a gorgous handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937. That was the year Kenneth Dred had purchased this building. Now Bane had inherited it all. Along with his lover and partner Cindy Brunner, Bane was carrying on Dred's Midnight War work.

In his early forties, the Dire Wolf was a tall lean figure all in black. The elevated metabolism which gave him his superior reflexes also filled him with excess vitality that made it difficult for him to sit still at all.

The phone on his desk rang. Bane lunged for it as if it was going to explode but managed to keep his voice calm. "Hello."

Ah, Mr Bane," said a refined middle-aged voice. "Cameron Eckhardt here. I'm on my way. I should be at your residence shortly."

"Fine. 28 East 38th Street, remember. I'll be here."

"Excellent." With a click, the connection was broken off.

Bane hung up and then called Cindy up in her rooms on the third floor. "Hey, that guy Eckhardt just phoned. He's coming here now. Did you find out any more about him?"

"No, nothing sinister, I'm afraid," answered her husky voice. "We know he's a civilian profiler who sometimes works with the FBI. He's written three books and a dozen articles on the subject of serial killers. Divorced, no children, taught a class in abnormal psychology at Columbia for six years."

"I don't know why I'm so doubtful about him. Maybe I'm just suspicious of everyone."

"With the life you've led, that's not surprising. I'm glad you turned out as positive as you have."

"Maybe your telepathy would be helpful," Bane said. "Do you want to come down and check his mind out? Without him catching on?"

"No, no," came the voice he knew best in life. "Listen, hon, you want to sharpen your detective skills. The Dire Wolf Agency has been picking up cases lately. Here's your chance. I'm gonna dig into some Jane Austen until he's gone."

"You're right," Bane reluctantly conceded. "If I rely on your gift, I'll never develop observation and deduction."

"Remember all the tips Mike gave you," she said. There was a click as she signed off.

In fact, the Dire Wolf often drew on the lessons his late friend had patiently instilled in him. Michael Hawk had been raised from childhood to be a world-class criminologist and investigator, and he had tried to steer Bane in that direction. To be honest, Bane admitted he did not have the patience nor the thoroughness to fully analyze clues. He was not the genius Hawk had been. Bane's strength was in his combat skills and his tenacity. When it came to confrontation with the creatures of the night, he was in his element.

As always, Bane was wearing his trademark uniform of black slacks and turtleneck, with the sport jacket he now tugged on. Sheathed under his sleeves were the matched silver-bladed daggers that were his most valued weapons. Even as he headed out into the front hall, the doorbell rang.

Standing to the side of the inner door, the Dire Wolf slid a wooden panel aside to reveal a monitor screen and its controls. He pressed the button to unlock the outer door and said into a speaker, "Good morning. I'll be right with you."

In the small foyer beyond, the caller waited for a few seconds while advanced Trom sensors analyzed him more thoroughly than any CAT scan or MRI could. On the monitor screen, Bane read the green figures and numbers which unscrolled. The visitor had no metal on him larger than a set of keys. There was no chemical signature for any of the known explosives or poisons. Height, weight, biological age, hair and eye color, heartbeat and blood pressure, all were revealed.

Cameron Eckhardt was not in the fully detailed KDF data banks, but the statistics all matched. This man was twelve pounds heavier than the weight listed in the files but that meant nothing. People in middle age did put on weight or simply announced their weight as less than the truth out of vanity.

Satisfied for the moment, Bane closed down the sensors and slid the panel shut again. He opened the inner door and gestured for his visitor to enter. "Come right in," he said, shaking the hand that was offered.

Eckhardt removed his heavy coat and Bane politely took it to hang upon a series of hooks. They headed toward the office as the Dire Wolf summed up his impressions. Dr Cameron Eckhardt was a well-toned, healthy man in his late fifties. He moved well, with no limp or uncertainty. Dark hair was brushed back from a high forehead, and the stolid face showed serious eyes and a bulldog trap of a mouth.

He held a slim black leather attache case, but the Trom sensors had shown nothing in it but papers and some pens. When they entered the office, Bane motioned for Eckhardt to take one of the plain wooden chairs in front of the desk while he himself circled around to take his own seat facing the man.

"So. Dr Eckhardt," Bane began without any pleasantries. "I understand you're a profiler. You work as a consultant with the FBI but you are not an agent yourself. Is that right?"

"Exactly," answered a cool, restrained voice. "After the success of my two books, I was approached by the Bureau to lend what assistance and suggestions I can. I have thankfully been some help in locating serial killers. Not only am I paid for my work, I can then use the experiences as material for my books. Mr Bane, do you know there's a file on you?"

"Yeah, I would think so." He did not say it, but through devious means Bane had already read a copy of his file without the FBI being aware of it. Having friends with extrahuman abilities was sometimes immensely helpful.

"I daresay you could request a copy through the Freedom of Information act," Eckhardt said. "But that is not what I have come to discuss with you."

Bane allowed the faintest hint of a smile to touch the corners of his mouth.

"I don't quite know what to make of the ahem, supernatural events you are reported to have been part of. That is not my area. But I am greatly impressed with the level of maniacs you have successfully captured or who disappeared mysteriously after confronting you. Seneca. Golgora. The Slaughterman. Seth Petrov. I sometimes think you must have an untrained knack for profiling yourself."

The Dire Wolf shook his head. "I don't think so. As I understand it, your approach is to try to put yourself in the killer's mind, to see things from his viewpoint. That way, you can predict his next move. That right?"

"In a simplified way," Eckhardt said.

"I certainly do not want to start thinking like the maniacs I'm chasing. To see things the way Quilt does...? No, thanks. Dr Eckhardt, it seems to me there's some risk in your method. I have to wonder if maybe that viewpoint might rub off on you."

"To be honest, that is a hazard of the profession," Eckhardt admitted. "Typically, a professional profiler only works the field for a limited number of years before being rotated to less demanding duties. But there's little choice. These murderers must be apprehended and since profiling works, we use it."

"Let's get to business," Bane abruptly shifted gears. "What exactly brings you to see me, doctor?"

Opening his attache case, Eckhardt took out a map and unfolded it on the desk. It showed the northeast United States with a pattern of tiny red, green and black Xs across New York, Connecticut and Pennsylvania. At even first glance, the Xs were converging in a loose spiral toward New York City.

"You see here something new," the profiler intoned ominously, "Something I have never found in the annals of crime."

Bane leaned forward and scrutinized the map. "Let me start with the idea that each X represents a murder. Is that right? Okay. Each state has mostly marks of the same color, but there are a few exceptions." He swung that startling grey eyes up so fast that Eckhardt winced involuntarily. "There are three killers, is that it?"

"That's my conclusion," the profiler said. "Samhain. Dr Sabbath. Charlie Pantera. All active in what should be each other's exclusive territory. They're have a sort of competition."

"A tournament of pyschos," Bane growled. "Quick, I need a timeline. When did these murders start? How are they spaced?"

"I have that on a separate sheet, as well as details of each crime," Eckhardt said as he pulled out sheafs of documents clipped together. "The first one we can identify took place last December. The most recent was Tuesday... three days ago."

Bane was engrossed in the map. "Samhain. Again! How the hell can that monster still be alive? I saw him take four bullets in the face and then he fell off the Tappan Zee Bridge into the Hudson in midwinter." The Dire Wolf did not mention that he had been the person firing those shots.

"No one knows," Eckhardt shrugged. "The man called Saimhain has been reported killed at least four times that I know of. Yet he keeps coming back. You see why I feel your experience in the uh, paranormal is called for."

Bane was going through the documents. "This Charlie Pantera is a new one to me."

"Oh yes. He's from west Texas, a Mexican boy not more than twenty. Evidently he is only starting his pattern. He believe his murdered his family in a fire and left a charred body intended to be taken for him. Not a very good job. The corpse was two inches taller than Pantera. And Dr Sabbath, I assume you know about him?"

"By reputation," Bane said. "I haven't tangled with him yet. This is the most outrageous thing I've seen in years. These three pyschos seem to making their way toward a meeting, leaving victims along the way. Are they going to brag and compare body counts with each other?"

"I believe so. Mr Bane, the FBI and the State Police are already on full alert and have called in as much manpower as they can. No one wants the public to go into a panic by finding out about these three. I obtained permission to bring you in on this, if you are interested."

The Dire Wolf snapped those pale eyes up at his visitor. "Is Department 21 Black in on this?"

"Yes. I meet with a liaison from that department regularly," said Eckhardt. "You understand, I am not a man of action. I'm an author and lecturer, I've never even drawn a gun on anyone. But your reputation from fighting the creatures of the night is legendary. I might be able to locate these criminals but you are the one who can face them on equal terms."

Studying the map, Bane did not answer immediately. "Yes. Of course. I need all the facts you can supply, doctor. Dates, places, photos. Any police reports you can clear. I assume you've worked up a timeline?"

"First, there is the matter of your fee," the profiler said. "21 Black has promised to reimburse me for any expenses during the duration of this case."

The Dire Wolf glanced up again and the impact of those grey eyes was so forceful that even Eckhardt gave a start. "All right. I'll charge a flat one thousand dollars. With you as a client, we will have certain confidentiality conditions from the cops." He folded up the map almost reluctantly. "Let's get started. Do you want some coffee? Tea?"

"No thank you."

Bane opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a red leather ledger. "Make the check out to 'Dire Wolf Agency' and I'll write a receipt. Then we can get this hunt started...."

II.
( the rest of the story )

"The League of Predators"

5/3/2000

I.

The doorbell woke her when it rang. From where she had been napping on the couch in the office, Unicorn bounced up so quickly that she almost fell. For an instant, she was not clear on where she was or what she was supposed to be doing. In fact, her sleep-muddled mind had some vague idea that she was going to be late for school again. Then she snapped out of it. The bell rang again. Ashley Whitaker tugged down her white pullover where it had ridden up, wiped at her eyes and rushed to the hall to get to the front door. She was still so tired. This erratic training schedule was killing her, she thought.

The little platinum blonde wished she could take a second to press an ice pack over her burning eyes. That was a trick that had helped her go without sleep many times. Sliding open a wooden panel slightly above her own face level, she revealed a monitor screen and a bank of buttons. She pressed one and mumbled, "Hold on, I'll be right with you."

A familiar voice answered, "Hiya, Unicorn. No rush." It was the unmistakably hoarse smoker's voice of Inspector Harold Klein. As the monitor screen lit up, she clicked by mistake the controls that opened both the street door and the inner door. That was her first fatal mistake. The foyer was revealed as the inner door swung open, showing the short stocky form standing there in the ancient white raincoat. She knew that weathered face with its noticeable glass eye, crinkly greying hair and wry crooked smile.

"Come on in," she said and that was the second mistake that would bring her to the edge of death. No matter who was out there, even Bane himself, the proper procedure demanded she wait until the Trom sensors produced a positive ID of anyone trying to enter the building. She herself had often had to wait to be cleared even after only stepping outside for a minute.

Ashley managed a smile at Klein. The cranky old grouch. "What are you waiting for?" she said, stifling a yawn with the back of one tiny hand. "I said you can come in." Then she glanced up at the monitor screen next to her and her heart missed a beat. The image on the monitor wasn't Klein. It showed a tall haggard man with a prominent nose and deepsunk shadowed eyes. He was wearing a formal dress suit that had seen better days. Unicorn recognized him from the files she had studied that very day.

"Indigo!" she yelped, jabbing for the button that would close the inner door but reacting far too late. The Illusionist raised a massive Colt .45 automatic and snapped off three shots that were deafening indoors. One bullet slammed into her stomach, the next two struck her high on the chest and Ashley was flung back off her feet to roll into the open doorway of the room where she had napping a minute earlier. She remained sprawled in an awkward pose with one arm bent under her.

Behind Indigo, the other four members of the League of Predators were revealed as the illusion of concealment faded. Avathor, Repel, Duffy the Sumo, and Fatal Wasp. They closed the outer door behind them and stepped inside the front hall, but only with some difficulty. Their feet seemed to drag until they were well inside, nearly at the base of the wide staircase leading up to the second floor. Ahead of them was a wide staircase with carved mahogany bannisters, leading up to the second floor. Both walls of the front hall were lined with bookcases broken by unmarked and closed doors.

"That's funny," Repel grumbled. He looked athletic and fit enough, with a square sullen face under short black hair. "It was like walking through quicksand. I had a helluva time for a second there."

Avathor laughed. He was a dramatic figure whose darkly bronzed skin which contrasted vividly with the white crewcut and pale blue eyes. He wore an outfit of riding boots, corduroy breeches and tan flannel shirt. The Gralic Leech hurried to explain, "That fool girl gave us permission to enter. Otherwise, this building has a potent mystic defense... I suspect the Yellow Shield might be under the floor."

"Right, whatever you say," Repel scoffed. "Listen, better make sure blondie there snuffed it before we go any further."

The two remaining members of the gang could hardly have looked less alike. Despite his name, Stuart Duffy seemed to be a full Japanese, towering six feet eleven inches tall and weighing well over four hundred and forty pounds, while Holly Kirschner barely reached four feet nine and would struggle to make eighty pounds. Yet they were dressed very much alike in boots, dark pants and long-sleeved work shirts tailored for them because their extreme sizes made it impossible to buy clothes that would even begin to fit. The Sumo smiled down at the Fatal Wasp, who glared back at him with green eyes as venomous as her codename.

"He's right, Indigo," Avathor ordered. "Finish her. One more bullet but in the back of the skull."

"No, no, she took three slugs in the torso. I don't want to look at her head blownn open," Indigo protested.

The Gralic Leech took a menacing step toward the Illusionist. "You left your courage behind you when you got out of prison," he said slowly. "Maybe you aren't strong enough to be on this team."

"I had a successful career all over Europe for decades," Indigo snapped. "You should only last as long."

Before the confrontation could go any further, the door of a small elevator to their right opened with a DING! and a flash of the light bar. Naturally, the League of Predators swung as one to see who or what might be emerging. With perfect timing, Sheng Mo-Yuan hurtled down the staircase and dove headlong into them.

( the rest of the story )