dochermes | Entries tagged with khang

"Spawn of Draldros"

7/21- 7/22/1979

Dr Vincent Cafaldo looked from Hawk to the patient in the bed and back again. "Do you recognize him?"

Michael Hawk did not answer at once. He studied the young man who lay with flushed skin under the fluorescent lights. "I've never met him before. What's the story?"

At one in the morning, the emergency room at St Theresa's had its lights dimmed and everyone spoke in hushed tones. It was a quiet night and not all the beds were occupied. "It's a strange situation. This young man dragged himself into the emergency room an hour ago, struggling to remain conscious. While still in the lobby, he sank into this comatose state and has been there ever since. No response to treatment. Blood work offers no clues. Pupils are dilated, breathing is shallow, blood pressure low at 105 over 70. All we could do is give him an IV and keep him comfortable."

Hawk turned back to the doctor. "Any ID?"

"Nothing. No driver's license, no Social Security card. But he had a lot of bizarre items on him. I remember the last time we met, Michael. The TarJack case when we had the suspect here and you showed just as he was trying to escape with a hostage. You told me to call you if anything weird turned up here and I thought it was worth bothering you, even at this hour."

( 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 )

"Bid Yesterday Return"

4/11-4/12/1982

I.

The woman known as Rook had never been lacking in self-assurance. At thirty, standing five feet seven and slender in build, she was a remarkably gorgeous woman whose mixed Japanese and French parentage had gifted her with delicate expressive features including huge dark eyes and a glossy mane of thick black hair. In fact, she had even more confidence than one might expect. A career outside the law had that effect.

Yet, seated at the far end of that oak table, facing eight stern faces, Rook experienced an uncertainty that was new to her. The only other woman in that room was a petite blonde whose dark blue eyes studied Rook as a judge might. When their eyes met, Rook felt an uneasy crawling sensation in her mind as if thinking of spiders. She had no way of knowing that Cindy Brunner was a gifted telepath and that the unsettling sensation came from having her mind being probed.

Sitting up straight in her plain black dress with minimal make-up or jewelry, Europe's premier cat burglar and retrieval expert got hold of herself. Certainly, she had heard of these KDF members. What dweller in the borders between crime and the supernatural did not know of Khang by now? Or Michael Hawk, the veteran manhunter? But the only person there she had met before sat at the head of the table and regarded her without any of the welcome she had expected.

Jeremy Bane, the Dire Wolf, fixed his pale grey eyes on her coldly and thoughtfully. "Well, team, we have heard Rook's story. Let's have some reactions."

"As I read her, she's telling the truth as she knows it," Michael Hawk began. At sixty, with more grey than brown in his hair, he had a wide weathered face that gave nothing away of his feelings. "I can hear it in her voice. She's trying to hide it but she's terrified and she came here to us hoping to find help."

Next to Hawk, Dr Thaddeus Wright nodded. A Blue Guide, one of the healers of the Midnight War, he was a black man with a neatly trimmed beard and short hair. His dark brown suit with its pale yellow shirt and tan necktie were properly tailored. "I should not reveal my gift to an outsider, but her lifeforce is steady. I believe her."

"As do I," Leonard Slade added next. "Listening her voice and watching her pupis, I must conclude there is only the slightest possibility she is misleading us. I vote we act on her story."

"I agree," rumbled a strange voice that seemed to come from all directions at once. Khang was so bundled up in his flannel pants, oversized trenchcoat, gloves and slouch hat and scarf that nothing of his appearance could be seen. Even seated at the table, the silver giant loomed up over his teammates as if he were standing. "This is the sort of threat our gathering was intended to thwart."

Opposite Khang, Stephen Weaver chuckled. He was lighter-skinned than Ted Wright, younger and lankier and without the heavy sense of duty that the Blue Guide carried like a burden. Weaver had a thick mustache to counteract an admittedly broad nose. "Dang. Well, far be it from Black Angel to question the judgement of all you psychically endowed and deductive genius folks. I'm only a pilot and mechanic with a knack for levitation. I'll go with the consensus. Larry?"

Seated next to Rook, Dr Lawrence Taper kept his face as impassive as he could. "Susceptible as I admittedly am to a winsome countenance and a supple frame, my opinion is not to be taken seriously. No, there is one of us whose judgement will and should carry the day. Cynthia Lee?"

Up at the head of the table, sitting on Bane's right, Cindy gazed out at her friends. Physically tiny, only an inch over five feet tall and not more than a hundred pounds, she possessed to most potent and deft telepathic mind in the Midnight War. "For once, this woman is telling the truth. She may be a professional thief and con artist, but Rook is warning us of the most dangerous threat we have faced so far."

The Dire Wolf rose, leaning forward on stiff arms braced upon the table. "Rook, I've briefed everyone here on how you helped me defeat Karl Eldritch when he got hold of the Dwindle Horn."

"I'm not ALL bad," she said.

"Your career as a high-class jewel thief and grifter is not our concern," Bane continued. "We have our hands full with the Midnight War. Thanks for coming to us. When you heard gossip that Cogitus was about to locate five Zhune relics, you put yourself at some risk to come here."

"She's still at risk," Hawk said. "We've tangled with Cogitus, he's a vindictive old codger. If he learns that the lady here interfered with his plans, her life might end... and not painlessly."

"I've thought of that," admitted Rook. "Maybe an anonymous phone call might have been safer." She raised one elegant eyebrow in an expression that would have not been out of place on a magazine cover. "But in the badlands where I move, there are so many rumors and legends of the knights of Tel Shai, of your Kenneth Dred Foundation. How could I miss a chance to meet you all?"

"And swipe the silverware," Cindy muttered, still fixed a dubious eye on their guest.

Bane raised a dismissing hand at that comment. "Rook, for your safety I want you to remain here until the situation is resolved. This building is as secure as any place in the world. You can stay in one of our guest rooms and fix anything you like in our kitchen. Naturally most of headquarters will be off limits to you, but our Rec Room has a satellite hookup with eight hundred international channels. You won't be bored."

"And I am a prisoner, Jeremy?"

"Not at all. You can stand up and walk out right now if you want to." The grey eyes narrowed. "But remember what you know about Cogitus. Dr Sinclair has been a world-class mastermind for more than forty years. He has a list of victims that goes on for pages."

Again, that beguiling smile she could turn on like a floodlamp. "Point taken. Very well. I will be happy with a salad and some coffee."

Bane turned to face Leonard Slade further down the table. "We are going to divide into pairs and go after the Zhune relics immediately. One of our members will remain here on duty. He'll be here to protect you from attack and to keep you from wandering into rooms you're better off not knowing about, but also to co-ordinate the missions. Len?"

"Understood." The Trom seemed to be a normal Human male in his early thirties, handsome in an olive-skinned Mediterranean way. He was wearing a pair of drab overalls with a few oil stains on the fabric. "My maintenance on the CORBY is complete, the vehicle can be in the air within minutes."

Seeing the quizzical look on Rook's face, Hawk explained, "Our friend here is a Trom. He may look Human but he isn't. He's from a Race of scientific geniuses who've been breeding emotion out of themselves for thousands of years."

"In other words," Cindy couldn't help adding, "Batting your eyelashes and moistening your lips isn't going to get you anywhere with him."

( 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 )

"Sea Star"

I.

[5/12/2018]

"I called Jeremy at home. He's on his way," Sable said. She stepped out of her office into the wide front hall of the KDF headquarters building. The walls were mostly taken up by shelves packed with ancient books, with esoteric items interspersed among them including bronze statuettes, wavy-bladed daggers, one skull of an unidentifiable horned animal and a nicely framed oil portraut of a sour-faced Puritan dressed all in black. But, in a corner back toward the door to the kitchen, a sturdy wooden stand held a fish tank which bubbled as pumps circulated the salt water. Standing at chest level, the tank had unusually thick walls and a folding metal top which was kept locked into place.

For the first time, Demark Jin noticed strips made of a pale metal ran along the edges of the tank, and that a finely-crafted wheel of that same metal formed part of the lock which held the tank closed. Ensalir. Silver charged with protective gralic force by the immortal Eldarin themselves. Why would ensalir borders be necessary? The woman from Ulgor had an unfriendly expression on her face even when resting, but now the cloudy blue eyes were actively sullen and angry. At only five feet three, with short bristling white hair and a wide pug face, Jin was not what most people would consider attractive but her ferocious presence made her hard to ignore. Now, she swung around to face her captain.

"I wanted to ask about this earlier, Sable," she said. "Most of these creatures in the tank are indeed from Ulgor, as Jeremy always told visitors. The hermit crabs that build their castles from pebbles, the seahorse with fangs. Even that luminous squid with the transparent body. But I had never seen a sea star like this one. It seems dead. The eye is clouded over."

Coming up next to her partner, Lauren Sable Reilly peered into the tank. Jin knew that her captain had enhanced perception and could see and hear beyond what normal flesh and blood organs could achieve. Lying on its side in the gravel at the base of the tank was a orange creature with a central body large as a person's hand and five thick appendages. In the hub of the beast, a single red eye was glazed and unseeing.

"That thing always watched me when I came near the tank," Jin said as if deeply offended. "Its eye moved. At first, I thought it was amusing but the beast got on my nerves. It stared as if it was aching to get out of there and attack me. Sometimes I thought I should simply stab it with my bone knife and solve the problem."

"It's good you didn't. Finally dead. By natural causes, too." Sable stood and placed a hand on the Ulgoran's narrow shoulder. "There is a strange story behind that tiny animal, Jin. But then, this building houses many thousands of artifacts, each with a strange story of its own. It would take years to explain them all."

Demrak Jin shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. "I do not understand. Tell me more."

"I don't see why you can't learn about the case. It just has never come up before." Sable gave a final hard stare at the dead creature in the tank and then led her teammate toward the open office door across the hall. "Let's have a seat. It all began when the first KDF team was getting started, almost forty years ago..."

( the rest of the story )

"Project Regulus II- Everybody Loves a Clone"

7/29/-7/30/1989

I.

Just before seven-thirty that evening, Jeremy Bane walked into the conference room at the KDF headquarters and saw his team was assembled and ready. The long oak table which took up much of that room had a dozen swivel chairs arranged along its length, five on each side and one at each end. He looked over the members available for this case. Cindy. Steve. Shiro. Len. Khang. A good assortment of powers and skills. Bane entered the room and said, "Hello, everyone, glad to see you're all on duty. Let me explain the situation."

Taking his place at the chairman's seat at the head of the table, the Dire Wolf continued, "I was contacted this morning by agents of Department 21 Black. That's the FBI section which handles crimes of a baffling or seemingly occult nature. They've gotten used to dumping these cases on us, but in an unofficial and off the books way. We're basically acting on our own responsibility with the authorities using us a freelance vigilantes."

Shiro Mitsuru made a disgusted noise. "Just once I would like the FBI or the NYPD or the Mandate to back us up! I don't expect praise but some appreciation would be nice." The Tiger Fury was wearing a plain white T-shirt with a sleeveless denim vest and the wiry muscles on his arms stood out vividly as he gestured. "We take all the risks doing their dirty work."

Bane allowed himself a faint sigh, rare for him. "I know. I feel the same, Shiro. But this is our duty as Tel Shai knights. We would be tracking down monsters and masterminds even if the authorities were actively trying to stop us. So. Two days ago, there was a massacre in New Jersey. Five men were murdered at the Stanmore Records Facility near Woodbridge. That's a place where the state keeps microfilm and paper documents. Some files were stolen, but nothing important. One guard, three record keepers and one janitor were all killed by two intruders."

"Well, that's odd," Steven Weaver said. The Black Angel had been on the top floor, helping Slade to do maintenance on the CORBY. He still had a oil-smeared tan jumpsuit on. Weaver was a black American with a thick mustache and an open, relaxed face. "I happen to know some military contractors keep records at Stanmore. Some realvaluable information on file there. Why assault the place and kill the staff but not take anything worth the risk?"

Jeremy Bane leaned forward. His pale grey eyes were always intense but now they seem especially bright. "My guess? It's a trick to lure us in. One of our enemies staged this so 21 Black would call us. Arem Kamende, Wu Lung, John Grim... hard to say which one."

"Sounds possible," Weaver admitted. "What else do we know?"

"The facility has a security tape they allowed 21 Black to copy, and I recorded it on my Link. The other camera was out of service at the time. Of course, I'm supposed to erase it within twenty-four hours. Here, let's get a look." Standing up, Bane went to turn off the overhead lights and clicked on a large video monitor built into one wall. The screen lit up and showed a logo RESTRICTED- CLASS A PERSONNEL ONLY, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION, with a paragraph detailing the punishment that would befall any unauthorized people watching the tape.

They saw a warehouse, filmed from up by the ceiling. Rows of metal framework held cardboard boxes stacked neatly and labelled with prominents white numbers. A man in a white dress shirt and slacks was pushing a cart with two more boxes on it down between two rows of the shelving and he stopped to chat with an older man pushing a bucket with a mop in it. Both men gave a start and swung around at some noise. A thin dark-haired man in a black jumpsuit rushed at them so quickly his movements could barely be followed. He stabbed the janitor in the chest with a dagger, shoved him away, and then pounced on the other man. Faster than a big cat striking, the man in black swung the second victim around and slashed his throat open, then flung him aside and raced from the warehouse.

"Dang, that guy is nimble," Weaver said. "You think he's fast as you, captain?"

"Could be." Bane played the brief segment again. "Certainly faster than normal, even a Kumundu Master. There's an Alchemy drug called Velocitin, it accelerates a person but causes a lot of damaging side effects. The Mongoose team used it."

( the rest of the story )

"The Ship of Skulls"

5/28-5/30/1987

I.

At ten o'clock that morning, Jeremy Bane entered the reception room just inside the front door of the headquarters building. He used this for the infrequent cases he undertook to keep his PI business active, but it was mostly for visitors coming to the KDF with their troubles. To the right as he entered was his desk, sitting under a gorgeous hand-painted map of the world as it had been in 1937. Three leatherbound chairs stood in front of his desk. There was a couch under the two narrow windows, a coffee table with magazines on it. On the opposite wall was a waist-high case holding reference books and atop that sat a huge fish tank filled with bizarre specimens. As Bane entered, he found his guest studying the starfish that had a single red eye in its hub.

The visitor was bizarre enough himself. Not more than five feet tall, he was so widely and strongly built that he would have been intimidating to a regular-sized man. His proportions were not quite right, with the trunk too large and the head too big but this was normal for his Race. Tewan the Smith was not a dwarf, that is a human with a medical condition. He was a Dwarf, of the ancient Race that the afflicted humans took their name from.

( the rest of the story )

"The Preincarnators"

(9/18-9/20/1986)

I.

Dr Leopold Vidimar stared somberly at the large map which hung on the wall in his study. Nine red pins showed where his agents were at work, seeking out possible new recruits, carrying out assassination contracts, recovering long-lost treasure now remembered from previous lives. Vidimar turned away, removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them carefully with a soft cloth. Tonight had an uncanny feel to it. The ghostly voices from the ages whispered to him in voices which only he could hear, pleading with him to restore them to life. The voices never went away completely.

If only he hadn't found the Preincarnation spell from his study of the REVELATIONS OF TOLLINOR KJE, that unimaginably ancient book passed down from the Darthan Age... but he had and it could not be undone.

Without warning, a silent explosion of white light burst directly before him with blinding intensity that left him dazed. Dark spots swam before his watering eyes. He could just make out a huge bulk that loomed where nothing had been before. As his eyes recovered, he saw a titanic figure of living metal towering over him.

Over seven feet tall and powerfully built, the strange figure had gleaming skin which moved like normal flesh but which looked like burnished silver. The head was a smooth helmet, featureless except for two eyeslots which glowed from within. And when it spoke with lungs or a mouth, the deep resonant voice seemed to come from all directions at once.

"Leopold Vidimar! You look upon Khang. Be still and hear my words," thundered the voice. "I know that you are the master of the cult of Preincarnation. Nay, do not seek to flee."

With a panicky quickness, the stout middle-aged man had wheeled about and started to run. He hadn't a chance. A long silver arm swung out and a glistening hand gripped his upper arm with strength beyond measure. Vidimar gasped and held absolutely motionless as his arm came close to snapping in that grip.

"Be you still, I say," rumbled Khang ominously. "For I am of no mind to coddle my foes. Too long have I served in this cold form. The African wizard Arem Kamende used a forbidden spell to restore me to flesh and blood. But I was forced back into this inhuman body without my consent. Enough, I say. I will not live life this way."

As he was released, Vidimar fell backwards into an overstuffed chair. He rubbed his arm to try to restore feeling to it. "I don't understand... you were once Human? You were put in that form?"

"It is so," came the resonant voice. "I have learned that I was Mark Drum, the Blue Guide. I was a living man of flesh and blood, and I would be that way again."

Dr Vidimar was used to thinking quickly. "I can help you."

Khang moved closer. He was a surreal sight at best, seemingly a statue brought to animate life and at close range he was overwhelming. "Tell me more..."

"There is indeed a spell which can return you to your Human self. Arem Kamende used it. I know this spell in theory, yet I alone do not have the gralic force necessary to cast it."

"Do you mean you will NOT help me?" came the menacing voice. The eyeslots blazed up brighter.

"No, no! Of course I'll help you. But I will need assistance. There is a Dartha named Wilinor Kje who can supply the gralir. You must go to Maroch and fetch him here."

"I have no reason to trust you," Khang rumbled. "It may well be that you intend me to be slain by the Darthim if I enter their realm. Yet mark me well. Jordyn made me invincible in this form. If I return to you with anger in my heart...!"

"No!" yelled Vidimar in desperation. "I am not betraying you. Bring me Wilinor and I promise you will be fully Human again."

"For that, I would dare anything," said the silver man. "Aye, I will break the gates of Maroch itself and confront the dreaded Kjes in their very stronghold. I will be back!" As he spoke, a second detonation of white light filled the den, silent but blowing loose papers around as the air was displaced.

Slumped in his chair, Vidimar gasped and tried to breathe normally. Being in the presence of Khang was an unnerving experience. Yet, he quickly regained composure. He had not built and run the Preincarnation cult without having to be cunning and hard. Vidimar smiled to himself. It had worked. The fool Khang was on his way to fetch Wilinor, the sole Dartha who could boast direct descent from Tollinor Kje himself. With his Preincarnation spell, Vidimar would turn Wilinor into the very image and spirit of Tollinor, with all that first Dartha's knowledge.. and the most dangerous warlock of all time would walk the Earth again.

( the rest of the story )

6/13/1984

I.

For what seemed like ages, Bane struggled to fully regain consciousness. There was a fog of pain and confusion wrapped around him, holding him down. It was like trying to wake up from a deep slumber because an alarm clock would not stop ringing. Somehow he remembered his Kumundu training and began to breathe deeply in, hold it, then exhale more slowly. Again, drawing air in his lungs and clearing his head. Everything hurt. He became aware he was sitting up, but he could not move. Finally, one eye opened and then the other, blinking at the light.

He was in what looked like a rather ritzy hotel suite, with wine-colored carpeting and wood-panelled walls and modernistic furniture. A chrome sculpture of a rearing horse stood on a separate pillar of its own. Afternoon sunlight came in from French doors that opened to a balcony. He recognized the Chrysler Building in the skyline, so he was still in Manhattan. The Dire Wolf glanced down and saw he was strapped to a solid wooden chair that sat next to an identical chair. Leather straps held his wrists to the arms of the chair and his ankles to its legs, and there was a broader strap across his chest. Bane flexed and tugged, getting nowhere. There should be a way out of this. If he could start rocking and tilt the chair over... no, there didn't seem a chance it would break from the impact but if the straps loosened just a bit, maybe he could reach one of the gadgets hidden in his clothing. Always worth a try.

Then the door to the balcony opened and a huge man came through. Bane's pulse sped up and adrenalin surged through his blood. The man was seven inches over six feet in height, broad and muscular, dressed in a formal dark suit and tie with matching vest. His head was shaved, and pale hazel eyes under prominent brow ledges mocked Bane.

Karl Eldritch.

"I don't believe it," Bane said. "I was sure the world was rid of you."

( the rest of the story )

"Vengeance In Silver"

3/18-3/27/1979

I.

At midnight, pure white light brighter than the sun flared silently in an alley off Ninth Avenue. As it faded and normal colors returned, a huge metallic form was seen on one bent knee and both hands flat on the alley floor. Steam rose from the silver surface of the being as if it had been taken from a kiln into the cool night air. The gleaming form lifted its head and rose effortlessly to stand erect, with the silver skin flexing as easily as human hide.

Khang stood several inches over seven feet tall, wide-shouldered and hewn with the muscles of a wrestler. Yet he had no fingernails, no navel or genitals, his feet were solid pads without toes. He looked more like an abstract statue given animation than a living man coated with silver. Except for two glowing eye-slots, his head was a featureless helmet without hair, nose or mouth or ears. If anyone had been there to see the arrival, they would have been stunned by the surreal sight.

For a long moment, Khang stood motionless, lost in thought. He lowered his head and regarded his shining hands as if seeing them for the first time. There was a Salvation Army store next to him. Perhaps that was why he had materialized here? He vaguely remembered he was here for a purpose, he had a mission but he could not quite think clearly yet. Khang pressed his hand against the side door of the store and the lock snapped audibly although he had not even tried to break it. He was stronger than flesh and blood, perhaps strong beyond all previous definitions of the word.

Entering the darkened interior, he found he could see quite plainly, although "see" might not have been the most accurate word. He sensed his surrounding, in all directions equally as well, without any disorientation. It was strange. Khang moved slowly, distractedly, as he found oversized clothing that would fit him. Huge clunky brogans, flannel trousers, a tan raincoat, all so large an average-sized man would be lost within them. Even so, they were slightly tight when he moved. A wide-brimmed slouch hat and workman's gauntlets meant for the railroad were put on next. Better than nothing.

He was leaving the store with the vague worry he had tripped a silent alarm while entering when he saw two more items. A wool scarf in bright plaid, which he wrapped to conceal his face, and a pair of welder's goggles he could strap on. He had no money to leave in exchange, which troubled him. Whoever he had been before this transformation had been too honest...

Whoever he had been before? That was a strange thought. He had not always been Khang. He had been... someone else. Flesh, with breath in his lungs and blood in his veins, not a living metal statue. But that was all he could remember. It was all so strange, he needed time to think.

Walking out onto the night streets, Khang began heading up Ninth Avenue without clear purpose in mind. The cars looked so different. Where were the tailfins? The chrome? The models seemed so small. And the people he passed were dressed so oddly. Women wearing pants. Men without suits or hats, all in dungarees and gaudy T-shirts and the billed caps that baseball players wore. He realized now he had been gone for a long time.

( the rest of the story )

"Silver and Stone"

(12/31/1972)

1/14- 1/15/1982

[REVISION: The origin of Simon Cohen has been completely changed and all mentions of it have to be rewritten. He actually was an aging Kabbalist and disgraced Rabbi who teamed up with Alchemist Lee Hutchins' help to permanently placed his consciousness into a stone Golem of their making. He became his own Targhul.]

I.

By ten-thirty, Hutchins had finished the Southern Comfort and felt a bit better. He could still research alchemy and write about it, even if those Tel Shai fools had given him a mental block against practicing it. After seeing a few weeks of him on good behavior, they had even loaned him some rare books on the subject from the library that Kenneth Dred had left. He had sketched a solid outline for his definitive work on Velkandu, gralic alchemy, and he was ready to start writing in earnest.

Walking slowly around his apartment and turning out the lights, he felt he had gotten off easy. When he had created those Other-men, he had been associated with the Ulgoran wizard Li Tung and some form of sinister influence had obviously been at work. He had never been able to create the magick effects before or since that he had when Li Tung was coaching him. Hutchins did not think of himself as a bad person, maybe just a weak one easily swayed by bad company and the KDF had obviously agreed. After all, he had heard rumors of how their enemies tended to just disappear and never been heard from again. But the KDF had not done anything like that to him. No, their telepath had just put an edict in his mind against any more alchemical experiments.

In the doorway to his bedroom, Hutchins paused to sadly look back over his apartment. So much was gone. There were still stacks and piles of books and manuscripts but none of the esoteric solutions and powders he had labored so long to create. Gone now. He had managed to hold on to only one alchemical construct that the KDF had by chance overlooked. On a small table by itself, under a glass dome, was a dark grey rock the size of a human fist. Even now, when light hit this rock, flecks of red and gold and blue flickered wildly.

This was the Stone of Malberon, the great talisman sought by many but fabricated by very few. Velkandu created its magickal potions by infusing gralic force into the ingredients, something only made possible by the Stone. Hutchins could no longer utilize the talisman and its potency lay dormant but so many years had gone into its making he could not bear to give it up. Struck with self-pity, he went to bed and the summer heat and the liquor put him to sleep at once. Hours passed. A little after one, the door opened to the soft clink of a picked lock and a big man in dark clothes stepped silently within.

Using a pencil flashlight, the intruder spotted the Stone of Malberon, refracting its multicolored lights in the dimness. It was not too late for Simon Cohen to turn away and save himself. But the lure of that great talisman drew him as it had so many others over the ages. He carefully lifted the glass dome and set it aside, taking the Stone in his grasp, and now it was too late for him. He had taken his destiny in his hand.

Hutchins awoke with a gasp. The occult link between him and his creation was still potent. He had no weapons in his apartment. Wearing only the bottom half of an old pair of striped pajamas, he plunged out of bed and through the doorway, one hand flipping up the light switch.

Simon Cohen raised his revolver but did not fire. He was a bit over six feet tall, stout and sturdy with a thick waist. His teeth flashed from within a black beard. "This prize deserves a new master, fool."

"Put that down! I know you, Cohen. I never thought you would sink to this."

The warlock snickered. "You can't use this treasure! Why let it sit idle, Lee?"

"I'm warning you. Put it down."

"Do what thou wilt," Cohen said and extended his arm to aim his gun right at the alchemist.

"Grelok take your soul! May you turn to stone!" screamed Lee Hutchins.

The ancient curse came naturally to Hutchins, but he did not forsee the Stone would rouse and obey its master. A nimbus of brilliant gralic force burst from the talisman, swirling and crackling around the warlock who held it. Red and gold and green flared for a timeless moment and Cohen howled in despair and agony. Then that moment passed and the long nightmare began. Hutchins suddenly understood what had happened, as did his longtime rival. "Damn you," Cohen grated with the words scraping his throat. His finger tightened on the trigger but, instead of firing, the revolver cracked and fell apart into metal shards. Only the grip remained in his hand.

In growing horror, Cohen glared down at his hands. His skin had become hard, granular, the color of granite. When he flexed his fingers, a crystalline nature showed at the joints. The change was taking place faster now. His shirt split across the shoulders, the buttons at chest and wrists popped off, the waistband of his trousers broke and his pants tore open. His clothes hung in tatters. In seconds, his entire body had expanded visibly, taller and thicker. Cohen squeezed his eyes shut, thiking this could not be real. But when he opened them, deepset now under a protruding brow ledge, he could not help but believe.

It hurt to speak, as the vocal chords scraped against each other. His last words were, "What did you DO to me?"

"The Stone," Hutchins mumbled. "It transformed you- silicon carbide. Great Jordyn, you're turning to stone. I never meant-"

The monster tried to speak, to roar its rage but the change had gone too far. He could only make a low grinding rasp. Shaking his bulky head, he angrily threw away the Stone. It whistled through the air to imbed itself deeply in the plaster wall. Hutchins tried to run for the door to the hall, but the beast swung a knotted fist the size of a bowling ball. With the crunch of bones breaking, the alchemist spun across the room to slam hard into a bookcase, knocking it over and lying motionless of the debris.

The Stone Man stood where he was, massive chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching. The brilliant mind of the warlock clouded and grew dim, but it knew something was very wrong. He suddenly felt he had to get out of there. If only he could think more clearly...

Out in the hallway, three young men returning from the neighborhood bar were arguing about politics when the door to apartment 3G exploded outward, entirely off its hinges, slamming down to the floor. A huge grey hulk crashed through them, brushing them aside without even noticing them. As they sprawled and tried to get up, they heard thumping steps booming down the stairs.

( the rest of the story )

"Fear Has Many Faces"

October 3, 1979-

I.

At ten minutes after eight, Jeremy Bane stepped into the conference room. He was wearing the black turtleneck and sport jacket and slacks which were his trademark. So much had to be done here yet. The long polished oak table had been there when he took ownership of the building, as had been the ten heavy straight back chairs that lined it. One wall was taken up with reference books and filing cabinets; another had two tall windows looking down on East 38th Street. There were two lockers he had brought up to hold his field suits, and a refrigerated cabinet at the far end held drinks and snacks. But he wanted to add more equipment, particularly communication equipment.

The Dire Wolf moved to the windows and held the heavy curtains aside. it was raining. He stood looking down at traffic, thinking that Kenneth Dred had been dead for barely two months now. It had been an uneventful passing, an old man's heart stopping in his sleep. They had already discussed what would happen, the will had been made out and transfer of property had been uncontested because there was no family. Bane was now wealthy, but it did not register. He now had millions in his bank account, when two years earlier he had owned only what he could carry. The Dire Wolf folded his arms, lost in thought. He did not grieve for Kenneth Dred as much as he had thought he would, but maybe it had not sunk in yet. Maybe he was just unfeeling. The old man had been failing for the past year. Perhaps that was another reason he had taken Bane on as a protege and heir.

At only twenty-two, the grim young man with pale eyes and cold demanor had taken on a huge responsibility. He was glad, though, it felt like something he had always been meant to do. The more he learned about the Midnight War, the more he was determined to assemble a group that could handle its menace. As an orphan of the streets, he had been offered membership in various gangs of thugs and racketeers but had always declined and worked alone. Now he would have his own gang, but one like nothing this city had ever seen.

Standing there, he felt a vague tickling in his thoughts that he was coming to recognize. He turned his head and saw Cindy in the doorway. A pretty blonde a little more than a year younger than himself, she had an impudent face, dark blue eyes and a wide grin. Cindy was dressed much more formally than usual, wearing navy blue slacks, an off-white blouse and a thin blue cardigan. Bane nodded to her, "Good morning."

"The BEST morning," she answered. "Don't try to hide your excitement, you've got a telepath in your life now."

"We agreed, no mind-reading without permission."

She came over to stand next to him, almost leaning up against his shoulder. "I know. I'll be good. Oh, I love my room. It's twice as big as my apartment down on Crampton Street, that was almost a closet."

"Here they start to come," said Bane, pointing outside. She leaned over to look out the window, deliberately pressing one soft breast against his arm. Down in the street, two men were walking up to the front door. They let themselves in and a moment later ascended to the stairs to the second floor and came into the conference room. Michael Hawk was the only KDF member known to the general public, a famous criminologist and manhunter from a family of crimefighters. Now hitting sixty, there was grey in his brown hair and his square face was lined but he still moved with confidence and authority. He was wearing a neat topcoat over a black business suit, with white shirt and dark maroon tie. "Hi, you two."

"Mike. Ted. Glad to see you."

Entering with Hawk was a tall black man with a sad heavy face and short beard. He wore a beige raincoat over a plain white dress shirt and dark slacks. Ted Wright was a Blue Guide, master of the Tel Shai healing art, and a man who took everything too seriously for his own good. He nodded to Bane and Cindy.

The blonde telepath came over to held them hang up their coats. She was helpful and gregarious by nature. "You guys look like you're freezing. Don't you think coffee is a good idea?" She seized Ted Wright by the arm and dragged him downstairs to the kitchen. "Come on, I need help not to burn it."

Left with Hawk, Bane said, "Mike, thanks again for helping me get my PI license. It'll be a big help."

Hawk grinned his crooked smile and came over to look out the window with him. "You had no documentation, Jeremy. Nothing. Not even a library card. I got you what you need but it's up to you to hold onto them. Not the first forged IDs I've created but I hope you put them to good use."

"Oh, I will," said the Dire Wolf. "You won't be sorry. Mr Dred told me you were the master in the fields of crimefighting and I should learn everything you want to teach."

Before Hawk could answer, Cindy and Wright entered with two pewter trays of mugs, sugar, milk and a huge coffee pot. Wright was smiling and more relaxed than when he had tentatively entered that building. Cindy had that effect. As they moved over to the conference table and started pouring and drinking, Bane was the one who abstained. With his enhanced metabolism, he needed to avoid caffeine.

Leonard Slade appeared in the doorway. He was very well dressed in a tailored dark blue suit. Slade was a Trom, without emotion but more intelligent than Humans in a scientific sense. His greeting was formal and polite, as he took a seat and waited. Bane watched him thoughtfully. He had met Slade not long earlier and they worked well together because they had common goals. But the Trom were sure cold fish.

Now it was nearly nine. A taxi door slammed outside in the street, they heard footsteps up the stairs and Dr Lawrence Taper hurried in, habitually late, his topcoat over one arm. "Hello! Hello, everybody!" Taper was not as imposing or dignified as the other KDf members. He was maybe five foot ten and solid in build, with a roundish face and short dark brown hair. Sometimes he had his glasses on but not now.

"Well, that just leaves Khang-" Bane started to say. He was interrupted by an explosion of white light in the hall outside and a peal of thunder. As the members jumped and one or two cursed at the sudden surprise, a huge form filled the doorway. Khang stood well over seven feet tall, bundled in a long coat, with a wide-brimmed slouch hat, wraparound sunglasses and muffler hiding as much as possible. Yet a gleam of silver could be spotted here and there when he moved.

"We are well met, my comrades," he rumbled in a deep voice that seemed to come from every direction. "Honored I am to join such illustrious knights."

"Glad to have you," said the Dire Wolf. He moved over to the head of the table. "Now if everyone will take a seat, we can begin. I call the first meeting of the Kenneth Dred Foundation to order."

( the rest of the story )

"Fever Curse"

4/1/1979

I.

The radio was on but she hardly heard it. Katherine Wheatley sat in her room in Kenneth Dred's building and tried to digest the impact of death. Although she had not known Will Murdock well, his death had a crippling effect on her. She had been holding him when he died, lightly touching his mind, and she had felt the lifeforce leave his body. It was impossible to describe this to any one who was not telepathic.

With a groan, she got off the bed and went to turn the radio off. She hated disco in the first place. Suddenly she felt stifled, unable to get a full breath. It was the grief of Kenneth Dred she felt, hanging over this building like a heavy blanket. She had to get out of here. It was not even noon yet, a fine summer day, and she was sitting inside while out there waited New York City. Katherine went to change her blouse, she was wearing black shoes and navy blue slacks, and she put on a loose white top with long sleeves and a U-cut neckline. She paused to brush her hair and check herself in the mirror over the dresser. At nineteen, she was pretty without being gorgeous, a slim blue-eyed girl with long straight black hair. Her eyes looked back at her somberly. Enough of this. She left the room where Dred let her stay while she learned how to use her powers and trotted down the wide staircase to the front hall.

There was a memo pad on a cabinet by the door, and she paused just long enough to write "WENT FOR WALK Be back in a few hours K." and stepped out onto East 38th Street. For the next hour, she wandered aimlessly, window-shopping and glancing into the minds of passing strangers. The endless variety of emotions tickled around her awareness. Many minds were petty and mean-spirited, but there were still many with kindness and optimism. The unwavering love between an old man and his dog, sitting on a stoop, lifted her spirits immensely. Life went on.

By the time she neared Central Park, Katherine felt back to normal. She was young. She needed to live. She bought a hot pretzel with mustard and munched it with satisfaction. A hair salon had a huge sign in the window, WALKS-IN WELCOME, and she took it as an invitation. She was so tired of those bangs, they made her look like an English schoolgirl still in her uniform. Katherine marched in, with no awareness of a fat man and a gaunt woman watching from a block away, who had followed her from 8th Street. They knew how to block their thoughts.

When she emerged, her hair shorter and parted on the right, she felt immeasurably freer. What was she doing, living in that great empty museum of a building with an elderly scholar and his savage bodyguard. Kenneth Dred was a dear and treated her well, but what more could he teach her? And Jeremy Bane... ugh. The Dire Wolf. How could she have thought there was any chance for something between them? He was cold and hard as those knives he wore day and night.

In the salon, with its two attendants, a woman and a man walked in. She created a distraction by slipping and falling to the floor. She cried out as if in pain, and while both attendants were helping her up, the man quickly knelt and snatched up a handful of black hair clippings from the floor. His eyebrows lowered as he smiled, making his grin remarkably sinister.

Katherine emerged from the subway (or underground, as she sometimes still thought of it) near Cooper Square and walked to a used book store at the edge of Greenwich Village. Bane was there, inspecting a crate of rare books from Asia. This was the duty that William Murdock had handled for years and, now that he was gone, it had fallen to Bane to maintain the constant flow of occult material to Dred. At just twenty-one, Jeremy Bane was a thin young man with fine-textured black hair and dreadful grey eyes in a narrow face, eyes that seemed to regard the entire world warily. Even in the July heat, he wore all black. When Katherine walked up, he greeted her politely and even noticed her new hairdo, but he certainly did not seem glad to see her. Bane said he had to get these books home, and if she wanted she could ride with him.

She accepted the lift and went with him to where Dred's long Lincoln sedan was parked. She had stopped trying to open him up emotionally, but as she got in the passenger seat, she again felt the strangest mixture of attraction and unease. His mind was so tightly sealed that she couldn't read it. Once in a while, she might catch a stray thought but for the most part he was a blank wall. Maybe that was why she kept feeling interested, she reflected. Being able to read minds since puberty, she had never really been in love. A relationship couldn't develop. Bane remained a mystery to her and she was drawn to this. It couldn't be anything serious of course, but still....

( the rest of the story )

"Worse Than Mere Murder"

1/3-1/5/1989

I.

Bane had seldom been so disgusted with himself. Arms tied with wire behind his back, stripped naked, he was marched briskly down endless stone corridors lit by small torches in bronze sconces. Two Nekrosim walked in front of him, two behind him, curved swords in hand. The skull-faced men were bundled in loose brown robes of coarse material almost like burlap, cowled like monks, and they had sandals on their bony feet. They strode in silence, keeping enough of a distance that he could not lunge and seize a weapon from them.

Three hours ago, he had gotten a phone call from one of his many observers that a man with a face like a living skull had been seen on the Lower East Side, getting out of a taxi and entering a rundown apartment building on 21st Street. A Nekrosan in the world of Humans was always bad news. Bane had not waited for other KDF members to return from their various activities to go with him, he had simply set out to investigate on his own. And, looking back, impatience had once again been his weakness. Instead of a through reconaissance and staking out the building for observation long enough, he had simply entered through a basement window and started creeping through the building.

The blast of gralic energy which had flung him down a hallway to crash against the far wall with stunning force had taken him by surprise. Nekrosim had their warlocks but they were usually limited in ability. Obviously, he had run into an exception. Although he thought he had not completely lost consciousness, he was dazed and unable to resist as a dozen of the skull-faced men piled on him. His weapons and field suit were stripped away, and somehow they even knew how to unfasten the flexible Trom armor. As soon as he could stand, he was started on this march. Where the hell were they? No apartment building in Manhattan had miles of stone tunnels under it that he had ever heard of.

Naked, the Dire Wolf was a startling sight. At six feet even and a hundred and seventy pounds, he seemed to have zero body fat. His muscles were long and wiry, with high definition that make the striations stand out sharply as he moved. Under heavy black brows, his pale grey eyes flashed with rage he was not trying to hide at the moment.

The party passed through heavy oaken double doors and entered a high-ceiling room lit by chest-high bronze braziers filled with burning liquid. Rich draperies hung on the walls, there were polished ebony benches and tables lining those walls and a ten foot high statue in red metal of men in armor brandishing a spiked mace. Draldros, of course. The air was dry and warm and smelled of some acrid incense.

At the end of the room was a platform with seven wide steps leading up to a gilded throne carved so its back rose over its occupant much like a cobra hood. Seated bolt upright on that throne, alert and eager, was a Nekrosan in robes of finer material than what the others wore, dark burgundy shot through with golden threads. He held a short sceptre that ended in a round deep red crystal which gleamed with its own lambent light.

Like all the Nekrosim, the one on the throne had a face which looked uncannily like a skull covered with taut light skin. The nose was a mere snub, the toothy mouth unnaturally wide and the dark brown eyes glowered beneath a protruding brow ledge. None of the Nekrosim had any visible hair, but this one was unusual in that he wore a black skullcap of felt that gave a vague impression of normal hair. As he saw Bane, his hideous grin widened even more.

The party escorting Bane came to a halt and one of the Nekrosim lowered to his knees with head bowed. "Great Valesco, we have brought the prisoner directly to your presence as commanded."

Valesco gestured for the guard to rise. "You serve me well, Demozon. So! The Dire Wolf appears for once as he should. Humbled and helpless. Oh, you have much to answer for your crimes against my Race, Human fool."
As casually as if chatting in a diner, Bane said, "What's with all these tunnels? How did they get built under Manhattan?"

Still smiling, Valesco replied, "This stronghold of the Nekrosim is more than two hundred years old. None of your Race know of these tunnels. They started as smuggler routes and we have expanded them for generations. No Human has ever entered here and left alive."

"And you, Valesco is it? You're a sorcerer, right?"

The Nekrosan's smile slipped a bit. "You are not broken yet, Dire Wolf. I think it best that some of your famous arrogance be bled from you before you begin your series of deaths."

Despite his training, that one got past Bane's defenses. "Wait, SERIES of deaths?"

"Oh, yes." The skull-faced warlock raised the sceptre and tapped it against the hollow of his free hand. "Here in this stronghold of our Race, you will not be killed only once."

( the rest of the story )

"Give in To the Group Mind"

5/8-5/11/1982

- MAN FOUND DEAD IN FIRE; HIS IDENTITY IS UNKNOWN

May 7 - Kingston police late Monday night are seeking the
identity of a man found dead the night before in what was
thought to be a vacant and abandoned house. Firemen found
the body in the attic of 44 North Front Street when they
entered to fight the blaze shortly after 9:30 PM. The man
was pronounced dead on arrival at Benedictine Hospital at
10:15 PM. Cause of death is being withheld pending an autopsy. -

Jeremy Bane read the clipping through more slowly, with a suspicious attitude. He turned his cold grey eyes up at the man who had handed it to him. "Okay, I'm probably missing something but I don't see how this is KDF business. Where's the supernatural angle?"

Standing next to the conference table, Michael Hawk smiled and took the clipping back. He was in his early sixties and looked it, with a wide weathered face and deepset eyes with bags under them. The brown hair was liberally flecked with white now, and the drooping mustache was all grey, but the body under that white dress shirt and black pants was still hard and muscular. "See, the clue is not in the clipping, my friend. The autopsy was held this morning and since I know the chief of police, he called me about the results."

At just twenty-five, Bane had much to learn about criminology from the famous manhunter. He felt he should be picking up something but had no idea what, and it annoyed him. "Still not seeing it, Mike."

"You'd think he died of burns or smoke inhalation. Right?"

"Sure. Wait, I got it. This was a mob-style execution, it's a mob case you want us to work on. You know the KDF doesn't do standard police work."

"Nope. Jeremy, the man died of exposure. He was frozen to death."

The Dire Wolf sat up straighter at the conference table and a new gleam came in his eyes. "Oh, now I'm interested. It's May. How does a man freeze to death in New York in May. Inside a building, no less?"

( the rest of the story )