dochermes

"Everything I Touch Turns To Graveyards"

8/17/1934

I.

Somewhere out there, an unkillable killer prowled the dark streets of the city. The police did not even believe in his existence. No one's life could be counted as secure as long as that fiend was at large.

On the third floor of his building on East 38th Street, Dr Mercado Vitarius had changed into the work outfit he kept in a chest at the foot of his bed. Brown riding boots and tough corduroy breeches, with a long-sleeved shirt of tough denim. He held up a sleeveless black leather vest that closed with a flap across the front, and he regarded it somberly before draping it over one massive shoulder.

One more item came from the trunk, a wide leather belt that supported a sheathed commando knife on the left hip and a holstered Colt .45 revolver on the right. Across the back of the belt, loops held twelve additional cartridges. To Vitarius, buckling this belt was crossing a line he never took lightly.

The ancient Alchemist strode from his chambers to the stairs in the hall beyond and ascended to the first of his workshops. Eight inches over six feet in height, built with the long sleek muscles developed by action rather than training, Vitarius was an imposing sight. More than a century earlier, the young Vitarius had stood barely five feet ten and had weighed not even one hundred and eighty pounds but continued use of his longevity serum kept him growing.

Sometimes he wondered if he would meet some natural limit to his size or if he would end up a circus exhibit too huge for his muscles to support his own weight. He was deeply tanned to the extent that it seemed his natural hue would never return. This made his light brown eyes stand out vividly in a strange lambent way.

In his workshop, Vitarius laid the vest down and began carefully placing various glass vials and paper wraps of powders into the twenty pockets sewn on the inside. Defensive potions on the left, offensive on the right. He choose each with deliberation from the hundreds of Alchemical elixirs he had invented or refined over the many decades of his life.

Finally feeling ready, Vitarius headed down the stairs again. The excitement he had once relished from adventure had long ago faded away. He acted from a sense of duty because he accepted that the Midnight war offered threats only he might resolve. Knowing that Samhain was in the same city as himself was immensely unsettling. The Alchemist went through a panel in the rear of a walk-in closet by the front door, then down steep concrete steps and along a walkway that ended in his personal garage.

Vitarius flicked on the lights. Here he stored his taxi and his roadster. The Yellow Cab was useful for moving about the city undetected. Everyone was used to seeing taxis around at all hours. The shiny new Ford Cabriolet offered speed and maneuverability. The body panels of both vehicles had been soaked in Alchemical serums, as had the glass of the windows, to make them resistant against even high-powered rifle bullets.

Choosing the roadster, Vitarius let the engine warm before driving up the concrete ramp in the far corner. A steel barrier rose as he approached, activated by an electric eye. Then he eased out of a dead-end alley and into the sparse traffic on Lexington Avenue. The streets were nearly empty this time of night, since times were hard and fewer people owned cars than just a few years earlier. This was an era of unemployed men waiting in lines for bread or ragged children trying to sell newspapers and shoelaces on corners.

Finding a parking spot on 96th Street and Park Avenue, the Alchemist got out and regarded the new Squire Arms. The hotel was an Art Deco spike of chrome and geometric shapes pointing upward, and he did not care for the cold style. Vitarius strode past the canopied entrance with its doorman who wore a resplendent crimson uniform like that of a Balkan general. The towering dark form of the Alchemist drew the doorman's uneasy eye.

In the gleaming spacious lobby, the clerk behind the desk reacted as if a grizzly had entered. He ducked back and inspected the wall of cubbyholes which held keys as if he had suddenly remembered it was urgent he find one. Vitarius ignored the man. He reached the bank of three elevators and told the operator to go to the seventh floor.

Leaving a deeply intimidated elevator operator behind, the towering Alchemist stepped out into a wide hallway decorated with chrome sunbursts and decorative geometric patterns. All part of the Machine Age, he thought sourly. Finding the door knocked 321, he rapped sharply with his knuckles and then swung around to stand beside the door so that any bullets answering his knock would miss. His life had given him many strange habits.

At once the door swung open and a slight figure spare greeted him. Kenneth Dred was only about five feet nine but wiry and hardened by years of travel in the dangerous places of this world and the realms beyond. That fact that he lived in this plush hotel, as well as the quality of his well-tailored dark brown suit with its shirt and knitted silk tie, showed he had a comfortable income.

The gnomish face with its pointed nose and deepset dark eyes lit for a second, but immediately sobered again. "Good of you to come at such short notice, Mercado," Dred said. He reached behind himself to flick off the lights in his suite and closed the door. In one gloved hand, he held a soft fedora.

"This is an urgent matter," replied Vitarius in his usual thunderous voice. "You have the address?"

"I do," said the famous explorer and occultist. "Tonight we must confront Samhain."

( the rest of the story )

""Between the Blinks"

6/1/2011

I.

No one was behind him, so Bane slowed down halfway across the bridge to glance down at the Hudson River. It certainly looked gorgeous on this cool clear early November morning, as the sun flashed and sparkled on the water. Pretty nice. Of course, he was a city boy, born and raised in Manhattan, so Nature only held his attention for a few minutes before his thoughts went back on track. Now he sped up again, wondering what Dr Vitarius wanted. The Alchemist had been vague on the phone but he had stressed that this was a matter Bane would find of great interest and he should come up immediately. That had been at eight-thirty that morning, with Bane sitting at his desk in the office on Third Avenue after a restless night. A life of combat had left him always ready for travel, it meant walking four blocks down to where his car was garaged. A knapsack with clothes and supplies was already kept ready in the trunk.

Now, just after eleven, Bane was driving into Poughkeepsie in his new Jeep Cherokee. At least once a year and sometimes more often, Bane traded in and bought a different car, paying for it outright. It was one of the few ways in which his wealth was apparent, because he certainly didn't live like a multi-millionaire in his personal life. Changing cars like this made it a bit more difficult for his enemies to keep tabs on him, although there were not many of them still alive or at liberty.

He came off the bridge into the city of Poughkeepsie. When was the last time he had been here? 1984 or so, tracking down Atron? That had been a brawl. Even though he had won, there was blood in his urine for days from Atron's blows, and his knuckles had gotten cracked. Bane smiled to himself, remembering that Atron was long dead now and he should keep his mind should be on the present. Anyway, there had also been that weird case around 1992 with the boy imprisoned in a sensory deprivation tank. He sailed past a street corner sign that said GRANT STREET on his right, signaled and turned, then made another right to go up Grant Street. Seeing a convenient parking spot, he wheeled in. This was a residential area; there were no meters, just a narrow sidewalk and a tree or two every block. The houses looked well kept and tidy, but this was certainly not a posh neighborhood. Leaning out the driver's side window, the Dire Wolf saw the numbers 181 on a house door. Close enough. He got out, locked the Jeep and started briskly up the street.

Now nearing fifty, Bane did not look much different than he always had. A grey hair or two showed, that was all. He still strode down the quiet street with the quick pace of an athlete in peak condition. Bane was just over six feet tall, slim and even gaunt, dressed all in black with a turtleneck and sport jacket. His most recognizable feature was a pair of pale, cold grey eyes under heavy feral brows. In few seconds, he stopped in front of a respectable two-story home, white boards and black shingle roof, with the number 225 and the name VITARIUS in black metal over the front door. He could tell he was being watched. As he stepped up onto the porch, the front door opened and a very young woman, still a teenager, came out. She was small, not much over five feet three, wearing simple slacks and a denim jacket, and she said, "Mr Bane?"

"That's right," the Dire Wolf answered. "Dr Vitarius is expecting me." He held out his hand and she shook it with obvious reluctance. She was not pretty, with a pug nose in a round flat face and narrow blue eyes that watched him as if he were a growling dog. She had thick white hair of an unusually sleek texture, with eyebrows the same color. "Come in," she told him coolly, and turned without a further word.

Following the young woman, Bane went down a front hall with a tall bookcase on either side, potted plants and small paintings. Stairs led up to the second floor, but she took him right through the first door to their right into a big, uncluttered room.

There was only a long couch, a coffee table and several chairs in here, as well as the man he had come to see. Sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket folded over his lap, Mercado Vitarius raised a hand in greeting.

Bane paused. What had happened? The last time they had met, Vitarius had been a big bear of a man, standing straight-backed, with a deep chest and brawny arms. Yes, he had graying hair and beard, and there were lines on his neck and hands, but it had been only ten years or so. The Dire Wolf crossed over and stood before the alchemist. "Mercado. Has it been so long?"

"Ah, by the way I look? No, I know what you are thinking, Jeremy. I look like I'm ninety, right? No hair, no teeth, wrinkled as a newborn." Vitarius chuckled in a rather sinister way. "But actually, I am in fact way over ninety. I am close to two hundred and eleven years old. I was born not longer after your War of Independence, when my parents moved here from Europe. It was Alchemy that kept me vital and nimble long past my rightful span." He wiped the side of his face with a shriveled claw of a hand. "But everything has its limits. My body has reached a point where even the most potent potions no longer work."

Picking a chair in front of the man, Bane sat down easily. "I want to say I'm sorry," he said. "But I don't know. I guess you can't complain if you live two centuries before you get old?"

"Feh," Vitarius grumbled. "I knew this would happen. But listen. First, you know I worked with Kenneth Dred back in the 1930s?"

"Yes. Mr Dred told me about that. You, the Monk, Mark Drum... you were quite a crew."

"And your new team of Tel Shai knights? The Blind Archer, the young Unicorn? I have heard only rumours and gossip the past few years, Jeremy. How did they turn out?"

Now the Dire Wolf grinned. "Better than I hoped. They are on their own now, with their own leader. Frankly, they're as good as my own team was."

"You don't feel the urge to stay with them?"

Bane hesitated. This interrogation was not what he had expected. "Mercado. Why did you call me here?"

The ancient alchemist looked up at the blonde girl, who bowed slightly and left the room. After the door had closed behind her, Bane said in a low voice, "She's a long way from Ulgor."

"You recognized that? Oh, but of course you did. The hair. Yes, Jeremy, that is Demrak Jin."

"I should hope I can spot a Gelydra," Bane said. "Odd to see one in the world, much less on dry land."

"Ah, there is trouble in Ulgor these days. No one is safe, least of all a daughter of the former ruling family. Jin is better off here for a while. I can use a bodyguard and retrieval agent in my current condition and since she simply loves to fight, Demrak Jin enjoys her duties here. In a way, she is acting in the same, ah.. capacity as which you yourself first worked for Kenneth Dred." Vitarius folded his hands in his lap. "But back to the matter at hand. Someone has stolen one of my Velkandu potions."

A new glitter of interest sparked in the grey eyes, and Bane leaned forward.

"I had three assistants," Vitarius went on. "Jin is the fighter, while a man named Lew is cataloging my potions and serums and handling my paperwork. And a youth, a teenager just out of high school, has signed on to run errands. He shops for food at the grocers, mows the lawn, drives me on the rare occasions I need to go out, that sort of thing. He knows nothing of the Midnight War. Or should I say, he didn't know. Inevitably, he has learned a little about my art and I fear temptation got the better of him. My supply is Velocitin is missing, as is Bryan. I know he has used it already."

"How so?" asked Bane.

"By the accounts of his crimes in the local newspaper," said Vitarius.


( the rest of the story )