“I left a single message for them, telling them that after my trip to Switzerland, I was going deep undercover for a few weeks. They gave their approval, as long as I eventually show some sort of results.” Geist shook his head in an attempt to clear it. “I’m hoping that you’ll find some way for me to keep up my guise as a loyal Nazi, Herr Darkling.”

  “You are a loyal Nazi, Geist. You work for me because I’m blackmailing you.”

  “As you say,” Geist answered with a cool smile. “But that has bought my loyalty, regardless.”

  “It will be weeks before Berlin realizes you are out of touch,” The Darkling mused aloud. His words seemed strange to Geist, who began backing away, particularly when that bizarre laughter began to bubble forth from his employer. It echoed throughout the house, rising in tenor.

  “I have served you well!” Geist shouted, trying to shift into his ghostly form. Something was wrong, however, and despite the flickering of his skin, he remained solid.

  “If you live, there’s a chance that Assistance Unlimited could uncover the fact that you are a double agent in my employ. But should you die—as a filthy Nazi should—then there will never be any doubt that we are not affiliated!” The Darkling drew forth twin automatics. “Do you like the specially formulated gas? It inhibits your powers, in addition to causing unconsciousness in normal men and women.”

  “Nein!” Geist shouted, turning to flee. The bullets tore into the back of his skull, splattering the walls with blood and gray matter.

  For a moment, The Darkling remained where he was, waiting until his pistols were no longer smoking. He holstered them and looked over the bodies before him. He recognized Sporrenberg, with his Aryan handsomeness and he thought about what Geist had said: ‘He refuses to admit it but I think he misses the purpose the military gave him.’

  The Darkling nudged the German with his foot, rolling him over on to his back. He had recruited many men and women into his service over the years, mostly choosing them based upon some unexplainable feeling that possessed him.

  He felt that strange kinship now.

  Bending low, he grunted slightly as he lifted Sporrenberg’s body, settling him over his shoulder. The Darkling’s laughter resumed as he exited the home, finally fading into the distance. In his wake, he left a dead man and two slumbering heroes.

  ***

  Lazarus Gray sat in the study that had belonged to Harold Grant, his fingers steepled in front of his chin. He could hear Abby and Morgan moving through the rest of the house, looking for clues, but he was certain that they would find none.

  He now had the list of supposed owners of the devil’s body parts, but that was not his major concern. The Darkling was a foe unlike any other he had faced—more than just a physical match for Lazarus, he was a brilliant tactician as well. Lazarus had hoped to learn more about him by examining his home but those hopes had been quickly dashed. Though it was apparent that Harold Grant had slept here frequently, this was nothing more than a façade—another mask, like the one that had crumpled beneath Lazarus’ fists. This was not The Darkling’s true “home,” if such a thing even existed.

  Harold Grant’s past was well documented, though much of it was now cast in doubt. But what kind of man was The Darkling? Since their second encounter, Lazarus had called upon all of his resources and they painted an unusual picture.

  The first reference to The Darkling was in April 1931, though his appearances became more frequent as time passed. A spectral figure that haunted the New York underworld, The Darkling was alternately hailed as a hero by the downtrodden and as a merciless killer by those he hunted. Many in the underworld had become increasingly paranoid as rumors abounded that The Darkling had a network of agents infiltrating the highest echelons of both government and the mob.

  As for The Darkling’s motivations, those seemed quite nebulous. Some people said he was no different than the criminals he killed, taking their loot and keeping it for himself. But others said that he had a perverse sense of morality, often going out of his way to help those who had hit skid row… and sometimes restoring not only their financial health but also their moral well being.

  None of those who had supposedly been helped were easily found, however. It was all hearsay. Even the police were confused about The Darkling—some even going so far as to brand him some sort of urban myth, a bogeyman to frighten the hoods and crime lords.

  Lazarus stood up, his eyes moving across the shelves. They were filled with books, most of which had obviously never been read. They looked as new as the ones that could be found in any upscale bookseller’s shop.

  One particular volume, though, was different than the rest. The spine read The Rising of the Spirit and the top of the book looked worn, as if something had repetitively scuffed it in the same places.

  Examining the book in close detail, Lazarus reached out and placed his fingers along the scuffed places. Sure enough, it felt like someone pressing down upon them over and over again caused the depressions that he noticed. He pushed down and heard the snap of something mechanical. The bookshelf swung open, revealing a set of stairs leading down into darkness.

  Whereas many men would have experienced trepidation at the thought of venturing into the unknown, Lazarus merely checked to make sure that his gun and knife were within easy reach before stepping forth.

  One way or another, The Darkling’s secrets would be his.

  ***

  Jakob Sporrenberg’s eyes fluttered open. His brain was still fuzzy from the gas but he snapped to alertness when he realized that he was suspended from the ceiling chains wrapped tightly around his wrists. His feet barely scraped the floor and from the ache in his shoulders, he’d been hanging like this for some time.

  The room he was in was painted white and had no windows. There was a single table and chair in the room, both of the sort that men might unfold for a card game or get-together with friends.

  There was one visible exit—a door that swung open as Jakob stared at it. The man who entered wore a long coat that brushed against his ankles, a white mask that resembled a skull, a hat and gloves. Though he’d never seen him in person, Jakob knew who this must be: the description give by Lazarus was hard to forget.

  “Where are my friends” Jakob asked, refusing to show any fear.

  The Darkling regarded him coolly for a moment, saying nothing. The shadows in the room seemed to reach out for the masked man, embracing him. He seemed to both become more indistinct and larger at the same time. “I’ve read up on you, Jakob. And I think that you might be the sort of man who could serve at my side.”

  “You’re insane if you think I’ll betray Lazarus. That will not happen.”

  “Why? Because you’ve sworn your loyalty? Like you did to The Führer? You betrayed him easily enough.”

  “Release me!” Sporrenberg shouted, pulling against his chains.

  “Touched a nerve, did I?” The Darkling sat down, removing his hat and setting it on the table at his side. He reached and pulled away his mask, revealing a face lined with scars. His hair was missing in places, revealing the overly smooth skin that was left behind after terrible burns. “I want to tell you a story.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I was once in your situation and I didn’t want to listen then, either. I was a pilot in the Great War—a damned good one. After years of not knowing who or what I really was, I found the truth: I was a killer. Unrestrained, that could have made me a bad person… but I killed the right people, for the winning side. That made me a hero. But then the war ended and there was no place for me any longer. So I traveled the world, meeting people, getting into fights and drinking myself into oblivion. Eventually I met a man named Harold Grant—he thought we were alike but he couldn’t have been more wrong. He was doing the same thing I was but he did it because he was bored. He gallivanted around, having adventures, in order to avoid real work. But when we ran into each other in a dingy little tavern in Tibet, we struck up a conversation. He told me about a forbidden sect of monks, hidden in the mountains. He said they lived in a veritable Shangri-La. They never aged, they never took part in the world’s conflicts. They lived alone, practicing arts that had horrified their brothers centuries before. In exchange for immortality and self-peace, you see, you had to give up a little bit of your soul. Grant wanted to find them—for kicks. Intrigued and with nothing better to do, I asked to accompany him. We set off together with no guides and little in the way of supplies. It was fun for him to play at games of life and death… whereas for me, it was part of my self-destructive cycle.”

  “Is there some point to this?” Sporrenberg asked.

  “There is but I don’t blame you for not showing patience. That’s a trait that has to be learned.” The Darkling leaned back in his chair, his scarred visage becoming impassive. His voice sounded distant now, as if he were lost in the mists of his own past. “We looked for that lost city for nearly three weeks, until we were half-starved and covered with bug bites. Grant finally died one night, without even making a sound. When I found him in the morning, I buried him in a tiny unmarked grave. I took the small bits of food he’d been hoarding, along with his papers and his money. I don’t know why—I’d never been a thief before but it seemed a waste to just bury them with his corpse. It wasn’t as if he was going to need them.”

  “Eventually I fell into a coma-like state. I was malnourished and several times I would wake up screaming, gasping as my body fought to stay alive. It was the end of my existence… and then they came for me. The men from the hidden village found me and took me to their home. I remember one of them waking me up, staring down at me with an expression of pure relaxation. He asked me, ‘Do you wish to live?’ I told him yes, I wanted to live… Now that death had me at its door, I realized how badly I wanted to avoid its touch. And then the man said, ‘Very well. But you must learn our ways. You must become one of us so that we may send someone forward into the dangerous world. Dark days are coming and though we are hesitant to interfere ourselves, we need a champion. You will be that champion. But you will learn to hate us first.’ And he was right. I did hate them.”

  Jakob ceased struggling, having realized that the bonds were simply too strong for him to break. Instead, he chose to begin conserving his energy, biding his time until his captor could make a mistake.

  “They nursed me back to health,” The Darkling said, continuing his narrative. “And they locked me in a box, little more than a hole in the ground. It was completely dark, so that I couldn’t even see my hands in front of my face.”

  On cue, the light in the room extinguished, leaving Sporrenberg squinting to make out his surroundings. It seemed to grow colder, as well, making the German shiver.

  From very close to his left, The Darkling spoke again. “They taught me to see past the façade of the living world. They showed me how to look into the darkness and see the truth. I’m going to do the same for you. But our minds are not receptive to darkness; it fears the absence of the light. So we have to bludgeon our way through, we have to batter our minds into submission. The way to do that is through pain.”

  Sporrenberg started to speak but then he felt something jab into the side of his neck. There was a small prick as a needle pierced the skin and some kind of fluid flowed into his body. Agony followed within seconds, causing his body to flop like that of a fish out of water. He was in such torment that he didn’t even notice as The Darkling stepped away from him, picking up his mask and pulling it back into place.

  Sporrenberg screamed at the top of his lungs, feeling like his life was careening towards a fiery end.

  The darkness clung to him like a lover.

  ***

  By the time Abby and Morgan found Lazarus, the team’s leader had been standing in the dungeon room for nearly twenty minutes. The stone walls were streaked with blood and implements of torture lay on the tables, alongside newspaper clippings, maps of various cities and a life-sized drawing of what the devil had probably looked like before his heart had been removed.

  “What is this place?” Abby asked, stepping into the room with a look of disgust. “What kind of sick games did he play down here?”

  “Must be where he’d get information out of his prisoners,” Morgan said, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. He offered another to Abby, who waved it away. The smell of stale body odor was strong in the air.

  “The blood is his,” Lazarus said, turning to face them. “All of these devices… he used them on himself.”

  “How can you tell?” Morgan asked.

  “You can tell a lot about a crime scene by examining the spray of blood. You can guess the height of the victim, where an attacker would have to be standing and so on. In this case, all of the blood splatter indicates a victim of Grant’s size and there’s no signs that another person would have had to inflict the damage.”

  Abby knelt, running her fingertips through the dried blood on the floor. She’d offered to use her magical abilities on various items in the house and Lazarus had allowed her to do so—but only on things that he approved of. He was afraid of what she would see and what impact it would have on her… Which was kind of sweet, she supposed, but she also knew that it impaired her investigation.

  Without bothering to ask for permission, she closed her eyes and whispered a set of words dating back to before the fall of Atlantis. Images began to flash across her mind’s eye, brought up from residual energies caught in The Darkling’s blood splatter. She saw a man—who, strangely, did not look like Harold Grant at all—in the basement room. He was nude and engaging in various activities: meditation, exercise and study… but he also engaged in painful self-abuse, all designed to open his mind to new ideas and thoughts.

  Abby stood up with a shudder. “You’re right, Lazarus.” She avoided her employer’s gaze, knowing that he’d realize that she’d disobeyed his orders. “The Darkling is a strange one. He seems to believe that pain can open up doorways in his brain. Something like that. But you know what? I’m not sure he’s really Harold Grant. When he’s down here… he looks different.”

  Lazarus ran a hand through his hair and began to head back upstairs. His companions followed closely behind. “We’re going to hire someone to keep an eye on this place, just in case The Darkling comes back. But we’re headed back to Sovereign City.”

  “Shouldn’t we take off in search of the other body parts?” Morgan asked in confusion.

  “I want to regroup with the others and compare notes first. We’ve been off-balance since this whole affair began and we can’t afford to make any more mistakes.” Lazarus stopped at the front door, touching the tiny radio hidden in his ear. He gestured for Morgan and Abby to continue out to the car. If they had remained behind, they would have seen his face become even more grim than usual.

  “I understand, Samantha,” he said, having heard the distressing news that one of their number was missing. “I know this is going to be hard but I don’t want you or Eun going off looking for Jakob. Not yet. Return to headquarters immediately. This just confirms what I’ve already been thinking: The Darkling is not like any foe we’ve faced before. We’re going to have to change the rules of this game if we have any chance of winning.”

  Chapter VI

  The Center Cannot Hold

  The remaining members of Assistance Unlimited were solemn as they sat in the meeting room of 6196 Robeson Avenue. Eun had been very vocal in his anger towards The Darkling, insisting that the group should abandon the quest for the devil’s body parts in favor of rescuing Sporrenberg. Everyone well remembered the antipathy that Eun had felt for the German early on and saw this as proof that Eun had accepted Jakob as a teammate and friend.

  Lazarus stood up, approaching a global map that was tacked to the wall. He had previously placed photographs beside red-tipped pins on different areas of the map. “We know that The Darkling has both hands and the heart. That leaves three pieces that are still out there. Lunt’s information is a few years out of date but the last known locations for each are posted here. The torso was in the possession of Max Davies, our friend who has recently relocated to Atlanta.”

  Samantha stirred. The lovely blonde still looked a bit jet-lagged but she was still stunning in a black skirt and cream-colored blouse. She remembered Max Davies very well—the handsome young playboy was secretly a masked vigilante known as The Peregrine. In his nocturnal identity, Max had aided Assistance Unlimited a few months prior to the Die Glocke affair. “Why would Max have something like that?”

  “According to Lunt’s notes, The Peregrine smashed a cultist organization known as The Hidden Ones in 1930. The group had purchased the torso on the occult black market. Max could tell that the body part had some sort of black magic to it so he kept it.”

  “Have you called him yet?” Morgan asked.

  “I tried. He’s apparently away on business. His maid, a woman named Nettie, refused to tell me when he’d be back.” Lazarus tapped the pin, which was positioned above the word ‘Boston.’ “Given that Max is still in the process of moving his belongings from Boston to Atlanta, I’m willing to bet that he hasn’t moved over his trophies and occult relics. If the torso were still in Boston, it would be in his old penthouse home.”

  “Are we talking about breaking into Max’s house?” Samantha asked. There was something in her tone that suggested she found the idea equal parts shocking and exciting.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” Lazarus corrected. “Max would let us in if he were able.”

  “But he’s not.”

  “But he’s not,” Lazarus agreed.

  “So who gets the boring task of visiting a rich guy’s penthouse?” Morgan inquired, obviously hoping that his name wasn’t about to be called.

  “I want you to handle this one alone. It should be the least dangerous of the three remaining targets so you shouldn’t require backup.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91