Morgan hesitated at the doorway. “Fritz… I don’t want to kill you. I really don’t. You’re a soldier, doing what you’re told. I can respect that. Hell, Jakob Sporrenberg is one of us now. Have you heard of him? I can offer the same thing to you… put down your gun, come out and tell me what you know. I’ll take care of you.”

  Fritz stood up, his head barely visible over a row of boxes. He was panting, eyes wide with fear. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You don’t. But what choice do you have? Even if you get lucky and kill me, that’s just going to put Lazarus and the rest of Assistance Unlimited on your tail. Is that what you want? Because they’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

  Fritz looked away, shaking his head. “I cannot betray my oath. I am sworn to serve the Führer.”

  “There’s no shame in losing, pal.”

  “You are wrong. There is. Honor is often the only thing a man has.” Fritz’s pistol swung into view and Morgan tensed, preparing to squeeze the trigger.

  Fritz placed the barrel of the gun against his own temple, his eyes now focused on Morgan’s.

  “No,” Morgan said. “Don’t!”

  The German pulled the trigger.

  ***

  Abby and Eun strode through the crowded streets of Cairo, attracting a good bit of attention as they weaved through a bazaar. Abby wore jodhpurs and a khaki shirt but she still managed to somehow look borderline obscene due to the tightness of both. Eun, meanwhile, wore loose-fitting slacks and a sleeveless shirt of local variety.

  Cairo was alive with activity and the marketplace was the beating heart of the city. The sights and sounds were unfamiliar to Abby and the Southern girl stared openly at the unusual fare being offered for sale.

  “Stay close to me,” Eun warned, noting the way many eyes roved up and down Abby’s frame.

  “Why? Afraid someone’s going to rough me up and sell me into white slavery?”

  “Don’t scoff. Stranger things have happened.”

  “First off, any rapist in these parts who grabbed me would be in for a shock. Secondly, I feel perfectly safe with you around to protect me.”

  Eun sighed. Abby’s teasing was good-natured but it got a little old. Maybe it was because, as a homosexual, he wasn’t as distracted by her figure as the other men seemed to be. “There’s where we’re supposed to find Samir Ghamen.”

  The Kafe Klaris lay situated between a small temple and a supply store. Opened a few years prior, it catered to tourists, playing up their misconceptions about Egypt’s history. At night, the band played modern tunes while swathed in bandages while the waitresses wore elaborate but inaccurate period clothing. Sarcophagi and stuffed cats were artfully arranged for full effect.

  The duo stepped into the club and Abby coughed as the smell of smoke stung her nostrils. It clung in thick clouds in the place and Eun waved away some of it, frowning as he gazed at the pseudo-historical interior. Given the trouble they’d had with Princess Femi, the reanimated Egyptian sorceress, none of Assistance Unlimited was too keen on mummies or their trappings.

  “Is that our guy?” Abby asked, directing Eun’s attention to a booth on the far corner. Samir Ghamen was enjoying a meal with two other men and a very beautiful but sad looking woman. The men were talking animatedly, their fingers and lips dripping with grease, while the female in their company kept her eyes downcast.

  Samir himself was a grossly fat man with a dark beard. He wore a turban adorned by a glittering ruby. He laughed loudly, an obnoxious sound that carried over the din of the club.

  “That’s him,” Eun muttered. “Let’s wait outside. When he leaves, we can take out his goons and question him.”

  Abby chuckled. “You always want to punch things. We can do this without a fight, you know?”

  Eun crossed his arms over his chest. A pretty young waitress dressed like an Egyptian slave approached him but she turned away after receiving a glare. “You think you can go over and bat your eyelashes, then have him tell you where the torso is?” he asked Abby.

  “I probably could,” Abby countered. “But you’re forgetting that I’m more than a pretty face. I’m a witch, too.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Abby reached into the valley between her breasts and her fingers came out with a small silver vial. She twisted open the lid and dabbed a bit of moisture behind each ear. “Grab a seat and enjoy the show,” she said, her lips parting in a smile.

  ***

  Paul Magritte was a handsome man but his attractiveness was matched, if not surpassed, by his ego. Even now, as he dressed in a finely tailored suit, he admired his reflection in the mirror. He sometimes considered his lovers to be among the luckiest on earth: for they got to experience the pleasure of being intimate with him.

  And his ego extended beyond his appearance. He also considered himself a genius and the most talented architect in the world. In truth, there was very little that he felt he could not accomplish—especially with his “friend” to help him.

  After adjusting his tie, Magritte sauntered through his affluent home. He nodded politely at his maid, who blushed as they passed one another. He had not yet taken her to his bed but he would in due time. He was putting it off because women had a tendency to become obsessed with him and that affected their work—and the girl was particularly good at cleaning, so he hated to lose her. But he knew she desired him and he considered it almost cruel to not let her have a little taste.

  A knock at the front door brought a smile to his face. A quick glance at the clock told him that his guest was exactly on time. He liked that. Punctuality was a sign of good graces.

  Magritte waited in the study, one hand in the pocket of his coat and the other casually posed with a glass of wine in his hand. He timed it just so that his guest entered the room as Magritte was seemingly moving the glass away from his lips. He turned in mock surprise, setting down his drink and moving to greet the new arrival.

  “Harold Grant!” Magritte boomed, heartily shaking the other man’s hand. “I was so surprised to hear from you. What brings you to Brussels?”

  Grant gave a shrug of his shoulders and took a seat when Magritte offered it. He wasn’t quite as good looking as Magritte but he made up for it in a sense of confidence that exuded from him. Magritte found it utterly charming and always had, ever since they had first crossed each other’s path. There was something about Grant that made everyone—even Magritte—want to impress him. “I heard you might have an item in your collection that appeals to me. I was wondering if I might persuade you to sell it to me.”

  Magritte sat down near Grant, their knees touching. “Are you talking about my sexual photographs?” he asked excitedly. “I recently came into possession of a series of photos of an American actress who is famed for her virginal portrayals on-screen. But trust me, she is anything but in these pictures!” Magritte’s eyes lit up as he talked and he leaned forward, lighting resting one hand on Grant’s knee in good humor.

  “I’m talking about your magical relics, actually,” Grant said, gently removing Magritte’s hand from his leg.

  “Oh.” Magritte tried to not look disappointed but failed miserably. “Most of those things belonged to Papa. I don’t deal with them much. I really only drag them out for parties.”

  “I’m willing to pay you virtually anything.”

  “Anything?” Magritte chuckled. “Well, that is intriguing. What item are we talking about here?”

  “The Devil’s skull.”

  The expression on Magritte’s face became frozen. He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking but it was obvious that he had not expected those words to come from his guest’s lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, trying to laugh it off. “Maybe you’ve got the wrong person.”

  “I don’t think so,” Grant replied. Now it was his turn to lean towards the other man. “I know you have it. We can make this very simple if you sell it to me. You get your money, I get the skull… no one gets hurt.”

  Magritte stood up, shaking his head. With a confused chuckle, he said, “Now you’re sounding like some American gangster.”

  “I’m serious,” Grant said testily.

  Magritte smoothed down his suit and frowned. “In that case, you should go. That item is not for sale.”

  “Why? Because you’re using it?” Grant rose from his chair, advancing towards Magritte, who began backing away slowly. “Is that how you’ve made all those investments that always seem to work out, just so? And the unusual way that other architects who are up for the same jobs you want end up in terrible accidents? It’s a demonic force, Paul. It corrupts anyone who handles it.”

  “How do you even know about it?” Magritte asked, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with trembling fingers.

  “What’s more important is the fact that I’m not the only one who knows about it. The Germans are going to be here soon and they’re going to tear this place apart looking for the skull. Your best bet is to not have it at all. Give it to me.”

  “I can’t sell it. It’s priceless! It’s my friend… without it, I’d be nothing!”

  Magritte could feel the intensity of Grant’s stare and for the first time, he realized that something was different about the man. The way he stood, the voice he was now using… even the way the shadows seemed to cling to his frame… It was like he was becoming another man, right before Magritte’s eyes.

  “What… what’s going on?” Magritte stammered.

  Suddenly Grant was right in front of him, so close that their noses were almost touching. The power that radiated from Grant’s gaze was overwhelming and Magritte couldn’t have turned away if he’d tried.

  “You’re a weak man, Paul Magritte,” Grant said in a voice that was so cold that it brought a shudder down Paul’s spine. “I hope that in your next life you find the strength to say no to your vices.”

  Magritte gasped as something cold and sharp penetrated his midsection. He looked down to see Grant’s hand gripping a blade, the hilt of which was now protruding from Magritte’s own body. Grant yanked upward and to the side with the blade, opening up a fountain of blood that sprayed onto the expensive carpet.

  ***

  The body was just hitting the floor when another knock came at the door. Mimicking Magritte’s voice perfectly, The Darkling shouted, “I’ll get it myself!”

  “As you wish, sir,” came the reply from another room.

  Confident that his acting abilities were up to the task, The Darkling pushed the matter by adding, “Go ahead and retire to your rooms, all of you! Do not disturb my guests and I!”

  The Darkling crept to the door as another series of knocks ensued. The hired help were obviously used to Magritte’s desires for privacy, which played well for The Darkling’s purposes.

  Peering through the peephole, The Darkling had to stifle a sigh of annoyance. Lazarus Gray and Samantha Grace were standing there, oblivious to the fact that their enemy was on the other side of the door.

  Gray was becoming a major nuisance but The Darkling still hoped to avoid killing him. Gray and his ilk had their place in the world and The Darkling admired him for his dedication… but in this case, his quest was a misplaced one: The Darkling alone could handle the power of the reassembled devil.

  Still using Magritte’s voice, The Darkling spoke through the door. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back in the morning. I’m not accepting visitors at this hour!”

  Lazarus noticed the peephole and addressed it with his words. “Mr. Magritte, we need to speak to you on a matter of extreme urgency. My name is Lazarus Gray and this is Samantha Grace. We’ve come from the United States.”

  “Very well. Give me a moment to pull on a robe.” The Darkling backed away from the door, his deft hands already yanking away the false face features that gave him the appearance of Harold Grant. He dropped the items in his pocket and hurriedly looked around the apartment. He had only moments to find the skull—but where would Magritte have hidden it? It wasn’t the sort of thing that could be set on a mantle somewhere… but The Darkling surmised that Magritte wouldn’t have left it where he couldn’t access it with ease.

  The Darkling moved quickly, examining the study for any false walls or hidden panels. Finding nothing, he moved from room to room, finally coming to Magritte’s bedroom. As soon as he stepped into the sleeping area, he felt that the air had a different ambience. It almost seemed to crackle as he moved through it, his sensitive psychic nature picking up on the presence of great power.

  He followed that sensation until he came to a large chest of drawers. On top of the chest was a black box and as he reached for it, The Darkling knew what lay within. He unlatched the lid and flipped it back, revealing the skull of the demon. Bits of mummified flesh clung here and there but it was the sharp canines and small horns on the forehead that truly made it look awful.

  A foul odor wafted from the skull and a ghostly voice asked, “Ask. Ask me what you wish to know. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you the most terrible of things—I’ll tell you Truth.”

  The Darkling stared at the foul thing and made a noise of disgust. “I’ve already seen past the darkness. My vision is pure.” He slammed shut the box’s lid and lifted it up, holding it under one arm.

  Even before he turned, he knew that he was no longer alone. Lazarus Gray and Samantha Grace stood in the doorway, both looking at him with expressions of interest. They didn’t recognize him, of course, having only seen him in his guises of The Darkling and Harold Grant. The face he now wore was very nearly his true one, though his scars were hidden by makeup and an expensive hairpiece covered his burned scalp.

  “Put the box down,” Lazarus said.

  “You picked the lock on the door,” The Darkling said. “That’s breaking and entering.”

  Lazarus was obviously in no mood for games. He drew a pistol and pointed it squarely at The Darkling’s head. “Who are you working for?” he asked.

  A slow smile spread across The Darkling’s face and he realized that he was enjoying this. Despite the frustrations that Lazarus presented, it was good to finally find someone who was something of an equal, a sparring partner who could genuinely test his abilities. “Justice,” he whispered.

  The Darkling hurled the box at Samantha’s head and the pretty young blonde let out a cry of surprise as she ducked out of the way. Lazarus began firing as The Darkling lowered his shoulder and barreled into him. The first bullet grazed The Darkling’s back but the second missed him completely, striking the wall behind chest of drawers.

  Lazarus wrapped his arms around The Darkling, not wanting to let the vigilante escape again. The two men crashed hard into the wall but The Darkling was able to deliver several quick rabbit punches into Gray’s midsection, freeing himself.

  While the two men were squaring off, Samantha had snatched up the box. After checking to make sure that the skull was still inside, she bolted from the room, nearly colliding with the frightened butler who had come to investigate the sound of gunfire.

  “Get out!” she yelled, shoving at the man. “Go call the police!”

  Back in the bedroom, The Darkling and Lazarus were trading blows. Just as in their first meeting, the two men were evenly matched, their limbs a blur as they blocked each other’s movements.

  Lazarus managed to evade The Darkling’s defenses long enough to punch him in the cheek but the response—a powerful kick to the midsection, left Lazarus stumbling off-balance.

  As The Darkling threw a punch aimed at his head, Lazarus ducked under the blow and grabbed hold of the other man’s arm. He slammed his elbow down upon it, cracking the bone but not completely breaking it.

  The Darkling hissed in pain, yanking his arm free. It hung limply at his side but Lazarus knew that even with one arm, the man was still extremely dangerous.

  “Where is Jakob?” Lazarus asked, delivering a punch that tagged The Darkling on the chin.

  “He’s being improved,” The Darkling answered. “I’m taking him to the next level of his consciousness.”

  Lazarus stepped back and took aim with his gun. “At this range, there’s no way I can miss. Don’t make me kill you.”

  “Would you do that, Lazarus?” he asked. “You must have figured out who I am by now—that I’m not just some Nazi agent. I’m The Darkling. But have I really done enough to warrant death? Are you prepared to be judge, jury and executioner?”

  “I still haven’t figured out what your game is, Darkling,” Lazarus said, avoiding the question. “Are you some sort of misguided vigilante? Or are you just another lunatic criminal, rationalizing your actions?”

  “Can’t I be both? Or neither? Labels only begin to define who we are.”

  Lazarus lowered the barrel of his gun, intending to wound, rather than kill. A quick shot in each leg would end the battle, he reasoned.

  As he pulled the trigger, something unusual occurred. Lazarus was suddenly unable to tell exactly where The Darkling stood—Was he right in front of him? To the left? Or in the far corner? Lazarus felt as if a dense fog had clouded his mind.

  The bullets ripped through the room but none found their target. The Darkling was past him and out of the room before Lazarus realized that he had been tricked.

  Giving chase, Lazarus burst into the study, only to find that The Darkling had vanished. Samantha stood steadfast in the corner, the box clutched in her hand.

  “Did you see him?” Lazarus asked.

  “I thought so but it looked like a shadow moving across the room. I couldn’t even tell it was human.”

  “Damn,” Lazarus cursed, displaying uncharacteristic anger. “But we got the skull so this wasn’t a total loss.”

  Samantha opened the box and grinned. The evil relic was inside, its stench not enough to override her joy at their victory. “So if the others fulfilled their jobs, then we might have saved the day. The Darkling can’t put the body back together again and neither can the Nazis!”

 

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