Lazarus nodded, still unnerved by The Darkling’s escape. No matter what, the mysterious figure had the heart and both arms… not to mention Jakob. There were far too many loose ends for him to feel that they had truly made any progress.

  ***

  Abby slid into the booth across from Samir Ghanem, ignoring the shocked looks of Samir’s companions. She leaned forward, displaying a breathtaking amount of cleavage. She’d made sure to unbutton her shirt just so on the way over and as Samir’s eyes widened, she knew that she’d made the right choice. “Excuse me for being so forward, but are you Samir Ghanem?”

  “Indeed I am, my lovely. And to whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Abigail Cross. I’m from America.”

  “So I had guessed.” Samir’s eyes remained fixed on her breasts as he talked and he noisily sucked his fingers clean. “Why have you sought me out, beautiful one?”

  Abby shyly looked away. “Well… I’m here with friends and we’re looking to have a good time. Someone told me that you were the man who might get us what we wanted.”

  “Such as…?”

  Abby looked up at Samir, seeing the hunger in his eyes. The solution that she’d dabbed behind each ear contained herbs that could weaken the will of men. Coupled with her own natural seductive abilities, it was a potent combination that few could resist. “I’m embarrassed to say,” she coyly whispered. “It’s illegal.”

  Samir laughed, enjoying the game he sensed the American was playing. He liked Western women—they were so brazen. He gestured to the other men at the table, shooing them away. They hesitated but finally stood up. The woman at his side was more than ready to vacate her spot, practically fleeing the scene when he gestured for her to leave.

  “Now,” he said, “We are all alone. You do not have to be so sensitive. Tell me what you need. I swear to you that I will do all in my power to please you.”

  “Aren’t you just the sweetest old thing?” Abby declared, playfully swatting Samir’s hand.

  The Egyptian seemed entranced. “Now, my lovely, tell me what you desire.”

  Abby’s tone of voice shifted dramatically. She could see from the slightly glazed look in his eyes that her elixir had done its work. He was lost in her beauty, his will sapped completely. “There’s something you have—supposedly it’s part of the devil’s body.”

  “Satan’s legs!” Samir hissed, a smile spreading across his facer. “I have those. But I cannot sell them, my sweet. They are priceless. To touch them is to touch something greater than mankind. It is to caress the infinite!”

  “Eww,” she answered. “Well, let’s not get into what you do with the things. I want to focus on getting hold of them. Where are they?”

  “They’re in my home. But, as I said, I cannot sell them.”

  “Honey, I don’t want to buy them.”

  Samir seemed to relax. “You just wish to see them? That, I can do!”

  “Take me there now.” Abby smiled wickedly. “I’ll be so grateful.”

  Samir stood up and offered her his elbow. He sauntered past the men who were waiting for him, ignoring the shocked looks on their faces. Within moments, he and Abby were striding through the streets of Cairo, chatting away. Eun was following close behind, somehow managing to look casual despite how out of place he appeared.

  The duo stopped outside a well-tended home on the outskirts of town. A swarthy guard stood outside and he bowed low as he held the door open for Samir and his guest. Before the man had straightened up, Eun had dispatched him with a quick chop to the neck. After dragging the guard’s body into the shadows, the young Korean slipped inside.

  Eun walked right up behind Samir and tapped him on the shoulder. As the older man spun about, Eun delivered a palm thrust to the man’s chin that sent him stumbling back. A swinging leg kick ended the conflict, dropping Samir to the floor.

  Abby stood with arms crossed over her breasts. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked hotly.

  “What do you mean? We’re in his house. We don’t need him anymore.”

  “You’re a hotheaded idiot!” Abby tossed her hair and looked around, hoping that Samir didn’t have any houseguests. “It would have been nice if you’d waited until he told me where the legs are.”

  “You’re the witch. Do a spell.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. She moved through the home, amazed at the opulence on display. Since arriving in Cairo, she’d seen children starving in the streets and people who looked like they hadn’t bathed in weeks, if not months. But Samir was right here in town, with expensive tapestries, fresh fruit on the table and clean water for him to wash his hands in.

  She had just begun to worry that finding the legs might prove to be a problem when she entered the man’s library. It was filled with leather-bound books and several comfortable-looking chairs… but it was the gruesome treasures on the wall that caught her eye. Two mummified legs were mounted over a small futon. They rested in a wooden frame covered by glass, like some grisly form of couch art.

  Eun wandered in behind her. “Sorry,” he muttered. “You’re right. I should have been more patient.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I found them.”

  Eun looked up in surprise, his gaze traveling over the displayed limbs. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I know. I was expecting more of a hunt. I guess we got here before the Nazis or The Darkling.”

  “I’m not going to complain,” Eun said, stepping up on the futon and lifting off the display. He set it down with a grunt. “If the others came through, then we’ll have three of the six sets of body parts.”

  Abby laughed, having forgotten how angry she’d been only a moment before. “Chalk one up for the good guys.”

  Neither of them noticed that a shadowy figure was watching them, nor that the woman slipped away without a sound. Once outside, the female hurried away, knowing that she’d missed her opportunity.

  Her superiors in Berlin would not be pleased.

  Chapter VIII

  Calm Before the Storm

  Karl Raeder strode from the U-Bahn into the heart of Nazi power. The city was its customary dull gray, a color matched by the skies above. The pavement was slick from a rain that had ceased only an hour before and Raeder’s black boots smacked loudly through each and every puddle.

  Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler had sent a briefly worded message to Raeder just after dawn, summoning the handsome young officer from the arms of a big-breasted woman named Elsa. Karl had been seeing her behind the back of her husband for several months but he was tiring of her—the longing in her eyes was beginning to transform from lust to love and that was something that Raeder had little tolerance for.

  Raeder was dressed to the hilt this morning, his SS uniform pressed and polished. On the way over, he’d been viewed with both fear and awe, which pleased him. He liked the theatricality of the Nazi regime, which reminded him of his brother, who had been an actor before dying in an automobile accident.

  Raeder cut a fine figure in his uniform: reddish-blond hair, handsome and trim. An author of seven books on Aryan heritage, a crack shot, a scientist and fluent in four languages, Raeder was beloved by ardent Nazis and feared by his enemies.

  Himmler was waiting for him in the café located in the lobby of the Prinz-Albrecht-Palais Hotel, which was known as Number 9 around the city. Next door was Number 8, the most infamous address in Berlin, for it was the home of the Reich Security Ministry, which included both the SS and Gestapo.

  Himmler looked up from his newspaper and black coffee, offering a brief nod to Raeder. With round spectacles, a receding chin and narrow shoulders, the Reichsführer-SS looked more like a banker or professor than one of the most powerful men in the country. Himmler was pale, with a thin mustache and well-manicured hands. There was an air of artificiality around Himmler, as if Raeder was never seeing the true man beneath but instead some façade.

  “Untersturmführer,” the security minister began as Raeder took his seat. “We have heard from our agent in Cairo. She says that Assistance Unlimited has recovered the devil’s legs. We believe they also have the head and torso.”

  “And the remainder are in the possession of The Darkling?” Raeder asked. The conversation paused as a waitress stepped over and took the young officer’s order: plain toast, not too blackened, with coffee and cream.

  “That’s our assumption.” Himmler sighed and took a sip of his coffee. “It goes without saying that your loyalty must not be in doubt.”

  “Then why bring it up?”

  Himmler smiled coolly though his eyes remained fixed. “Have The Illuminati mentioned anything about this quest of ours?”

  Raeder involuntarily winced. He had been approached by the shadowy organization shortly before he’d been made an officer in the S.S. He had immediately gone to Himmler himself with the news that he had been contacted. To his surprise, Himmler had told him to join the group and accept their indoctrination. Now he was a mole within The Illuminati, a dangerous game that was continually threatened by Himmler’s preference of talking about it openly.

  “I worry you?” Himmler asked.

  “You do,” Raeder admitted. “They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “Not here,” the Reichsführer-SS replied with confidence. “Here we are secure. The Gestapo has assured me of this.”

  But The Illuminati has men inside the Gestapo, Raeder thought. He kept that to himself, however. There was only so much resistance Himmler would stand for. Instead, he inclined his head and said “I have heard nothing new. The Illuminati is still recovering from the many wounds inflicted upon them by Lazarus Gray. They are aware of the search for the body parts but as far as I know, they have not sent agents of their own to intervene.”

  “Perhaps they should.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our own search was led by Agent Geist, who is now dead. Our subsequent attempts have been fraught with failure. The Führer is not happy and has refused my request for more resources. So I was thinking that perhaps we could piggyback on The Illuminati. Use them to do our dirty work, as it were, and then take it from them at the proper time.”

  “A dangerous gambit,” Raeder replied.

  “Could you persuade them to steal the relics?” Himmler persisted.

  “I could suggest it but I am not a high-ranking member.” Raeder paused a moment as his toast and coffee were brought to him. He waited until the waitress was gone, ignoring her come hither glances. “We may have waited too long, I am afraid. In order for them to get the body parts now, they would need to track down The Darkling… and then they would need to stage a breakin at the Assistance Unlimited headquarters. Neither would be easy. To do both would be nearly impossible.”

  “In that case, I have no choice.” Himmler set his napkin on the table and smoothed it out, obviously preparing himself to give some grave pronouncement. “If we cannot use The Illuminati, then I will task you with this personally. You are not to return to Berlin without all six body parts.”

  Raeder stared at Himmler, letting those words sink in. “There is only one way that I could possibly accomplish that task,” he said at last, surprised to find that his mouth had gone dry.

  “I have faith in you,” Himmler replied. He stood up, Raeder hurrying to follow suit. After a perfunctory exchange of Heil Hitlers, Raeder was left alone. He sat down heavily, cursing under his breath.

  In addition to all of his other accolades, Raeder was a graduate of the Occult Forces Project, Hitler’s pride and joy. The OFP was designed to not only make use of supernatural relics and papers but also to create a new breed of soldier: one that was charged with power from beyond this world. While Strauss became the spectral Geist, Raeder had become… something quite different.

  He finished his toast in silence before draining his coffee. He began the slow walk back to the U-Bahn, already planning his next move. The message had been clear: he either succeeded or he was no longer welcome in Berlin.

  Given that choice, Lazarus Gray and his friends—along with The Darkling—were sacrifices that had to be made.

  Karl Raeder—dubbed The Silver Wolf by his OFP handlers—would make sure of that.

  ***

  Jakob Sporrenberg wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the custody of The Darkling. All concept of time had been lost in a seemingly never-ending series of torments. His feet ached from the flame that had been put to them hours ago and his side was sore, from the iron bar that had been inserted and then withdrawn in the wee hours of the night before.

  Now his mind floated in a state of twilight-consciousness, not fully awake but not asleep, either. He thought of his family, of his father, and the way they had looked at him in his SS uniform. He thought of the Fatherland and his love for his home country… and of the creeping doubts that had finally taken root after meeting Lazarus Gray. Anti-Semitism had never appealed to him but it had increasingly become core to the Nazi belief system. When given the chance between honoring his vow to the Führer and following his conscience, Sporrenberg had opted for the latter. He had managed to sneak his family out from Germany with the help of his new friends but the guilt remained, burning stronger than ever.

  You’re a liar and a coward, the voice in his head often shouted. Fleeing from your Fatherland because you weren’t strong enough!

  “Shut up,” Jakob murmured.

  Just die. That’s the best thing for you. Just die and stop making things difficult for those around you.

  A new voice spoke up then, piercing the veil of blackness that surrounded Jakob’s mind. It sounded confident and strong—and familiar. “You need to begin anew, Jakob. That’s the problem. You cast off your old life but you didn’t sever the bonds that tied you to it. You’re meant for greater things, even greater than Assistance Unlimited. But you’ll never accomplish them until you pass through the gate of death and emerge on the other side.”

  “Who are you?” Jakob asked aloud, his cracked lips splitting as he spoke. Tiny rivulets of blood dripped down his chin.

  A skull-like visage appeared suddenly, different from The Darkling’s. This was a face that Jakob recognized, deep in his core. This was his true face, the one hidden from everyone else in the world, seen only by its owner as he passed from one world to the next.

  “I am Eidolon,” the face said. “I am Jakob Sporrenberg.”

  ***

  Lazarus tapped his chin, studying the body parts laid out on the table. With the torso, the legs and the head of the devil, Assistance Unlimited had the majority of the foul beast in its possession. Lazarus knew that the government would want him to notify them immediately so that they could decide what to do with the parts… but Lazarus wasn’t sure that he wanted to do that. As he’d suggested to The Darkling, he had ideas of destroying the pieces so that no one could ever bring them back together.

  “Chief, we’ve got a signal.”

  Lazarus turned away from the table and its gory contents. He looked at Morgan and asked, “Where?”

  Morgan shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and tried to look calm. Lazarus knew him too well, though, and could sense the tension in his old friend. “San Francisco.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Morgan exhaled. He had obviously drawn the short straw when it came to breaking this particular news. “It looks like Jakob’s being held at 1930 Street & Smith Avenue.”

  The expression that passed over Lazarus’ features was gone in a split second but Morgan caught it nonetheless. “That’s… interesting.”

  “I’ll say. That’s the house you grew up in, right?”

  “Richard Winthrop was born and raised there,” Lazarus replied. Winthrop was his old identity, the man who had died in the choppy waters off the Sovereign City coast. It had been Lazarus Gray who had woken up on the beach, possessing only scattered memories from his former life and none of the emotions that went with him. He could now picture Winthrop’s mother and father but the attachments that went with those memories were lost, perhaps forever.

  “Want me to get the group together?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes. Tell everyone to meet at the car. We’ll head straight to the airfield.” Lazarus turned back to the devil’s skull, hearing its awful whispering. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Morgan hesitated when he saw Lazarus picking up the body parts. “What are you going to do with those?”

  “Throw them in the furnace.”

  “Think that will actually destroy them?”

  “We’ll see.” Lazarus left the room, well aware of the demonic forces that swirled around him. Twice he found himself stumbling on the stairs, as if unseen hands were trying to trip him up. He made it to the building’s furnace room without harm, however, and set the vile objects down on a table while he opened the doors on the fiery device.

  Don’t, the skull seemed to say. Think of the things we could accomplish together. I can show you where your enemies are… warn you of dangers that are still to come. I can help you avoid that destiny that you fear.

  Lazarus ignored the spirit’s words, knowing that there would be prices to be paid for such ‘help.’ Lazarus plucked up the skull first, tossing it into the flickering fire. The torso and legs followed immediately after and he shut the grate as a terrible stench billowed forth from the fire.

  He doubted that this would actually destroy the things. They were old and forged of something more powerful than mere flame, after all. But it was all part of the process that he had to undertake.

  Besides, he had plans within plans… and for some of them, the continued existence of the devil’s bones might actually play a key role….

  ***

  “He’s been dead for nearly four minutes,” Earl warned, anxiety in his voice.

  The Darkling stood in full regalia above the prone form of Jakob Sporrenberg, a hypodermic full of adrenaline held in one hand. The vigilante’s skull mask hid his features but Earl had known his employer long enough to sense his tension. “It’s not time. Not yet.”

 

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