The theater was crowded to capacity. Men in tuxes and women in evening gowns murmured and gestured as they settled into their seats. The orchestra warmed up their instruments, preparing for the evening's show. Though the opera was a traditional one, it was the first time it had been performed on Broadway in over forty years, and everyone involved with the production had opening night jitters.
Martin Ozymand very much enjoyed the opera, and was in fact sponsoring the night's activities. As he settled into the plush chair he maintained in his personal pressbox, he nodded at the smile the orchestra's conductor gave him. Twenty-three year old Tatyana Bronislovitch had been a child prodigy, mastering seven instruments by the age of ten. A rare genetic disease had struck her in her eighteenth year, forcing her to give up playing. She was close to suicide when Ozymand located her and gave her hope, urged her to continue a life in music -- not as a performer, but as a conductor.
Meanwhile, Ozymand poured a considerable amount of his personal wealth into finding a cure for her condition. So far, the answer eluded him and his people; though Ozymand had a sinking feeling he would need to resort to extraordinary means to preserve her. Something only Ramses the Undying could manage.
Ozymand shifted in his chair. <Best not to think about him now,> Ozymand thought. <It would not do to slip out of character tonight.>
As the curtain rose, and Tatyana signaled the first piece to begin, Ozymand felt his hackles rise. Some... thing was here, in the theater. Something with the taste of the supernatural. Ozymand glanced behind him, but his Immortal bodyguard, Ogbanna, showed no sign of discomfort.
Ogbanna was a three hundred year old Igbo, sold into slavery in the southern American colonies in 1760. Ozymand found him in 1803, and found the man's temperament and bearing agreeable to his own. He hired the man on the spot, and the two had been nearly inseparable ever since. Ogbanna had saved the life of Ramses on more than one occasion, and Ramses repaid the man's loyalty quite generously. Only Ivan Rerschenko was more trusted.
Ogbanna noticed Ozymand's distress and stepped up to him. "Is something wrong?" he asked in a whisper.
Ozymand shook his head. "I sense something. Keep your eyes open." Ogbanna nodded, stepped back, and adjusted his sword beneath his coat. No trace of emotion crossed his face, and, in truth, Ozymand was never quite sure if the man had any emotions. <Part of his charm,> Ozymand thought, trying to get comfortable in his seat.
The feeling persisted though, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the opera.
When it happened, it was as swift as a summer storm. It was in the third act when he snapped to his feet and whirled, coming face to face with the Demon. Ogbanna stood stock still, his rapier half-drawn, his muscles contorted as if he were experiencing a seizure.
The Demon's human visage was short and nondescript, with carefully tailored dark hair and bland features. His black tuxedo merely emphasized his ordinary nature, allowing him to blend into the crowd of theater goers like a emperor bird in a sea of penguins.
His Demonic form was much more singular, filling out his formal attire with lean, hard muscles and looking like he was half again as tall as the mask he wore. His raven dark hair was cut close to the skull and slicked back, pushing into prominence the small white horns that graced his forehead. A carefully trimmed Van Dyke outlined full, expressive lips, and his red eyes gleamed balefully in his dark sockets. His skin was the color of molten steel, and it gleamed with a vitality that even Ozymand could only envy.
As the two beings regarded each other, separated by only five feet of carpet and a frozen Immortal, the years of big business sloughed off of Ozymand, and in mere moments, the silver eyed Ramses, King of Kings, stood in his place. "Mephistopheles. What do you want?" The silver haired man spoke Ancient Egyptian with a dry, clipped accent.
The Demon responded in a similar tongue. "I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd pay my respects. So, how are things, Ramses?"
"You don't make social visits," the Egyptian responded angrily.
"Quite right, quite right," Mephistopheles said contritely, folding his white gloved hands. "I have a message for you."
Ramses stared at him. "Say your piece and get out."
The Demon grinned, pulling his lips back to show pearly white teeth filed to points. "In case your dreams haven't told you already, it is beginning. The Scarecrow is stirring, the Walls are weakening, and the Dragon is awakening. Soon the very seas will boil with the blood of the just, and the incantations will begin. I hope you've packed your bags, Ramses." The Demon's grin was smug. "You're going on a long trip."
Ramses stood silently, his hands curled into fists.
Mephistopheles laughed, a high pitched sound that grated on Ramses' nerves. Then he turned smartly and darted out into the hallway, heading for the stairs. As he did so, Ogbanna slowly relaxed, wrenching his blade free.
Ramses laid a hand on his arm. "Let him go," the Egyptian said. "There's little you can do to stop him anyway." With the Demon gone, he was slipping back into the Ozymand persona.
Ogbanna's face betrayed no anger. "Very well, Lord Ramses." He sheathed his blade and took his position at the doorway. When Ramses was certain Ogbanna would not hasten after Mephistopheles, he took his seat once more.
But he could not muster much interest in the opera.
The tall man threaded his way through the crowded alleyway, his right arm and hand pushing men and women aside as his feet moved quickly over the ground. His other arm, the left one, terminated at the wrist, encased in a silver bracer etched with Germanic runes. Ahead of him, moving more swiftly than the tall man, were a pair of Asian men dressed in black. Unlike the tall Westerner, they were not kind to the people in their way, pushing and shoving men, women, and children aside with rough speed. In addition, they knocked over bicyclists, barrels, and hawkers as well, spilling debris in their wake in a desperate attempt to hinder the tall man's chase.
For the Westerner's part, he didn't care. Most of the debris he could step or hop over without losing speed, and his height advantage meant he could keep the runners in sight fairly easily, regardless of how much distance they managed to put between them.
Of course, his height -- along with his pale blond hair, blue eyes, and single hand -- ensured that the runners could spot him even more easily. <So be it> Tyr thought, <if I keep them afraid, keep them running, they could lead me to Lei.>
Tyr almost didn't stop when a thin Cantonese girl stepped in front of him. He tried to sidestep her, but she produced a small hand pistol. He froze momentarily, surprised, and gave her the opportunity to place the muzzle of the gun over his heart. As Tyr's chest exploded, he had a moment to curse Lei and his schemes. Then he was dead.
Shelley and the Revenant paced through the darkened hallways of the castle. Shelley was virtually blind, but the Revenant led her unerringly through the stone corridors, avoiding violent collisions with priceless works of art all the way. The Revenant's hand was cold in Shelley's grip. She thought he might be undead or something -- especially with that grinning skull face. She found the idea less unsettling now than she would have hours ago. Strange how only a short time with these men had changed her views on reality already. Demons, wizards, secret societies... things she would have scoffed at in the morning were now believable. All it took was a bizarre transformation and a trip through a shadow.
She laughed suddenly, and the Revenant gave her a sidelong glance as if to question her sanity. <Get in line, Kurt,> she thought to herself.
And then the Revenant pulled her into the room, the one with the crystal, and both the crystal's presence and Perseus' Buzz hit her simultaneously. Her mouth opened in shock. The room was only dimly illuminated, but she could see a great melee had taken place here. Artifacts and relics were smashed, pieces of rock and wood scattered all over the floor. The salty tang of blood was heavy in the air, and a massive green skinned beast lay sprawled across a pedestal, a pool of viscous blood congealing on the floor beneath him.
Perseus knelt in the center of the room, his breathing harsh, his coat shredded, and his wounds closing up as bursts of electricity played along his bloodied torso.
The Revenant bent down over Perseus while Shelley perused the wreckage. "You okay, Perce?" the Revenant asked, his strange voice echoing in the large room. Shelley suppressed a shudder as her eyes fell on the sword hilt protruding from the Gargoyle's bizarre chest.
Perseus nodded, gathering strength, and looked up. "He was a tough mother," he gasped.
The Revenant nodded. "I told you so. But did you listen? Nooo. The Immortal runs off by himself, and almost gets his head shorn off." The Revenant shook his head. "Not a smart play, Gunga Din."
Perseus pulled himself to his feet. There was a crack as his ribs settled into place; immediately Perseus began to breath easier. "Its over and done with now. Let me just grab my sword, and then we'll go."
"But it isn't done," the Revenant said.
Perseus looked at him sharply. "You said there were only three Gargs. We got three of them, didn't we? Or did you let the other one escape?"
"No, you're right. All three Gargoyles are gone. But there's something else going on here. I didn't notice it during the day because it wasn't active -- but I can taste something else on the air. Something... wrong."
Perseus looked at him for a long while. Then, wordlessly he stepped past the Nightspawn and approached the prone Gargoyle. Grasping the hilt of his blade, he wrenched it free. Brackish blood flowed out of the wound. "Lay on MacDuff," he said grimly.
The Revenant nodded. Shelley looked at both in confusion. "What's going on?"
Perseus pointed at the Revenant. "He thinks there might be another supernatural presence here."
Shelley remained puzzled. "So? We have to get out of here. How many silent alarms do you think we tripped? Do that shadow think and get us out of here before the cops arrive."
The Revenant gestured in the direction of the Gargoyle. "What kind of alarms do you need when your security force looks like that?"
Shelley looked about to argue, but Perseus silenced her with a hiss and a raised hand. Then she felt it. The Buzz running up and down her spin intensified as another Immortal drew close. Unconsciously her hand flew to the sword on her back. <It has to be the Russian,> she thought worriedly.
Rerschenko stepped into the doorway, his naked cavalry saber gleaming dully in the half light. Shelley took a step back, drawing her sword, and almost stumbled as her heel came down on a fragment of rubble. She looked down and froze. It was the crystal.
The Revenant slowly backed away from Ivan as well, one socket locked on him should the Russian make a move in the Revenant's direction.
Perseus sighed. "You never miss a trick, do you Ivan?"
The Russian shrugged. "What can I say, Perseus?" He spoke American accented English for Shelley's benefit. "When I'm on the hunt I follow my prey everywhere. By the way, I must applaud you on the ease with which you dispatched those freaks. You may be a challenge after all." He spun his sword in his hand.
Perseus rolled his shoulders and shuffled his feet. "You know Ivan, I'll almost regret it when you're gone. It'll be like...hmmm... when the Soviet Union collapsed, and NATO had no one to play war with anymore."
Ivan's grin was a little forced. "The Republics are not dead yet, my friend. Like the bear, they are only hibernating. Communism will return to the homeland soon enough. A pity you'll never see it..."
Perseus sighed. "Okay. Enough with the childish banter. Let's get this over with." He adopted a fencer's pose, right arm and leg extended, sword out, left leg back, left hand on hip. Ivan stepped toward him, saber swinging.
Shelley took the opportunity to reach down and grab the crystal, dropping it into her pocket. Then she returned her attention to the duel, appraising the techniques of the duelists.
Ivan was a powerhouse, used to overwhelming his opponents with superior strength and endurance. But he was neither clumsy nor slow for all his size. Rather, he was quick and agile, and his sword flowed like silver lightning, darting at Perseus, drawing small cuts.
Perseus, while shorter than the Russian, was no small man either. His compact musculature could summon up powerful blows of his own, while at the same time enabled him to meet Ivan's heavier strikes without discomfort. And he was fast. So very fast. His sword blocked every thrust, parried every slash Ivan made. Only the length of the saber versus Perseus' sword allowed Ivan to touch the Spartan at all.
Perseus seemed capable of holding his own, but Shelley was worried nonetheless. He had just battled a Gargoyle to the death, and Shelley knew the fight had taxed Perseus greatly. She feared he would not be able to keep up with the Russian forever.
Yet how remarkable the two Immortals were! They flowed, they danced across the floor, swords whistling through the air, meeting each other with metallic clangs that echoed in the high-ceilinged chamber. They switched from Eastern katas to Western styles without missing a beat, moving with such speed that the swords were a blur of spinning steel. They were beautiful and terrible to behold. Two killers, so talented and well-versed in their chosen profession that it became an art, a thing of form and style, a thing of beauty.
Shelley was overwhelmed. Was this what awaited her? Deadly confrontations one after the other, each demanding all the skill and strength she could muster? Could she ever be as good as either of them? Somehow, she doubted it.
And then suddenly, horribly, Perseus' stomach was slashed open. A spray of blood hit Ivan, and the red-gray coils of Perseus' intestines threatened to spill out onto the floor. Perseus dropped to one knee.
Shelley could only watch, transfixed with terror. Almost unconsciously, she felt the Revenant stiffen beside her. As Perseus clamped one hand over his stomach, keeping his guts together, Ivan smiled predatorily. He raised his saber two handedly, preparing to sever Perseus' head.
"So much for your theory about the Game, Perseus," Ivan said grimly. "There can, after all, be only one."
Shelley closed her eyes as the Russian's sword began its fall. Then snapped them open as Ivan shrieked.
When Ivan began his swing, Perseus, incredibly, rose to his feet and stepped into the radius of the attack. The hilt of Ivan's sword glanced off of Perseus' shoulder as the Greek drove his sword point first into the Russian's unprotected midsection. The serrated edge was directed upward, and when Perseus whipped his sword up through Ivan's chest, the serrations ripped Ivan open. Neither ribs nor sternum could halt the force of the sword.
Ivan's saber slipped from nerveless fingers. Perseus stepped back, regarding his handiwork. Ivan was split from gut to gullet -- blood and entrails spilled free, splattering Perseus in the process. Yet Ivan still stood, shock and amazement writ on his face. Shelley buried her head in her hands, knowing Ivan was simply too far gone to feel pain, yet weeping for the gruesome end all the same.
She felt it when Ivan's head was separated from his shoulders and the Quickening erupted. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose as the lightning bolts leapt from Rerschenko's body to Perseus'.
She looked up at last, and saw the blue-white arcs of electricity spinning around Perseus, flashing into him, twisting him into orgasmic contortions. As the lights died, Perseus dropped to his knees, coughing uncontrollably. He rose quickly and backed away from the carnage.
Shelley couldn't be sure, her eyes were readjusting to the darkened room, but she thought she saw tears in the Immortal's eyes.
Thunder rolled in across the harbor, promising another storm. Hazard breathed in a whiff of ozone charged air as he stood outside the bar with no name, pondering what to do next. He could look for the new Wraith, Alec Scott, or try to find Perseus' mortal friend, Rachel Van Horn.
<Decisions, decisions.> Hazard thought, absentmindedly tapping his foot to a half remembered beat.
As the first few droplets of rain began to fall, the Vampire made up his mind. He leapt into his red sportscar and blasted away down the road.
He found the apartment building easily enough, parked the car in a garage and waded through the downpour to the entrance. The doorman smiled genially at Hazard as he let him in. "Some crazy weather we're having, huh?" the man said vacuously.
Hazard nodded and brushed his way past the green coated man, into the lobby. The Vampire disliked the room instantly. All chrome, concrete and fluorescent lights. Harsh decor. Probably put up in the eighties. Hazard smothered a grin. The lobby had "Miami Vice" written all over it.
He made his way over to the desk, and a simple suggestion to the guard on duty provided him with Rachel Van Horn's apartment number and access to the elevator. As he rose through the levels of the building in the tiny metal box, Hazard hummed a three hundred year old Wallachian folk song.
The doors hissed open, and he exited the cart, nodding at the inebriated man who stumbled into the lift as Hazard left it. Down the hall and to the left, he found 403. Hazard slipped his shades off of his nose, sliding them into a coat pocket, and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to wring out some of the moisture. He was suddenly nervous, for no real reason. After all, wasn't he Michael Hazard, the Vampire? Scion of the Lord Archimedes himself? What on Earth was there for Hazard to fear except the Sun and maybe an out of control blaze?
He raised a hand and knocked softly at the door. <What shall I say?> he wondered. <"Howdy, I'm Perseus' Vampire sidekick. Wanna neck?"> Hazard chuckled to himself at that one. That line would most likely earn him an extended stay in Bedlam or Arkham.
There was no answer; he knocked again, louder this time. He knew someone was inside. An empty apartment would not give off the mental static he was receiving. After a bit, he heard movement within, and someone came to the door, checking through the peephole to see who it was. Hazard smiled toothlessly and waved a hand. Another mortal heartbeat passed, and he heard a bolt snap. The door opened a crack, a chain still connecting it to the wall.
Hazard caught a brief flash of blood red hair, freckles, and eyes that were intermediate between blue and gray. "Who are you? And what are you doing at my door at three AM?" The voice was smooth as honey, and again, images of sunlit valleys leapt into the mind's eye of the Vampire as the woman's voice washed over him.
Hazard bowed slightly. "My name, Miss Van Horn, is Michael Hazard. I am a friend of Nicholas Covenant. I called you earlier this evening, but you were not home."
The eyes softened a bit, but did not grow friendly. Hazard felt a mental probe slide over him; astonished, and a bit perturbed, he snapped his shields shut tight, wondering who could have... his eyes widened even as the woman's narrowed in consternation.
"You're psychic," the Vampire said softly.
Behind the door the woman nodded. "So are you," she said. She shut the door. Hazard blinked, wondering if the interview was over. But then he heard the chain rasp, and the door swung open to its full width.
"Please come in Mr. Hazard."
Hazard stepped inside, and as she shut the door, he said reflexively, "Please, Miss Van Horn, call me Michael."
She was dressed in a silk bathrobe, and her long red hair was tousled from sleep. She held out a hand; short nails, unpainted. "In that case, call me Rachel."
Hazard took it, and raised it to his lips, brushing them across her hand for an instant. "Rachel," he said, and let the hand go.
She looked at him strangely for a moment. He gave her a friendly smile, and said, "I'm sorry for waking you, but I needed to speak with you immediately."
Rachel shrugged her shoulders and led Hazard into the apartment. "S'all right," she said. "I wasn't really sleeping." She smiled sheepishly at him. "The dreams, you know."
"Yes," Hazard said. "The dreams. That's what I came to talk with you about..."
"As I surmised. Please, make yourself at home," she said, gesturing at a love seat in the den. "Can I get you anything -- coffee, tea?" Hazard looked at the pulse in her swanlike throat and shook his head.
"No thank you," he lied. "I'm fine." He looked around the room.
"You have a nice apartment. Lots of space."
"Thank you," Rachel said, taking a seat and folding the silk housecoat beneath her. Silence fell, broken only by the soft pitter patter of raindrops on the window behind Hazard, and the occasional rumble of thunder.
At last Hazard spoke. "You're very trusting Rachel."
"Not really, Michael. But I sense that you are...just. Which is odd; most people I can read instantly. And I must say I'm intrigued. Nick never made any mention of knowing other psychics. But I can tell you're not lying..."
<Not entirely.> Hazard thought. He leaned forward in his seat, his leather jacket creaking. "Tell me about the dreams."
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