When Jack Johnson manhandled Tommy Burns and took the world heavyweight boxing championship back in ‘08, a cry went up across the land, for it was inconceivable that a negro could hold such a prestigious title. Jack London made a desperate plea for a Great White Hope and for the next few years, every strapping, well-muscled white lad in the country was in danger of being shanghaied by desperate promoters to be thrown into the ring against the Galveston Giant. Johnson whipped them all. After he defeated former-champ James Jeffries in the Fight of the Century two years later, we got real desperate. Brutes had been banned from boxing for twenty years, and for good reason since no mortal man could survive a punch from one of those Active savages. But for Johnson, out there lording it over us with his white women, we made an exception. Strings got pulled, money changed hands, officials looked the other way, and we snuck in our Brute assassin. The poor dumb Brute thought we were actually giving him a shot at the title. Hell, when he was sober Bill Jones could lift a horse over his head. He crippled the champ for life thirty seconds into the first round. The referee stopped it when he saw our boy was magic, but Jack Johnson’s career was done for. We disqualified our stooge for using magic and kicked that freak of nature to the curb. We did what we had to do. Got to keep the sport pure, you know.
—Al Fitzsimmons,
New York State Commissioner of Boxing,
death bed confession, 1914
Dallas, Texas
The weather had not been in their favor and the UBF passenger dirigible had made lousy time. An hour before sunrise, they had finally landed at the biggest dirigible station in Texas, just in time to catch the local newspaper hot off the presses. The subject of the front page hadn’t been surprising, but the other names mentioned in the article sure were. Faye had always thought it would be kind of fun to see her name in print in an actual big city newspaper. It turned out that it wasn’t fun at all. Especially when your name was just there to say that the police were looking for you.
Faye could read and write pretty good now, she’d taken to it quick, but Mr. Browning read the interesting bits out loud for all of them while they waited for their breakfast. Mr. Sullivan was wanted for having shot down a bunch of policemen in New Jersey after they tried to question him about the plot to kill the president. What a bunch of bunk. Faye’s name was on the list of people that might know something and were wanted for questioning, as was Mr. Garrett. She didn’t recognize any of the other names, but could only assume that they were other knights she hadn’t met yet. Next to each of the names was a brief description that was quick to mention what their Power was. The reporter didn’t come out and say that a bunch of Actives were trying to take over the government, but he sure did manage to insinuate it.
Four of the knights were sitting around a table in the big diner inside the air station. The other two were sitting at opposite ends of the counter, with Mr. Bolander having to sit way over in the Coloreds section. That really bothered Faye, since Mr. Bolander was smart as anybody else and perfectly nice, but he seemed resigned to it.
Mr. Bryce had sat by the door to keep an eye on who came and went, watching people over the top of his newspaper. That seemed smart. Faye decided that she’d better learn to start thinking like a fugitive. Those two men had come from the same group of east coast Grimnoir, just as Whisper and Ian had come from the same group that worked somewhere in Europe.
“Anything else?” Ian asked.
“Only if you read between the lines,” Mr. Browning answered patiently. “We know they’re aware of Francis, but they fail to mention him here. They know more than they are releasing to the press. How much more is the question.”
“Is this an attempt to rattle us?” Whisper asked. Faye loved how Whisper spoke English. It was like you took all the S sounds and held onto them just a little too long. It seemed rather mysterious. When she wasn’t so busy trying to save the world, Faye decided she would have to go and visit Paris sometime.
“I believe so. I recognize a few of these other names. All knights, and all with some measure of public success. Dan Garrett, for example, is remembered by many from his radio days. Dr. Rosenstein is a prestigious surgeon in Chicago. Or they have a distinguishing physical feature, such as young Faye. In short, these are knights that will be recognized by the public.”
The waitress brought their food. Faye immediately dug into her plate of hash browns and eggs. She was starving. Mr. Browning reached under the table and touched her knee gently. At first she’d thought that she’d had yet another breech of polite-folk manners—of which she was still trying to figure out all the many little details—but when she glanced up, Mr. Browning just looked her in the eye and tilted his head down slightly. Huh? Mr. Browning closed his eyes for just a moment too long, then nodded toward the door. A policeman had come into the cafe.
Her grey eyes . . . Of course. The newspaper had said she was a Traveler. Everybody knew Travelers had grey eyes, and since Travelers were so very rare anyways, a young female Traveler would stand out especially bad. Faye kept her head down, and went on eating in the most non-suspicious way possible, which was more difficult than it sounded.
The policeman sat on a stool two seats over from Mr. Bryce and loudly ordered a coffee. Mr. Bryce, who struck Faye as a particularly dangerous man, subtly kept one eye on the policeman even while he appeared to be focused on eating his pancakes. The cafe was crowded enough that their table of four did not stand out, but Mr. Browning lowered his voice anyway. “Things are more complicated than we suspected.”
“Somebody from the Minotaur is bound to remember her as soon as they read this,” Ian suggested. “They’ll be watching the air stations now. We need to get out of here.”
Mr. Browning nodded. “You are correct, sir . . . Faye, there is really no need to inhale your food. Finish as you normally would.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled with a very full mouth.
“We will procure automobiles and split up. I shall continue on to Florida to research the identity of the assassin. Mr. Bryce will accompany me because he is a trained criminal investigator. The rest of you will rendezvous with Mr. Talon in Virginia.”
That made Faye uncomfortable. She didn’t know these new knights very well, and in particular really didn’t like Ian much at all. That was an awful long time to be stuck in a car with somebody that thought Harkeness and Rawls were heroes . . . Not murdering Ian for that long might be really hard. “Me too?”
“Yes, my dear. I would love the pleasure of your company, but I believe that taking one of the individuals on the persons of interest list to the scene of the crime would be unwise. Besides, with all of these dealings with Iron Guards, your rather direct abilities will certainly be of much greater value to Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Talon.”
That made her proud. Nobody was better at killing Imperium than Sally Faye Vierra.
“This should be pleasant.” Whisper rummaged through her enormous purse for a moment until she found a pair of sunglasses. She passed the cheaters to Faye under the table. “I for one enjoy a good road trip.”
Unknown Location
As always, his nightmares were of zombies.
The memories would haunt him forever. The death madness consumed even the best of men eventually, until they were nothing more than ravenous maniacs, driven only by pain that could not end and a hunger that could never be sated. His bad dreams were always of the chase, running through the crumbling alleys and broken buildings, hiding in sewers and crawlspaces, sleeping precariously on ledges where the undead could not cross without waking him, for if he were not careful in picking where to lay his head, then he would surely be awoken by teeth.
A boy had to be clever if he expected to survive for long in Dead City. He must be quick to decide and even quicker to act. Yet, his every move must be tempered with wisdom, because in the decaying hell that had been Berlin, one wrong choice would be your last. Always outnumbered, but never outwitted, he had grown to manhood in the festering pit. Only the smartest of the living lasted long inside the confines of the Berlin Wall, and the greatest compliment that could be given amongst them was survivor.
And Heinrich Koenig was a survivor.
He woke up chained to a wall but could not remember how he’d gotten there. Steel shackles encircled his wrists. Shackles meant nothing to a Fade, but when Heinrich tried to go grey, to drift the molecules of his body through his bindings, nothing happened. His Power was there, but it would not answer to him.
Curious.
Heinrich took stock of his surroundings. The room was windowless and constructed of crumbling brick. A single weak bulb hung from the low ceiling. It was very dark. There was a single door made of thick boards and the hinges were on the other side. There was no door knob on his side. He tested the chains. They were substantial and went through holes that had been cut in the wall. When he tugged, there was no give. The chains were solidly anchored on the other side.
He was not afraid. It was not that he was fearless, but Heinrich was too methodical to spare the time necessary to dwell on fear.
Next, he took a physical inventory. His body ached, especially his head. The skin on his face and hands felt as if he had been sunburned. He was hungry, thirsty, and nauseous, as if he had been administered narcotics. His clothing smelled burned, and upon closer examination he could see where the grey fabric of his suit and trousers had been singed and blackened. His Grimnoir ring was missing. That ring meant a lot to him. Whoever had taken it would regret doing so.
Trying his Power again only succeeded in making his headache worse. He did not feel as if a ward of weakness had been drawn on him, so something else had to be going on. He tried to remember how he’d wound up shackled to a wall and drew a blank. The last thing he remembered was talking to Francis while waiting for the President to show up . . .Then there had been explosions. Yes. Now I remember. It had been a Boomer, stronger than any he had ever heard of, in the plaza killing many. Heinrich swore under his breath as it all came back. He had saved Francis by Fading through the shrapnel, then run to save the President. He had reached the injured man, taken his hand, and dropped them both through the stairs. They had come out in the boiler room, but then there had been another flash of light . . . That was all he could recall.
There was a clank as the door was unlocked. A lone man. The door was closed behind him, and as he leaned in the shadows of the far wall, he removed a pack of cigarettes from his black suit coat. “You’re awake. Good. Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Koenig. You can call me Crow.”
Heinrich’s throat was so dry that it hurt to speak. “Unchain me and I will gladly shake your hand.”
“And wring my neck. Your reputation precedes you. You don’t need magic to be dangerous. You were some sort of Dead City street urchin. You’ve fought zombies, Soviets, Cossacks, and Imperium, but somehow you’re still around to talk about it. You got some mileage on you, kid. I seen it before. Old man’s eyes in a young man’s face. Being a Fade is like putting the cherry on top of a murder sundae. Those chains stay on.”
“Why is my magic not working?”
“Well I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell, since the sooner you realize you’re stuck, the sooner you’ll cooperate. This facility is protected by a device that nullifies magic. Strictly temporary of course. It only works while the machine is running. It makes it so that the Power can’t hook up with you.”
Crow seemed remarkably forthcoming, a sure sign that Heinrich would be killed as soon as he was no longer of use. “What do you want with me?”
“I want to talk to you about the Grimnoir Society.”
“I do not know this thing you speak of.”
“Spare me the lies, Fade. I’m familiar with your little club and my assignment is to destroy it.”
This man knew much. “Torture me all you want, I have nothing to say.”
“Too late. You already sang. Usually those truth serums don’t work so good, but couple a sodium-thiopental drip, remarkable new invention that stuff is, with a few Readers picking through your brains for a whole day, and I got what I needed.”
It was possible. He could not remember. “You are a liar.”
All Heinrich could see of the man’s face was the small bit illuminated by the striking of a match. Crow was smiling. His teeth were yellow. The teeth disappeared as he cupped his hand and lit his cigarette. “The Grimnoir play it close to the vest. We figure there are maybe three or four dozen of you in the country, but you only know the ones you work with. After you immigrated, you answered only to Black Jack Pershing. John Browning, who didn’t have a fatal heart attack, was his number two. The remaining members of your group are that safari hunter, Lance Talon, Francis Stuyvesant the industrialist, Heavy Jake Sullivan, a Traveler named Faye Vierra, and Dan and Jane Garrett . . . You know I used to listen to his radio show? The man was good. He could do like a million voices. Amazing talent, that guy.”
“Leave them be,” Heinrich said. “Or you will regret it.”
“That’s some big talk for a snitch. You gave up a few of the others outside your particular group, too. They’re all out there, thinking they’re doing the Lord’s work or some such nonsense. I got twenty names out of you, mostly here in the states, and then you blabbed about your old pals in Germany. But they’re not my problem. Twenty names . . . Twenty living, I should clarify. You gave us plenty of the dead ones. You boys have one hell of a casualty rate.”
Heinrich saved his anger. He was examining his options and coming up with nothing. Killing this man would be very satisfying, but he could see no way to accomplish that in his current situation.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m so interested in your friends.”
“Not really. I assumed you were Imperium swine.”
“Ha! That’s a good one. I wouldn’t work for the yellow peril. I bleed red, white, and blue. I even fought you tricky magic krauts back in the Great War. No, see, me and my organization are supposed to clean up your kind. You Actives think you’re so much better than regular folks. I’m the law. Things need to change and people like you would gum up the works. You Actives won’t be happy until you take over. Some of our elected officials didn’t have the guts to do what needed to be done. Except as soon as you Grimnoir tried to murder President Roosevelt, that all changed.”
“That is ridiculous. I tried to save the man, not kill him.”
“I know! You should be getting a medal, not rotting under OCI headquarters. Heh, just between you and me, I know you Grimnoir didn’t do it. We’ve already got conclusive evidence upstairs.” Crow blew out a perfect smoke ring. It hung under the single light bulb. “But nobody in charge is going to see that evidence until I’m done cleaning house. I’m sure as hell not going to let a good crisis go to waste. My office just got a blank check to do whatever we needed to do to get you people under control. You know how rare that kind of pass is? In a little while, congress will go back to getting cold feet and fretting about overstepping its bounds, but by then it’ll be too late for your kind.”
Heinrich had told Francis that Actives were going to end up caged like dangerous dogs. This was a terrible time to be proven right. He studied this new threat, trying to understand what he was up against. Something about Crow’s eyes were wrong in the dark. The glow of the cigarette reflected in them a little too well. “You talk of controlling Actives . . . Yet you are one of us. No?”
The interrogator’s posture changed the slightest bit. Crow’s voice was imperceptibly different when he responded. “Me? Magical? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It makes you uncomfortable, this place? Not being in contact with the Power? I know that I do not like it already. Working here must be very challenging for you.”
“You got all the answers, kraut? You talk a lot for a man in chains.”
“You speak of Actives as if we are a different species, but you know this is not true. You are very good at playing a part. I assume you wanted me to think of you as a true believer on a moral crusade. I wonder what you expected to gain from that.”
The cigarette ash nodded up and down. “Oh, you’re good.”
“Yes, I am, and the good always win in the end. I would very much like for you to remember that as I choke the life from your body.”
Crow banged on the door. It was opened for him a moment later. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Koenig. Be seeing you.” The door closed behind him. Then the small light was shut off, leaving the prisoner in the dark.
Curious indeed. Heinrich went back to testing his chains.
Crow found the OCI’s audio technician in the next room. “Did you get that?”
“It should sound nice and clear.”
“Excellent. I want the tape to start at where I first mention the Grimnoir. Then cut it off right after I say that it’ll be too late for his kind. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Crow. I can do that.”
So far these Grimnoir had impressed him, they were a tenacious bunch, but their loyalty to each other and their cause made them vulnerable. This was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. “Call me when the recording is ready.”
Bell Farm, Virginia
Sullivan woke up sore. Jane’s magic was miraculous and all, but it would have been nice if the pain didn’t linger on afterwards. There was no longer a rib sticking in his lung, but it sure felt like there was. That Iron Guard had damn near punched a hole through him. He had fallen through a train car once and it hadn’t hurt that bad. He and that particular Brute son of a bitch were going to meet again, Sullivan was sure of it.
The two-story, eighty-year old safe house was on an abandoned farm thirty miles southwest of the Imperium compound. It was in the middle of nowhere, didn’t have electricity or indoor plumbing, and was frankly a dump, but Jane had bought plenty of groceries the day before; there was a pump, an outhouse, a wood stove, a barn to hide their cars in, spells carved into the walls to thwart Finders, and the beds didn’t seem to have fleas.
Opening the moth-eaten curtains, Sullivan discovered that it was an overcast, grey day, and it was hard to estimate the time without the sun. His belly told him it felt like lunchtime, but burning Power that hard always made him extra hungry. He found his watch on the nightstand along with his holstered .45. Sure enough, it was nearly noon. It wasn’t often that he got to sleep in. Maybe I should get beat up by Brutes more often.
There was a polite knock on the door. That told him who it was. Dan would have knocked with more authority and Lance probably wouldn’t have bothered at all. Sullivan winced as he pulled his shirt on. “Coming, Jane.”
Once he let her in, the Healer examined him critically. She folded her arms, tilted her head, and scowled at his lungs. Sullivan had to admit that Jane Garrett was one good looking dame, blonde, tall, curvy, and somehow always incredibly neat. In their paint-peeling, dingy as sin surroundings, she was a ray of sunshine, though her bedside manner did leave something to be desired. She walked over and poked him hard in the side. “Hmmm . . . How does that feel?”
“Tender.” He was not used to a beautiful woman staring at him that intently, but he had to remind himself that to Healers like Jane, everybody looked like see-through bags of skin filled with blood and guts. It was one downside to the most popular of all Powers, but Jane insisted that she was used to it. “So how do I look?”
“Like a translucent blood sausage . . . So relatively normal.” She closed the door behind her. “We need to talk, Jake.”
This had been been brewing since she’d laid hands on him last night and discovered the new spells. There were no chairs so he gestured at the bed. “Have a seat.” Then he went over and leaned on the window sill a respectful distance away. It wouldn’t be polite to sit on a bed next to a married woman. Jake Sullivan, despite what some might say, always tried to be a gentleman to those that deserved it. “I figure I know why you’re here. Let me say—”
“You are an idiot,” Jane snapped. Sullivan nodded. He’d predicted that response. “A damn fool idiot. Do you have any idea how dangerous carving magic onto yourself is?”
“I believe I do.”
“No. I don’t think so.” Jane was exasperated. She had been a child when the Harkeness family had come over from eastern Europe, but the more excited she got the more her heritage showed up in her pronunciation, accenting the wrong syllables. “The Society has been experimenting for decades, trying to get those horrid things to work right. Many foolish knights have died in horrible pain, while others became twisted and inhuman. Putting a spell onto metal or glass is one thing, putting one onto living flesh is different.”
“Yeah.” Sullivan chuckled. “The metal don’t scream while you do it. They really hurt when you bind them on.”
“Yes. I would imagine mutilating yourself with magic would . . . Why? Why would you risk that?”
He didn’t answer because Jane already knew the answer.
She folded her arms and glared at him. “Are you trying to become our version of an Iron Guard then? You expect to beat them at their own game?”
“I do.”
“Then you are an even bigger fool than I thought. The Iron Guard lose more of their humanity with each spell they take. They’re weapons, not people. They’re monsters!”
“My brother was a monster a real long time before he hooked up with the Japanese or got branded with a kanji, Jane. I ain’t Madi.”
“I . . . I did not mean . . .” Jane shut her mouth and turned red. Madi had soundly beaten them all and captured her. If they hadn’t come after her, Jane would either be an Imperium slave or a Unit 731 experiment, and they both knew it. “Of course. You are nothing like your brother. He was a beast. You are a decent man.”
“I wouldn’t go that far . . . Look, I know what I’ve done is dangerous. So what? It’s dangerous every time we face those bastards. I’ve seen the Power like nobody else has. That’s how come I can make this work. That’s why I have to make them work. Until we figure out how to match the Iron Guard, they’re going to keep on beating us. The only reason we rescued you off the Tokugawa was because the Chairman was too amused watching us fight until it was too late.”
“And I thank God every single day for what you all did for me, but—”
“But if I’d just been a little better before . . .” Sullivan trailed off. “Never mind.”
“You’re thinking of Delilah?”
He couldn’t answer. Sullivan stood up and looked out the window at the dead grey fields. “Maybe.”
“Jake! Her death was not your fault.”
“Not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself if I could’ve done something more.”
Jane wouldn’t let it go. “I don’t think she’d want to see you killing yourself trying to avenge her.”
“Delilah’s dead. She don’t get a vote.”
“Risking your life won’t bring her back.”
“Of course it won’t. It ain’t like that . . . It’s . . . Shit. Never mind.” She could never understand. Her Power fixed people. His Power broke people. The only good thing he could accomplish in this world was breaking those that needed it, and one of the times he’d really needed it, he hadn’t been strong enough to get the job done. “I’m not stupid, Jane.”
“Could have fooled me. I see four working spells bound to your body, and two other attempts that did not stick. Grisly work.”
“You can tell just by looking?”
Jane gave a resigned sigh. “Four are alive with magic. Two are simply scar tissue. So which one of my over-exuberant and dangerously naive colleagues assisted you in this foolishness? Was it Heinrich? He was certainly crazy enough to try.”
“No, but he wanted the same one for Healing that I figured out after Faye shot me in the heart. I’ve done a couple of those now. It’s actually not too hard. No, I didn’t have help. I carved these on my own.”
“You did what?”
He had created them by himself with only a memory of the Power’s geometries, a steady hand, a sharp knife, some Summoned smoke, whiskey to dull the pain, and a mirror so he could see his own chest while he worked. “You’d be surprised what a man can accomplish with a little motivation. Hard part is doing it backwards in the mirror.”
“You’re insane.”
“Huh?” Sullivan laughed and returned to sitting on the windowsill. “Maybe. Not like there’s a lot of sanity to spare in this outfit. Sane folks don’t go around poking the Imperium in the eye. Look, Jane, something big is coming. I can feel it in my bones. Maybe it’s this scout creature, maybe it’s the big Enemy it serves, maybe it’s just the winds of change blowing. Hell, I don’t rightly know . . . But whatever it is, I’m going to be as ready as I can be.”
Jane was staring at him again. “You’re wearing three of those Healing spells.”
“That’s the first one I learned. Figured I’d practice it a few more times before trying it on anyone else. There seems to be a point of diminishing returns though. Each one of the same kind feels like it does a little less. Madi said he had five of these, so I’m assuming that’s the max, but you saw how damn hard he was to put down.”
“Cutting him in half seemed to do the trick.” Jane actually gave a little smile. “Served him right. What’s that other one?”
“This?” Sullivan touched a spot on his left side. “I don’t rightly know. Found the design in a box of Cracker Jacks, figured I’d slap it on and see what happened.”
“Jake!”
“I’m kidding.” He opened his shirt and showed off the intricate scar. “That’s what the area of the Power that affects gravitation looks like.” Through years of determined practice, Sullivan already had a better connection to the Power than most, and had even blurred the lines between his abilities into other areas of the Power. The latest mark had been an experiment in pushing those boundaries even further. “It was an experiment. Seemed to increase my reserves, and I think it made my magic a little stronger.”
“You think? That’s reassuring.”
His stomach rumbled. “You going to keep yelling at me? Because if you are we can do it over lunch just as easy.”
“You Heavies are always hungry . . . Such large men with such rapid metabolisms, it is understandable.” Jane shook her head sadly. “I know why you are doing this to yourself. Men like Madi cannot be allowed to win. If the rest of us are willing to risk our lives to stop that, then why should I expect less from you . . . Fine. Would you please just promise me that you won’t do any more of these?”
“I never give my word when I don’t intend to keep it. So no. I’ll do whatever I think is necessary. If that means more binding, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Jane frowned. “Not that I want to encourage this madness, but how about you don’t do any more stupid and potentially lethal experiments on yourself, without me, your Healer, there to keep your heart from exploding?”
“I can agree to that . . . If it’s possible, you can help keep me from dying.” Besides, Jane didn’t need to know it, but it had become increasingly difficult to come back from each new spell. He was nervous about trying any more without a Healer around anyway. “Do me a favor though. Don’t tell anybody what I’ve done. The others don’t need to know.”
“You don’t want them to worry? Why, I’m rather surprised.”
“Not really. I don’t want anybody to get stupid and try to copy me. Can you imagine Francis trying to give himself Brute strength?”
She laughed. “Or Faye, wanting to mind control milk cows or some such thing . . .” Jane got off the bed, strode over, and offered him her hand. “Shake on it.”
He took her delicate hand in his big mitt. It was a soft hand, a Healer’s hand, but she gave him a remarkably firm handshake. “Deal.”
New York City, New York
The office of the president of United Blimp & Freight was on the top floor of the Chrysler Building. The meeting that had been called was of the utmost secrecy. The palatial room had been carefully swept for listening devices, both magical and mechanical, and wards had been placed to chase away any Finder’s spirits that might be lingering around. The only other man present was his single most trustworthy employee, mostly because of his opinionated and contrarian nature. They had spent the first ten minutes discussing mundane business matters, mostly so his secretary could type up some minutes before he dismissed her. He couldn’t assume that OCI didn’t have some means of getting into his papers. Francis wasn’t taking any chances.
The UBF Vice President of Finance polished off the whiskey that his boss had poured for him, set the glass down on the antique executive desk nowhere near the coaster, and held up one hand in protest. “Hold on, Francis . . .” Then Mr. Chandler thought better of it, and pulled the glass back over to pour himself another from the bottle. The ice cubes hadn’t even had a chance to melt from the first round. “You want me to do what?”
Francis leaned way back in his grandfather’s stuffed leather chair and folded his hands behind his head. Experience had taught him that if he leaned back too far he’d find himself on the floor, but luckily he had never done that in front of witnesses. “I’m fairly sure you heard me the first time.”
“I’d just hoped that I’d hallucinated the whole thing.” Chandler swirled Kentucky’s finest around in the glass and held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window. “You’re talking about sabotaging a government agency during a time of national crisis.”
“I’m not doing anything illegal, which is more than I can say for them. Besides, I’m only asking for your help with the business part. The overall strategy . . . Well, it’s probably best if you’ve got no idea what I’m trying to do.”
“When they’re beating a confession out of me, I’ll be sure to state that extra clearly. So, to make sure I’ve got this straight . . . You want me to find a secret company that makes a secret product, that nobody knows exists and has apparently never been publicized or advertised . . . and buy it. All while never letting anybody anywhere know that you’re the one doing the buying or the snooping.”
“That’s a fair representation,” Francis answered. He was rather proud of his idea. John had asked him to stay put and out of contact for everyone’s safety, but he hadn’t said anything about not helping out. “Think you can handle it?”
“I’m an accountant, not a detective.” Chandler downed his second glass and sighed before continuing. “Though that is a fascinating career field. Hell, I do enjoy a challenge. I suppose I’m game.”
Francis had figured his man would be in. Chandler wasn’t Grimnoir, didn’t have a lick of magic, and owed Francis no loyalty beyond his rather hefty salary. But it was a rare accountant that would volunteer for a gunfight on the Imperium flagship, so his volunteering to stick it to the OCI wasn’t a surprise. “You can’t let anyone find out what you’re up to. They’ll probably be watching.” The OCI had been tailing him everywhere since he’d gotten back to New York, and frankly doing an embarrassing job of it, since they were so easy to spot. “It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? One of them sucker punched a billionaire and got away with it.”
“Millionaire,” Francis corrected. Grandfather had been the billionaire. Between the board putting the screws to him and the UBF stock taking a hit because Francis had told the Imperium where to stick their gold, he was only a millionaire. Though to be fair, it was a lot of millions.
“Yeah, whatever. I prepare the financials, remember? Then this OCI guy waltzed out of jail, and your legion of lawyers can’t even prove the man ever existed. Oh, believe me. I’ll be extra careful.” Chandler freed himself from the too-cushioned chair and headed straight for the door like a man on a mission. “I’ve got a few ideas to start with. Your grandfather liked to collect companies like they were stamps. We’ve got a couple small ones that aren’t doing much of anything interesting. I think somebody is about to get a nice infusion of operating capital. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chandler,” Francis said with all sincerity.
He smirked. “No, thank you, Mr. Stuyvesant. You somehow always manage to keep this job interesting.”
After his accountant had left, Francis got up and walked to the window. The view of the city, from what had recently been his grandfather’s office, was spectacular. The old man’s guilty dying wish had installed Francis here, and he’d fought tooth and nail to keep it that way. Luckily, enough of the board had thought that it was easier to keep him around as a controllable figurehead than to fight, but he’d managed to surprise and outmaneuver most of them. Francis had worked hard for that view.
A considerable sum of money had brought a Healer in to repair his arm and his face, but his pride still stung from the beating Crow had administered. The whole thing was shameful. Not that Francis hadn’t been hurt before, quite the contrary, he’d been shot, stabbed, crashed in a dirigible, and nearly drowned as a knight, but it was one thing to get manhandled by an Imperium warrior, it was something entirely different to be humiliated by a supposed public servant.
It wasn’t enough that Crow had hurt him physically, it was the insinuation that he was some sort of traitor to his country. He had risked his life to keep his country from being destroyed by a Peace Ray! Who were they to accuse him of treason? Francis had cultivated a public persona of being a spoiled rich brat, but it irked him even more to have that lorded over him by some thug. Now he was reduced to hiding in his office behind a protective wall of lawyers when he should have been out there doing something. Black Jack would have expected more from him. Heinrich certainly wouldn’t have sat around while the Grimnoir were being framed.
Several of his friends were wanted like common criminals. Even Faye had shown up in the papers. Faye! She was about the sweetest, kindest, most innocent, gentle . . . Well, not really. She was about as gentle as a bag of agitated rattlesnakes, but he was really fond of her, and she certainly didn’t deserve to have her name tarnished by a bunch of propaganda artists.
Frankly, the whole thing made Francis very angry.
And there was nothing more dangerous that an angry millionaire with an ax to grind.
Fairfax County, Virginia
His nightmares were swift and violent, filled with disjointed images of flashing steel and spraying blood. The enemy scout was ruthless and cunning. Okubo, the legendary ronin, led the final charge against the beast and its created legions. Hundreds of their order had died, yet in the end, the warriors of Dark Ocean prevailed.
The sun had long since risen on a new day.
The Chairman had not yet responded. Iron Guard Toru had dutifully delivered his report concerning the death of Ambassador Hattori and the escape of the Grimnoir to one of the Chairman’s personal staff. Before the link had been severed, Toru had been informed that the Chairman wished to give him further orders. So Toru had stayed on his knees, meditating in front of the mirror. Staying awake had been a struggle. Eventually the fatigue of his injuries and magic usage had finally rendered him unconscious. He woke up still on his knees, innocent blood on his hands, and Hattori’s memories in his mind.
All Iron Guard were taught about their brothers’ magical skills. A Reader had the ability, not just to receive, but to send messages and images through a mental link. Sending was very draining and took considerable Power. Considering the vast amount of memories that Hattori had shown him, it must have taken every last bit of Power his teacher had to accomplish such a feat, especially while ritually disemboweling himself. Toru’s admiration for his mentor could not be higher.
The memories were centered around the secretive group known as Dark Ocean and their battle against the predator that had come for the Power. Dark Ocean had been a tight knit group, and since they had been gathered during Okubo Tokugawa’s wanderings, they were not all Japanese. Toru had not been taught that during his training.
However, the creature was just as wretched as he had been taught at the Iron Guard academy and the Chairman had been every bit as fearsome in man’s defense. He was extremely thankful that his father was there to protect the world from such horrors. Truly, if it had not been for him, this would be a dead world. Once again, Toru was reminded what an honor it was to have been conceived by the greatest warrior of all time.
A few of Hattori’s personal memories, his impoverished youth, and times with family, lovers, and friends, had come over as well, but Toru did his best to ignore those private things, though it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate his memories from Hattori’s, they had become so fully meshed together.
It was a mystery why Hattori had seen fit to bestow these things to him. The glories were not his own, and he was therefore unworthy of having them. To further complicate matters, he also knew without a doubt that Hattori had been innocent. His love for the Chairman was unsurpassed. In one respect, Toru knew he had violated the Chairman’s orders. He had been told not to speak to Hattori, yet his teacher had shared something more personal than mere words.
Toru decided that he would ask the Chairman for his opinion on the matter, and if Toru had condemned himself through his foolishness, then so be it. He would have to die. Iron Guards did not fear death. They lived for death. Or so it was taught, and Toru was careful never to admit to himself any doubts or unease about the philosophy. The best an Iron Guard could hope for was that when they met their inevitable end it had somehow brought glory to the Imperium. Sadly, the Chairman would more than likely order his death for letting the Grimnoir escape, which was a shameful and embarrassing way to die.
The mirror remained silent.
Much time had passed. He was very hungry, yet dared not be away from the mirror. Iron Guards were familiar with fasting. He could do it for days if necessary. Toru attempted to meditate, but Dark Ocean kept intruding. There was something there, nagging at him. Something he was failing to grasp. His legs were impossibly cramped, but still he waited obediently.
A knock at his door broke his concentration. It was the captain of the guard.
“Any word from the Finder?” Perhaps if he could still destroy those Grimnoir, he could find redemption.
“No, Iron Guard. There has been no sign. There is a representative of the American government here to speak with you. As you commanded, I said that the Ambassador had passed on due to a heart attack, but they are insistent.”
“Send them away,” Toru growled. He had no time for political games.
“It is concerning the events with the Grimnoir.”
His leg muscles burned as he stood. “Stay here. Should a link be established, seek me out immediately.”
“Yes, Iron Guard.” The captain bowed.
The American was waiting at the gate house. He was surprised to see that it was a female. She was tall and bulky by the delicate standards set by Imperium women, but he could see how to a westerner she could be attractive. The natural inclination of an Imperium man was to underestimate women, but Toru had worked in the west too long to make that mistake. The woman carried herself with the confidence of someone who had seen conflict. She was wearing a plain skirt, a white shirt, no jewelry or any other material affectations, and an overcoat large enough to easily conceal weapons. She looked very tired, as if she had not slept recently, and in normal times diplomatic etiquette would have demanded that he offer refreshment. These were not normal times, so he just wanted to get rid of her as quickly as possible.
“I am Toru Tokugawa of the Imperium Diplomatic Corps.”
“Ms. Hammer. I’ve been deputized by the Office of Coordinator of Information.”
Ah, their new secret police. But why come here, and alone? No witnesses, of course. Certainly, it was yet another American poking around, meddling uselessly in affairs beyond their understanding, eager to sell information. This was a relatively common occurrence, since it was common knowledge that the Imperium paid for information in large quantities of gold. Like swine, only rooting for bribes instead of food, Americans were obnoxiously quick to sell out their masters.
Yet, it would not hurt to develop another source within this new agency. “What do you want?”
“Information leading to the capture of Jake Sullivan.”
That caught Toru off guard. “Who?”
“You know the name. Please don’t lie to me. It’s a waste of both our time. Sullivan came through this very gate less than twenty-four hours ago. Then it got ugly.”
“How do you know that?”
“Intuition . . . And what looks like a big scorch mark on your wall over there, and the place still smells like smoke.”
This was an intriguing development. “Please, come in, Ms. Hammer.”
The guards opened the gate for them. He led her along the gravel path toward the Imperium house. “I heard that your ambassador had a heart attack. My condolences.”
“I heard that your president had been blown up. Now you have my condolences. As your people would say, we are even.”
Hammer paused to study the obviously damaged roof of the mansion. “Lot of things going on this week. Is that Sullivan’s work?”
“Why are you looking for this Sullivan?”
“He’s a known member of a criminal organization known as the Grimnoir Society, wanted for questioning in relation to the assassination attempt on President Roosevelt, and a suspect in the shooting of four federal agents. A warrant has been issued for his arrest.”
As a man of action rather than words, Toru had not liked his initial posting to the diplomatic corps, but he had learned Master Hattori’s lessons well. Her discomfort and the way she looked away as she spoke suggested that she was lying, but not about searching for the Grimnoir. That much was true. “As you said, please do not lie to me. It is a waste of both our time. What are the real reasons you are looking for him?”
This Hammer obviously did not like being caught in her untruths. “He’s a wanted man. Whether he did the things he’s wanted for or not isn’t my business. My business is finding him. That’s all.”
“What will happen when he is found?”
She sighed. “I imagine the OCI will kill him.”
Toru would much have preferred to kill the Heavy himself, but anything that harried the Grimnoir was fine by him. “I can say nothing about what brought him here, or what transpired while he was on Imperium grounds . . . Yet, I assume that you have some sort of Power related to accomplishing your mission?”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Let’s just say that I know he didn’t leave by that front gate. Show me where he got out and I can pick it up from there.”
The Grimnoir rings bore a spell that made tracking them with spirits very difficult. The spirit had to have them in visual contact, and even then, it took an extremely talented Finder or Summoner to bring in a spirit capable of accomplishing such a feat. “You do not strike me as a Summoner.”
“I’m not. Just show me his trail.”
If she was telling the truth, that meant that she probably would not be alerted if he were to have a spirit follow her. There was one Finder amongst the marines, but his creatures had thus far been unable to locate the Grimnoir. If this woman could somehow track them though . . . The possibility was intriguing. “Very well. Come this way.” They would walk around the property to the back wall. There was no need for her to see the shame of the damage.
Hammer had begun to ask another question, but froze, and then let out a shriek when she saw the front of the mansion. He followed her gaze to see what was the matter. The car that he had flipped was still on its roof. Of course, it was a very large car, and none of the men had even a fraction of his strength. They’d dragged it over so that it was no longer blocking the drive, but they’d need to have a truck come to remove it. He would have cleaned that up himself if he hadn’t been waiting by the mirror. The captain would be reprimanded for Toru’s displeasure, though to be fair, the captain had been left with quite the mess to repair. “I am sorry for the display.”
The woman’s hands curled into fists. She seemed to be experiencing difficulty controlling her emotions. “What? What the—That’s—” Hammer was so livid that she was having a hard time forming the words. “That’s my car!” She turned back to him. “Sullivan stole my car. That’s my car!”
Toru found that humorous, but it would not have been fitting for an Iron Guard to display mirth before a stranger, so he restrained himself to just a polite nod. Even if his Finder could follow this woman to Sullivan, perhaps he should let her have the first crack at the Heavy. That would be especially amusing.
