The breathless way she spoke made him pause. His finely attuned sense of danger had begun to blare an alarm. “Who is it?” he asked, smiling broadly.
“Lazarus Gray! He’s here with two of his aides from Assistance Unlimited!”
“You don’t say…”
“He’s right over there,” she said, pointing towards a raised set of tables, normally reserved for VIPs. “Do you want me to introduce you?”
The Darkling pulled away from her, giving a brief shake of his head. “I’ll do it myself, Betty.” Taking note of the look of disappointment in her eyes, he added, “I’ll buy you a drink later.”
He slid through the crowd, somehow managing to avoid contact with almost everyone. He looked at home here, as his masquerade demanded, but in truth he found this sort of extravagance disturbing. There were men and women starving in the streets, yet these revelers squandered money like it were water.
Lazarus was seated at a table with his companions from the evening prior: both of whom The Darkling recognized. He had made it his business to know as much as possible about all those who might cross his path. Morgan Watts and Abby Cross were both dressed to the nines, flirting shamelessly with one another as part of their cover. Lazarus was not quite as skilled when it came to deception — he was too obvious in the way his eyes scanned the crowd, examining the faces around him.
The Darkling wondered how they had come to be here. It was one of his primary hangouts in the city, particularly when he wore the identity of Harold Grant. Surely it wasn’t coincidence that Lazarus would be here, just one night after meeting The Darkling?
Pausing just short of the table, The Darkling adopted a broad grin and cleared his throat. Lazarus turned his attention to him immediately, obviously surprised that he hadn’t noticed the man approaching. Abby and Morgan both sat back, regarding him curiously.
“Lazarus Gray. Such an incredible honor! My name is…”
“Harold Grant. I’ve seen you in the papers.”
“Oh, my!” The Darkling laughed in the vacuous way that people associated with Grant. “To think you know who I am! You know, I play at being an adventurer but you… you’re the real deal.” He gestured around at the crowd, many of whom were openly gawking at Sovereign City’s finest. “What brings you to the Odyssey Club?”
“Have you ever been to Tibet, Mr. Grant?”
The Darkling paused, calling upon all his skills to keep his face calm. “I have, yes. Several times. And yourself?”
“Yes. On my last visit, I met a Lama who specialized in causing confusion to the minds of those around him. His name was Tenzin.”
The Darkling exhaled, his smile never wavering. “That’s a common name among Tibetans. The first Dalai Lama was named Tenzin.”
“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Grant?”
The Darkling sat facing Lazarus, with Morgan and Abby on either side of him. “You never told me what brings you here,” he said, trying to seize control of the conversation.
“This.” Lazarus tossed the matchbook cover onto the table. “I found it last night after confronting a man who called himself The Darkling. He exhibited signs of having been trained by Tenzin.”
“Curious. And you think this Darkling character frequents the club?”
“Perhaps.”
“So, tell me,” The Darkling waved away a waitress who had approached. “Am I the only one getting the quiz about Tenzin tonight?”
“No one else here would be likely to have information about The Darkling. You have a unique position in this environment — not only are you familiar with the abilities exhibited by our quarry but you’re also familiar with the people that frequent the club.” Lazarus had this manner of speaking, Darkling had noticed, that would have proven quite unnerving to most men. His eyes rarely blinked and his face remained stoic, rendering his voice monotone. It was an almost hypnotic effect.
The Darkling spread his arms wide. “Well, it’s a good thing that I stopped in tonight! I am at your disposal.”
Abby took a sip of her drink and asked, “Have you heard of The Darkling?”
“Yes, though it’s all been rumor to this point. They say he’s been active for a couple of years. Some say he’s a hero, to others he’s a villain.”
“And what do you think he is?” Abby wondered aloud, a smile touching her lips. The Darkling was well aware of the girl’s beauty and the way she leaned forward, prominently displaying her cleavage. But he wasn’t enticed. He had long ago said goodbye to sexual urges. He had mastered them, as he had every other emotion that could keep him from his appointed task.
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered. “It seems to me that some of the people he’s going after are criminals — so that must be a good thing.”
“And what if he’s not sticking to just crime lords and their gunmen?” Morgan inquired. “What if he’s hurting innocent people along the way?”
“No one’s innocent,” The Darkling said. His smile remained fixed but his eyes grew serious. “But I see where you’re going. If he were harming regular Joes, that wouldn’t be acceptable.”
Lazarus placed a palm down on the tabletop. “I researched the Odyssey Club,” he said and The Darkling shifted in his seat, wondering how long this little song and dance was going to last. “It seems that you’re one of the owners.”
“Minority owner,” The Darkling clarified.
“Did you know that there are listening devices planted all over the building? Or were they installed by one of the majority owners?”
The Darkling looked away, his expression hardening. When he looked back at the trio before him, Abby audibly gasped. Though he still wore the face of Harold Grant, his entire demeanor was now different. And when he spoke, the voice that came from his throat was huskier and filled with an undertone of violence. “How did you know?” he asked.
Lazarus gave a small shrug. “Like I said, I looked into the club and found your name in association with it. Given your penchant for travel, I put two and two together. What would be the odds of two members of this club having the opportunity to learn the mental disciplines shown by The Darkling?”
The Darkling nodded slowly, pleased with the realization that Lazarus still thought that he was dealing with Harold Grant. “So what do we do now?”
Morgan cleared his throat, gesturing with his head towards the ground. One of Morgan’s hands was under the table and The Darkling heard the telltale sound of a pistol being cocked. “Now you tell us everything we want to know or you’re going to become a eunuch.”
“Please don’t threaten me,” The Darkling warned. “I could be out of this chair and gone before you fired the first bullet.”
“Want to test that?”
Lazarus placed a hand on his aide’s arm. “Morgan. Enough. We don’t want a fight here.”
The Darkling sat back, crossing his legs. He looked quite casual and any observer would have thought that he was doing nothing more than chatting amiably about the weather or some other innocuous topic. “Ask away.”
“Who are you working for?”
“I told you last night: I don’t work for anyone. I’m after those demonic bones for my own purposes — not Hitler’s nor anyone else’s. Why do you want them?”
“The government has asked us to keep them out of Germany’s grasp.”
“They just want to utilize it for themselves.”
“That’s better than Hitler having it,” Morgan pointed out.
“One man’s tyrant is another’s champion.”
“Are you defending the Führer?” Morgan asked in disbelief. “Listen, we have a former S.S. officer on our team. Some of the things he’s told about what’s going on over there would boil your blood.”