“I have served you well!” Geist shouted, trying to shift into his ghostly form. Something was wrong, however, and despite the flickering of his skin, he remained solid.
“If you live, there’s a chance that Assistance Unlimited could uncover the fact that you are a double agent in my employ. But should you die — as a filthy Nazi should — then there will never be any doubt that we are not affiliated!” The Darkling drew forth twin automatics. “Do you like the specially formulated gas? It inhibits your powers, in addition to causing unconsciousness in normal men and women.”
“Nein!” Geist shouted, turning to flee. The bullets tore into the back of his skull, splattering the walls with blood and gray matter.
For a moment, The Darkling remained where he was, waiting until his pistols were no longer smoking. He holstered them and looked over the bodies before him. He recognized Sporrenberg, with his Aryan handsomeness and he thought about what Geist had said: ‘He refuses to admit it but I think he misses the purpose the military gave him.’
The Darkling nudged the German with his foot, rolling him over on to his back. He had recruited many men and women into his service over the years, mostly choosing them based upon some unexplainable feeling that possessed him.
He felt that strange kinship now.
Bending low, he grunted slightly as he lifted Sporrenberg’s body, settling him over his shoulder. The Darkling’s laughter resumed as he exited the home, finally fading into the distance. In his wake, he left a dead man and two slumbering heroes.
Lazarus Gray sat in the study that had belonged to Harold Grant, his fingers steepled in front of his chin. He could hear Abby and Morgan moving through the rest of the house, looking for clues, but he was certain that they would find none.
He now had the list of supposed owners of the devil’s body parts, but that was not his major concern. The Darkling was a foe unlike any other he had faced — more than just a physical match for Lazarus, he was a brilliant tactician as well. Lazarus had hoped to learn more about him by examining his home but those hopes had been quickly dashed. Though it was apparent that Harold Grant had slept here frequently, this was nothing more than a façade — another mask, like the one that had crumpled beneath Lazarus’ fists. This was not The Darkling’s true “home,” if such a thing even existed.
Harold Grant’s past was well documented, though much of it was now cast in doubt. But what kind of man was The Darkling? Since their second encounter, Lazarus had called upon all of his resources and they painted an unusual picture.
The first reference to The Darkling was in April 1931, though his appearances became more frequent as time passed. A spectral figure that haunted the New York underworld, The Darkling was alternately hailed as a hero by the downtrodden and as a merciless killer by those he hunted. Many in the underworld had become increasingly paranoid as rumors abounded that The Darkling had a network of agents infiltrating the highest echelons of both government and the mob.
As for The Darkling’s motivations, those seemed quite nebulous. Some people said he was no different than the criminals he killed, taking their loot and keeping it for himself. But others said that he had a perverse sense of morality, often going out of his way to help those who had hit skid row… and sometimes restoring not only their financial health but also their moral well being.
None of those who had supposedly been helped were easily found, however. It was all hearsay. Even the police were confused about The Darkling — some even going so far as to brand him some sort of urban myth, a bogeyman to frighten the hoods and crime lords.
Lazarus stood up, his eyes moving across the shelves. They were filled with books, most of which had obviously never been read. They looked as new as the ones that could be found in any upscale bookseller’s shop.
One particular volume, though, was different than the rest. The spine read The Rising of the Spirit and the top of the book looked worn, as if something had repetitively scuffed it in the same places.
Examining the book in close detail, Lazarus reached out and placed his fingers along the scuffed places. Sure enough, it felt like someone pressing down upon them over and over again caused the depressions that he noticed. He pushed down and heard the snap of something mechanical. The bookshelf swung open, revealing a set of stairs leading down into darkness.
Whereas many men would have experienced trepidation at the thought of venturing into the unknown, Lazarus merely checked to make sure that his gun and knife were within easy reach before stepping forth.
One way or another, The Darkling’s secrets would be his.
Jakob Sporrenberg’s eyes fluttered open. His brain was still fuzzy from the gas but he snapped to alertness when he realized that he was suspended from the ceiling chains wrapped tightly around his wrists. His feet barely scraped the floor and from the ache in his shoulders, he’d been hanging like this for some time.
The room he was in was painted white and had no windows. There was a single table and chair in the room, both of the sort that men might unfold for a card game or get-together with friends.
There was one visible exit — a door that swung open as Jakob stared at it. The man who entered wore a long coat that brushed against his ankles, a white mask that resembled a skull, a hat and gloves. Though he’d never seen him in person, Jakob knew who this must be: the description give by Lazarus was hard to forget.
“Where are my friends” Jakob asked, refusing to show any fear.
The Darkling regarded him coolly for a moment, saying nothing. The shadows in the room seemed to reach out for the masked man, embracing him. He seemed to both become more indistinct and larger at the same time. “I’ve read up on you, Jakob. And I think that you might be the sort of man who could serve at my side.”
“You’re insane if you think I’ll betray Lazarus. That will not happen.”
“Why? Because you’ve sworn your loyalty? Like you did to The Führer? You betrayed him easily enough.”
“Release me!” Sporrenberg shouted, pulling against his chains.
“Touched a nerve, did I?” The Darkling sat down, removing his hat and setting it on the table at his side. He reached and pulled away his mask, revealing a face lined with scars. His hair was missing in places, revealing the overly smooth skin that was left behind after terrible burns. “I want to tell you a story.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“I was once in your situation and I didn’t want to listen then, either. I was a pilot in the Great War — a damned good one. After years of not knowing who or what I really was, I found the truth: I was a killer. Unrestrained, that could have made me a bad person… but I killed the right people, for the winning side. That made me a hero. But then the war ended and there was no place for me any longer. So I traveled the world, meeting people, getting into fights and drinking myself into oblivion. Eventually I met a man named Harold Grant — he thought we were alike but he couldn’t have been more wrong. He was doing the same thing I was but he did it because he was bored. He gallivanted around, having adventures, in order to avoid real work. But when we ran into each other in a dingy little tavern in Tibet, we struck up a conversation. He told me about a forbidden sect of monks, hidden in the mountains. He said they lived in a veritable Shangri-La. They never aged, they never took part in the world’s conflicts. They lived alone, practicing arts that had horrified their brothers centuries before. In exchange for immortality and self-peace, you see, you had to give up a little bit of your soul. Grant wanted to find them — for kicks. Intrigued and with nothing better to do, I asked to accompany him. We set off together with no guides and little in the way of supplies. It was fun for him to play at games of life and death… whereas for me, it was part of my self-destructive cycle.”