“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.”
“How do you know?”
“I long ago learned not to trust my physical senses. Our intuition is far greater than we give it credit for. And mine is telling me to wait… but not for much longer.”
Earl stared at the naked German, taking in all the bruises and wounds that had been inflicted. He remembered his own fall from grace, his own forced journey into self-awareness. He’d been so angry and so frightened but at the end, he’d screamed for death to come and take him.
Only when the final moment came, he’d turned and clung to life with a ferocious tenacity. He’d opened his eyes to a whole new way of being: like a phoenix rising from the ashes, he’d found new life.
“Lazarus Gray is just like us,” The Darkling whispered, startling Earl.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“He was born as Richard Winthrop, right in this very house. But eventually he was brought to death’s door, carried there by the weight of his sins. But he refused to give up. He looked into the mirror and saw his true face… and he returned to the world of the living, as a new being.”
Earl said nothing, digesting this information. For the past few years, The Darkling had seemed superhuman, capable of handling any threat. He had laid waste to all his foes… but now that they’d crossed paths with Assistance Unlimited, it was clear that Earl’s employer had met his match. The Darkling seemed both pleased and terrified by this notion.
“Now,” The Darkling said, and he drove the needle deep into Jakob’s heart.
Then both men stepped back as Jakob Sporrenberg sprang up, eyes wide. The German gasped like a newborn, a long moan rising up that rattled his chest.
Jakob rolled off the table, falling to one knee. Earl realized that the German was whispering, talking to himself in German: “Ich bin tot. Ich bin lebendig. Eidolon.”
The Darkling stepped forward, touching Jakob on the shoulder. “Shh,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. You’ve survived the worst of it.”
Jakob looked up at him and there was something different in his eyes: some sort of hardness, a cold steel that had not been there before. “I died.”
“Yes.”
“Jakob Sporrenberg died.”
“Yes.”
Jakob straightened up, looking around himself as if seeing the world for the first time. “You have something for me,” he said with a definitive air. “Don’t you?”
The Darkling held out a hand towards Earl, who was now holding a set of clothes, complete with mask and hood. “Does it look familiar?”
Jakob took the mask, holding it before him. It was a skull, but of a different design than The Darkling’s. “It’s my face. My true face.”
“And your name?”
Jakob looked at The Darkling and smiled. “I am Eidolon.”
“Eidolon. I like it.” The Darkling squeezed Eidolon’s shoulder. “You need to get dressed. It won’t be too long before Assistance Unlimited tracks us down. I’m surprised it’s taken this long. When you meet them, it’s important that you’re in your new identity.”
“I understand.”
“And you’re with me?” The Darkling pressed. “Even if it means fighting your friends?”
“Yes. If need be… I’ll kill them.”
Chapter IX
Femi, Queen of the Dead!
In a small room located on the top floor of Assistance Unlimited’s headquarters, a woman named Femi paced slowly back and forth. Her room had no windows and the only door was barred from the outside, reinforced with all the magic spells that Abby could bring to bear.
The woman’s name was Femi and she was a princess of ancient Egypt. Cursed to a state of Undeath by the priests of her time, Femi had been restored to full life twice in recent times, only to face defeat at the hands of Lazarus Gray. After her most recent loss, she had been imprisoned in this lonely room, her beauty hidden from the world. With her lustrous black hair, dark eyes and shapely figure, she looked like the popular image of Cleopatra.
Femi stopped in the middle of the room, closing her eyes tightly. Her unique form of “life” left her ravenous and she enjoyed feasting on the flesh of the living. Her shambling followers, resurrected as mummified zombies, were much the same, though she had none at her disposal at present.
Somewhere, at the edges of her consciousness, a voice was calling. It whispered for help, pleading for her to come and free it from the flames that engulfed it. It was the voice of a devil, a powerful demonic force that Femi knew could help her.
Femi walked slowly to the door, placing a hand against its surface. She could feel the magicks that bound her to the room and knew that without feeding, she lacked the power to destroy them — but if the demonic intellect in the furnace could lend her what remained of its own ability, then perhaps she could overwhelm the barrier.