Shelley knocked hesitantly at Perseus' door. She was rather surprised that the elder Immortal did not awaken her, and wondered if he was still asleep. Her concerns were allayed when the door opened shortly, revealing Perseus dressed in khakis, his hair still damp from the shower, and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Come in, come in," Perseus muttered around the cigarette.
Shelley slipped past him, trying to ignore the smooth muscles of his bare chest, or the strange scars crossing his pecs. *How does an Immortal scar?*, she wondered.
"Have a seat, will you?" Perseus said, gesturing at the chair in the corner. It looked like he had regained his good mood from yesterday, as if the night's activities hadn't bothered him as much as Shelley thought.
Shelley watched in silence as Perseus strapped on the harness that allowed him to carry his shortsword on his back. Then he slipped a loose sweater on, and mashed the cigarette in an ash tray.
"Shall we get breakfast, or do you want to proceed directly to meeting Tyr?"
Shelley watched Perseus carefully. "Breakfast would be good," she admitted at last.
"Something wrong, Shelley?"
She shrugged. "Last night you sounded depressed, but now you're looking so much... chipper."
Perseus pursed his lips, as if pondering what to say. Then: "Last night I slept soundly for the first time in weeks. No bad dreams at all. I thought I'd enjoy that for a while."
There was that mention of bad dreams again. The first time Perseus mentioned it, they were in Germany. When Shelley asked him about it, he brushed her questions aside. Now, though, he might actually be in a good enough mood to enlighten her. "What kind of dreams?" she asked.
Perseus shook his head. "I'd rather not dwell on those now. Let's go find something to eat."
Breakfast was light and quick, and Shelley found herself following Perseus into the streets of Hong Kong in no time. He led the way through the crowded mass of people, brushing men and women alike aside. Shelley found herself hard pressed to keep up with him. But keep up with him she did.
She followed him through a maze of streets and alleys, finding herself perennially confused by the great numbers of people as well as the towering buildings. Once, when she lost sight of Perseus, she stood around dazedly as people of every size and description elbowed past her. While she frantically tried to remember the way back to the hotel, she felt an Immortal presence, and a hand dropped onto her shoulder.
Her own hand was halfway to her sword before Perseus grumbled in her ear, "Do try to keep up."
"You're not making that easy," she huffed at him, turning and following him down a dark alley. "This place is more confusing than New York, you know. I'm surprised I didn't lose track of you sooner, Buzz or no." Perseus held up a hand to forestall her chatter.
"Relax, Shelley. We're here."
She looked around, and saw only a cramped alley, littered with trash and human refuse. A polished wooden door was inset within a cobblestone wall. It was towards this that Perseus gestured, and then he proceeded to open it and went through. Shelley, a bit dubious, followed close behind. Inside, she saw a tiny courtyard surrounded by a series of apartments.
She shuddered involuntarily as she felt the presence of another Immortal, somewhere in the building around her. She hurried to catch up with Perseus, who was standing in the courtyard, his hands in his pockets, his black eyes taking in everything around him.
Shelley looked around, and saw curious Asian faces peeking through the windows that opened into the courtyard. They appeared to be all men, and mostly elderly, with shaven skulls and drab clothing. Monks.
And then a door opened, and the Immortal presence grew stronger, as the biggest man Shelley had ever seen stepped into the courtyard. He was blond, and blue eyed, with pale, pale skin and a well proportioned body. His left arm terminated at the wrist, and he had some kind of silver bracer wrapped around the missing extremity.
This had to be Tyr. He certainly looked Scandinavian, and when he spoke, Shelley thought she could hear the tell tale lilt to his voice.
"Welcome Perseus. About damn time you got here." He held out his hand, and the shorter Immortal took it.
"It couldn't be helped, Tyr. I've had a hell of a rough week."
Tyr shook his head. "You're telling me." He turned to Shelley, still speaking to Perseus. "And who is this fine lady?"
Shelley stepped forward. "*I* am Michelle Glover," she said, "and I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself. So if you have a question, ask me directly."
Tyr took her offered hand and grinned at Perseus. "She's got spirit, Percy. She talks like she's from this century."
"I am," Shelley said, perturbed that the giant still wouldn't talk directly to her. *Dink*, she thought.
"Have you had a chance to talk to Lei?" Tyr asked.
Perseus shook his head. "I just learned of his whereabouts last night. I take it from your expression that the time for talk has passed."
"Indeed," Tyr admitted. "I spoke with him just a few days ago. He's gone off the deep end this time, Perseus. He's always been a little soft in the head, but this time..." Tyr let out a low whistle. "I don't even know how to explain this."
"Just say it," Perseus urged, concern in his voice.
"Fine." Tyr looked Perseus in the eyes. "Lei currently has possession of a nuclear device. He plans to set it off and destroy the city, before the Chinese can come in and take over."
Shelley gasped. That just couldn't be possible.
Perseus stared at Tyr. After a moment, he said, "Shit."
Tyr emphatically agreed. "The last few days I've been going out of my skull, expecting to be incinerated in my sleep or something. I was going to hit Lei's tonight, with or without you. Now that you're here, things will be a bit easier."
"We still need a plan," Perseus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Shelley listened halfheartedly. She was still trying to come to terms with Tyr's announcement.
"Plan?" Tyr grumbled. "We don't need a plan. You and I just go into Lei's place and start busting heads, take Lei's, and turn off his death machine. Simpler than tugging a dwarf's beard."
Perseus shook his head. "It won't be that simple. I read the Watcher file on Lei. He's surrounded himself with powerful allies. A naga, at least two Nightbane, and a weretiger. There might be more. And then there is the legion of mortal guards to consider."
Tyr's eager face collapsed. "We need a plan," he said.
Shelley looked at the two of them. From the sound of things, the sanest course of action would be to take the nearest flight out of town. Yet these two Immortals seemed bent on suicide.
She spoke up. "Well," she said, "we'll probably need some silver bullets."
Perseus looked at her, somewhat surprised, and then grinned. "That's my girl," he said.
A soul screamed in torment as the Scarecrow fed, his spindly arms wrapped tight around his victim, and his heavy, patched cloak hiding his activity from any who would watch. As his hunger was sated, the Scarecrow dropped the body to the icy ground, amid the bottles and bubblegum wrappers and the dark yellow stains that dirtied the pavement.
Crimson eyes burned brightly under the brim of his straw hat. He knew that his hunger, that which had raged since his awakening days ago, was satiated. His time in this crowded, freezing city was at an end. Now was the hour to complete the purpose for which he was created. Now was time to head south. To New Orleans.
Anticipation lay over the city like a fog. Mortals hurried through the business day, intent on getting the work done so that the coming party might arrive all the more quickly. And in the quiet, dark places of the city, the supernatural creatures looked forward to the Carnival as well. A time when masks could be discarded, and supernaturals could parade the streets in their true forms, feeding indiscriminately on the human populace. A time when all the rules were suspended, and life and death were celebrated equally.
Hazard always looked forward to Mardi Gras. Humans tended to lose control of themselves during the festival, and unleashed dark sides usually kept hidden. Hazard would have his pick of meals then.
The man squeezed uncomfortably into the passenger seat of Hazard's Lotus was also a healthy fan of Carnival, though for different reasons. Bran Mac Lyr simply enjoyed a good party, especially one where wine and women flowed like water. The big man grinned good naturedly at Hazard, though the Vampire knew Bran barely had room to breath in the sports car.
"So who are these sisters we're going to see?" Bran said.
"They are a Coven of Witches that oversee the supernatural community of New Orleans," Hazard explained. "They mediate disputes between parties, and ensure the charter is followed by all." The Celt nodded, his eyes returning to the road.
Two hours ago, the Immortal and the Vampire had witnessed a startling revelation, courtesy of their friend Kurt Densmore, the Nightbreed known as the Revenant. After a hurried conference, the small group -- who included the human psychic Rachel Van Horn and the Wraith Alec Scott -- broke into small teams to hunt down leads. Hazard volunteered to talk to the Coven that ran the Underworld, and Bran asked to join him. Slightly startled, the Vampire nonetheless welcomed the genial Immortal's company gladly.
Their stated purpose was to ask the Witches for aid against the coming battle. But in his heart of hearts, Hazard felt that the Witches must already know of the threat. And if that was the case, he and Bran could be walking into a battle. Not a comforting thought, considering who they would be facing.
With a start, Hazard realized that they were upon their destination: an aging townhouse in the French Quarter. Hazard searched for a parking place, and was fortunate to find one only a few hundred yards down the cramped street. The two ancient beings exited the car gracefully, Bran pausing momentarily to tuck his broadsword into his coat, and then they headed back up the street at a quick pace.
"I love this city," Hazard remarked, "but its a bitch trying to find a good parking place on these streets."
The Celt laughed. "They served you well enough when the fastest way to get around was a horse and cart."
"Shit, Bran, that was two hundred years ago."
"And welcome to the twentieth century, my pale friend."
Hazard shook his head at his friend's comment. Compared to most older Vampires, Hazard was remarkably well adjusted to the modern era. He wasn't about to start his own rock band -- he'd just as soon leave that sort of tomfoolery to Lestat -- but he wasn't frightened of cars or uncomfortable with telephones or televisions. He sometimes missed the old days, but more and more found himself frustrated that the old days couldn't mesh easily with the new days -- as with New Orleans' streets designed for horses and buggies, not motor cars. Maybe it was time to find a new place to roost. San Francisco always sort of appealed to him. Maybe, when this was all over... Aw, who was he kidding? He wasn't going to live through this. Not much sense in planning for something that he would never get a chance to do.
Beside him, Bran stiffened, and Hazard caught the scent of magic on the wind. The sisters were at play. As the duo approached the gate to the Witches' home, Hazard once again reviewed why he volunteered for such a foolish task. He did it mostly because he figured he was the only one suited to the task. Alec and Rachel wouldn't know how to deal with the Sisters, and Kurt had never really gotten along with the three ladies.
Small wonder. Kurt had a dangerous tendency to get hostile around evil supernaturals, no matter how powerful they were. Hazard, on the other hand, possessed a healthy respect for the power of the Coven. Hell, anyone who could bring order to the chaos of the Underworld was in the Big Leagues. And Hazard had long ago figured himself for the minors. So he gave the Sisters a wide berth. Respected their decrees, and watched his mouth whenever he met one of them. It made unlife a lot easier if he did so. Yet now, of course, he was actually going to seek an audience with them. He was Rocking the Boat -- a no-no under Article V on the Sisters memorandum. "Don't come to us; we'll come to you," they said.
And here he was, standing at the gate to their Earthly home. If he was mortal, he would have been nervous. But Vampires don't get nervous, right? They're the guys that strike fear into the hearts of everyone else. Right. Hazard was glad he couldn't sweat. He tried to remind himself that he and Bran were the best candidates for this kind of work; the two most likely to survive an encounter with the Sisters. It didn't help.
Bran looked at the Vampire. "Are you all right, Michael? You look upset."
The Vampire slipped his sunglasses on. "Must be a trick of the light, Mac Lyr. I don't get upset." He reached for the knocker on the gate, saying, "Let's do this." But before his hand made contact with the cold iron of the gate, it squeaked open on its own. Bran raised his left eyebrow and fingered his sword.
Hazard muttered darkly under his breath and headed up the walk. He could feel it in his bones. He was going to regret this. Big time.
The front door was unlocked, hanging open just a few inches. Hazard pushed it open the rest of the way with his fingertips. Bran was a bundle of energy behind him, tense and ready to explode. Hazard hoped the Immortal's taste for combat would be soured before the evening ended. For a moment, he regretted bringing the redheaded Celt along. Then he realized if anything went wrong tonight, Bran was the best person to have at his side. Hazard supposed he would put up with the Celt's fiery temperament for the security his presence brought.
The foyer was barely lit by a handful of candles, and hanging rugs and tapestries served to block what little light the candles produced. Hazard didn't mind. Darkness was his element. Bran, though, loosened his sword in its sheath as he crossed the threshold.
"I smell magic," he said with distaste.
"Of course you do," Hazard hissed. "Try to be polite about it. We are guests here."
"Indeed you are," said a patch of darkness as it separated itself from a shadow. "What brings you here, Vampire?"
Hazard eyed the astral servant coldly. "I'm here to discuss something of grave importance with the Sisters. No, I don't have an appointment. But I'd like to see them anyway."
The mostly invisible creature before them snorted audibly. "You are a bold one, aren't you? Still, my Mistresses have had little to amuse them of late. I shall inform them of your request for an audience."
Hazard nodded, as the astral servant faded away. He knew the Witches were already aware of him. They probably even knew why he was here. Beside him, Bran shifted uncomfortably.
"What is your problem?" Hazard asked in a whisper.
Bran opened his mouth to speak, but just then the astral servant returned, forming out of shadow before them. "Well, well. Strangely enough, the Mistresses have consented to your request. They did show some displeasure at its brusque wording, but they said they would see you. Most curious."
The servant faded again, and a spectral wind suddenly rose, pulling several tapestries into the air, revealing a shallow staircase that led to the second floor. Without a word or backward glance, Hazard proceeded up the steps.
The staircase curved to the right, and Hazard followed it, coming out onto the second floor hallway. He heard Bran behind him, whistling some annoying Irish melody. Hazard walked down the hall. It, too, was poorly lit and decorated with a great deal of fabric. As he passed a candelabra, the door on his left suddenly swung open.
Hazard paused, and stepped into the room. Bran was at his heels. They were in a large room with whitewashed walls. The only light came from a huge fireplace on the right, that sent flickering shadows winging about the room. The furniture was Victorian, but looked extremely comfortable anyway, and the three sisters lounged in the divans with contented looks on their faces. The tapestries that seemed to be standard fare everywhere else in the house were missing from the audience chamber.
The sister with the silver hair crossed her legs demurely and purred at Hazard. "What brings you here, Vampire?"
"Yes," said the raven haired beauty in the clinging gown, "why do you risk angering us by coming to our home?"
The plumper, blonder sister seemed to eye Hazard hungrily. The Vampire felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny. "Well, your Ladyship, its like this. It recently came to our attention that... uh..." Hazard faltered, unsure of how to continue.
Bran did it for him. "A dark and hungry god is headed for Earth. And the gateway appears to be in the middle of New Orleans." The Celt's eyes narrowed as he looked at the three sitting witches. "And, given Hazard's description of you three, I find it hard to believe -- "
<No, Bran, don't say it!> Hazard urged silently, even as Bran said it. <Oh, fuck and damnation,> he thought, mentally preparing himself as the can of worms spilt all over the floor.
" -- that you are unaware of this. In fact, I wonder if you aren't a part of it." As Bran finished, his hand unconsciously strayed to the hilt of his sword.
Hazard tensed as the silver haired sister rose. "For such an accusation, I should destroy you." Her eyes shone silver and bright deep in her sockets. "Yet you bring curious news, and I would hear more before I annihilate you. Speak, Immortal."
Bran stepped forward, an unnatural wind tugging at the edges of his coat. "I know little more than I have told you. A cult of depraved humans, even as we speak, seeks to bridge the gap between dimensions, opening the way for an Elder God of terrifying power. How is it that you rule the Underworld, and yet know not of this?"
Hazard' senses kicked into overdrive. The hairs on his arms were rising, as he sensed one of the sisters begin to gather magickal energy. Behind his lenses, his blue eyes looked from one ageless face to another. Who would attack first?
The silver haired witch gestured at Bran. "Your impudence knows no bounds, Immortal. But listen: it is true that we Sisters have known of the Narrow Cult. And we have let them do their business unimpeded. It pleases us that such chaos as humanity has never seen is about to be unleashed. Now, Immortal and Vampire, away. We have larger matters to attend." With that, the gesture became a push, and Hazard felt the air in front of him solidify and force him backwards, toward the door.
"I think not," Bran said, as the wind whipped up about him. He drew his huge sword, and Hazard noticed the runes etched across its length. They glowed with a cold fire. And Hazard knew that now, truly, something bad was about to happen.
In the shadow of the great cathedral, the village slept, covered in a light blanket of snow that shone even in the half-moonlight. But high on the cathedral itself, there amidst the flying buttresses and heavy stonework, something nocturnal moved. Something that slept throughout the day, only to awaken as the last few rays of the sun dipped low over the horizon. A creature of the night, with leathery wings and a crown of horns ringing a heavily lined face.
A human would have called him a Gargoyle, mistaking him for one of the statues that often marked the great Gothic buildings of Europe. His own kind referred to themselves as the Durus, the people of stone. And among them he was known as Brother Theodoric, the oldest living Gargoyle in the tribe of the Askanii, the Gargoyles of France.
Theodoric was born a warrior, a protector, like all the Durus -- and the Askanii in particular -- but as he aged his physical strength weakened, and he was forced more and more to rely on his wits. He began to devote a great deal of his time to the vast library hidden below the cathedral, devouring volume after volume. He became a scholar and a wise man, a Gargoyle that others in his tribe and around the globe looked to for guidance.
Theodoric did possess wisdom, and a intelligence honed over the years by outwitting humans, Nightbane, and others. Almost unwillingly, he settled into the role the other Gargoyles crafted for him, taking over the mantle of leadership with only token resistance. Truth be known, Theodoric enjoyed the respect he commanded, as well as the power he exercised among the Durus.
But tonight, as he paced the upper reaches of the house of God, the weight of leadership was heavy upon him indeed. For days, he had been plagued with a bizarre dream of the Dark Tower and some strange human festival. Faces, familiar and strange, figured prominently in the dream. Theodoric had a feeling that the dream was a portent of things to come, yet the strange jumble of images left him with no clear concept of what the dream meant. Even consulting the tomes beneath the tombs offered little inspiration.
And so the aged Gargoyle paced, his breath steaming in the frigid air, his mind grappling with concepts that were foreign to him. He thought of sending a letter to his friend in the Quorek tribe, but feared any knowledge Stanislaus could share would arrive too late. His mind turned to the Dark Tower. That black, twisted spire that had witnessed the birth of his race when creatures from the nether planes were bound to stone. Two Nightbane and an Immortal freed his people and slew the cabal of necromancers that created them. The heroes sealed the tower, and drove the Durus into the countryside. The Gargoyles scattered to the four winds, separating into twelve tribes, as different from one another as... well, as different as night and day.
Yet all the tribes were bound by the Prophecy: a belief that, one day, a descendant of the original twelve Gargoyles would enter the Dark Tower and wrest godlike power from the terrible heart of the structure. The Prophecy was tied into a general belief in some kind of Armageddon.
Theodoric had never really given much credence to the Prophecy or the yearnings of younger Gargoyles. He considered it all pure fantasy, a way to comfort the weak willed in the face of adversity on all sides, from humans and supernaturals alike. And yet there were the dreams. Theodoric felt a calling from them, as if a voice or power was trying to reach him during his slumber. Theodoric coughed, and cursed his old bones. "I must be getting tired," he said out loud, "to give in to such nonsense so readily."
His pointed ears caught the sound of movement behind him, and Theodoric turned ponderously, his eyes glowing a warning at any possible attackers. But it was no opponent perched on the ledge above him, but rather, it was one of the younger adults, his horns still stunted with new growth.
"What is it?" Theodoric growled.
"I -- Brother, I do not wish to intrude, but -- " the young one stammered.
"Out with it child," Theodoric said, unable to keep the impatience from his voice. It would not do to startle this poor youngster, but the elder Gargoyle could not help it. He didn't wish to be disturbed.
"A... a letter has arrived from America. Our cousins in the southern provinces have dire news." The child produced a piece of parchment, and handed it hesitatingly to Theodoric.
Theodoric took the proffered parchment, and tried to reassure the young one. "Thank you, boy. You did well." He dismissed the child, who was only too eager to bolt from the vicinity of the ill-tempered elder.
Theodoric unfolded the thin piece of paper and examined its contents, his large pupilled eyes devouring every word intently. When he was finished, his fears confirmed, he slumped against the wall of the church, sliding down to the hard stone beneath him, and its covering of snow.
He picked up the paper and read it again. It said:
"Theodoric:
The City of New Orleans is growing darker by the Night. The Werewolves hunt openly in the streets, and the Vampires fail to hide their kills as well. Mortals, affected by this Darkness, are unleashing their violent Natures more and more on each other. I know not what to do, and I fear for the safety of the buildings and Durus in my care. All the signs point to some climax of terrible proportions, heading for my City. Please advise.
Horatio."
Theodoric cursed the night, and the wizards who created his people. After a while, he rose to his feet again, and made his way into the cathedral. The night was young yet, and he had much work to do.
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