Françoise had seen him in action, and she knew at that instant she would be his, body and soul. And despite the many adventures across the globe, his mental cleansing retreats, and the occasional wagging tongue amongst society folk, she had been beside him–as a lover, a friend and, soon, a wife. Françoise was an exquisite specimen of humanity. I’ve done her a disservice by making her wait this long, by taking her for granted. She deserves someone who will be with her always. Fascinax vowed that his first order of business after this affair with Numa would be their wedding. And yet, how many times had he said that only to involve himself in some other case and postponing his life?
Damn Pergyll, thought Fascinax, you are forever between my Françoise and I.
This time he would finally put an end to this bloody game of theirs. This time he and Françoise would have all of the time in the world for the things she had been waiting for–their wedding, children, peace.
But deep down, Fascinax knew that there would be no peace as long as Numa Pergyll was lurking about. The villain had vowed as much in their last encounter:
Paris, 1927
“Damn your soul, Fascinax!” spat the outraged Numa Pergyll as Fascinax and Jules de Grandin stormed his secret laboratory. They freed the subjects strapped to the operating tables awaiting surgery. Cryptic plans and designs showed the future horror he had planned for their bodies–soldiers augmented with mechanisms and weaponry–living robotic zombies answerable to their mad general. Numa raised a spear and launched it across the room, allowing him time to disappear into a hidden passage.
Fascinax’s unique brain “sped up” his senses so that the deadly poison-tipped spear seemed to glide slowly in the air. At the precise moment, his hand shot out and snatched the spear away before it impaled de Grandin. Fascinax dropped the spear and rushed to the dark entryway only to hear Numa’s footfalls echo this way and that, disguising the direction of his escape.
Then, Numa’s voice echoed in Fascinax’s mind…
Remember this, Fascinax! You started this. When next we meet, I will rip away your very life, and leave you with a most exquisite corpse!
De Grandin came up to thank him when he saw the blood drain out of Fascinax’s face. In his mind’s eye, Fascinax could see Numa’s glowing green eyes fill with hatred for him. This had become personal…
London, 1928
The car stopped in front of a rundown tenement in what would kindly be termed “the bohemian section” of London–Limehouse. Bobbies stood outside the apartment as the landlady sobbed to one of the detectives. These tenements allowed crime to walk hand in hand with refugees from war-torn Europe. Starving artists also made it their domain, painting quietly in the parks or sketching the seedy existence of their felonious neighbors. Opium dens, pubs, dancehalls and “Sporting Houses” also colored the landscape.
Criminals and artists, thought Fascinax, what an appropriate combination for Numa Pergyll. Fascinax exited the car and attuned his senses accordingly. He increased his focus, heart rate and flooded his system with adrenaline, steeling himself for anything. Crowds were a problem for the superman–full of thoughts, smells and colors as they were–and he being a human divining rod for sensual activity. And this was most definitely a neighborhood where anything could happen, and often did.
Fascinax brushed Scott’s shoulder. “Come, Scott, let’s see what Numa Pergyll has for us this time.”
Scott instantly flinched. Fascinax at once knew the detective was leaving something out. Fascinax’s probing stare asked the question. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” Scott stumbled, “I wasn’t clear… There’s a body… But it is Numa Pergyll’s. He is dead.”
The police parted as Scott and his companion burst through the mass of people. The Bobbies, even though they didn’t recognize the man with their superior, had heard enough rumors to know they were in the presence of someone of supreme authority. Scott followed as Fascinax stormed inside.
Taking the dark stairs two at a time, Fascinax flew up the five flights as Scott wheezed right behind. Long shadows haunted the hallways and the air seemed to get colder around them. Fascinax concentrated harder, filtering out the varied distractions, and continued his quest. Cigars, cheap booze, a baby crying, a man and wife arguing–all things that had nothing to do with Numa and his exquisite taste. Later, Fascinax would have to tell Scott of all the goings-on in these rooms. He could sense gunpowder, dynamite, and illegal alcohol–what the Americans called “bathtub gin.”
This isn’t you, Numa, he thought. Numa Pergyll was a grand meticulous planner. He crafted. He was an artiste, especially in torture and death. It was his trademark, and a small indication of the depth of his evil. The surroundings Fascinax found himself in were not Numa’s territory–this, the lowest of the low. What is your purpose here? questioned the superman, his brain and physique aroused to the point of prickling his skin. He couldn’t even allow himself the luxury of referring to Numa in the past tense.
Fascinax shoved the two puzzled Bobbies away from the door. Scott came up behind and waved them off. They were not to be disturbed. The Bobbies went away, shaking their heads and whispering to one another. A dead body in this neighborhood had never before aroused this much attention from the Yard.
Fascinax pushed open the door, which opened the rest of the way on its own. Then, the Doctor smelled it. Death.
A tall form lay prostrate on the hard wood floor. Even after having seen the body already, Scott gave a sharp gasp, but kept his gaze on the Doctor. This is the moment of truth, thought the Detective.
For Numa Pergyll, “Arch-Nemesis of Fascinax, The Master of Evil,” the hidden puppet master behind many of the world’s deepest, darkest ills, was dead, naked on floor. His body, an emaciated white canvas laced with dark blue veins. Skin drawn tight to the bone, as if dried like a beef jerky. This was a solemn, unassuming ending for one who lived his evil life like an opera. Scott expected something more dramatic. This corpse before them was simply pathetic.
Fascinax furrowed his brow, and Scott could have sworn the Doctor’s blue eyes were glowing with activity. Those same senses, that gaze which disturbed Scott, were now fully focused on the corpse before them.
“Has anyone been in the room?” asked Fascinax as he walked around the body, taking in all the information his keenly tuned senses could provide. Simple plastered walls stained with water surrounded them. A few simple sticks of furniture made up the décor. In front of the body was an artist’s easel and implements, as if the corpse had been lain down as a sacrifice to the art. A wet canvas covered the painting on the easel. It appeared that Numa Pergyll finished painting, lay down and died.
“Only the landlady who discovered the body and the two policemen you’ve seen,” replied the detective, checking his notes. “I came to you as soon as I realized who this was.”
“And no one has touched the body, nor been in its proximity for a period longer than a minute?” continued the Doctor. He wasn’t asking a question, merely confirming what his senses already told him. He could smell the landlady’s cheap liquor and perfume. He also knew she had slept with the man two floors down. Something her husband, no doubt, would find interesting. Scott nodded, frightened at where his simple confirmation would lead.
“Good. Then we can begin.”
And detective Scott broke out in a sweat…
The car had come for her up promptly at 7 p.m. Big Ben’s tones had confirmed it. Françoise estimated that they would arrive at the gallery at 7:30. She would have to come up with another excuse for her fiancé by then. She could imagine it: sipping wine and discussing the art with someone like Man Ray or the rest of the surrealists, when someone in the crowd would whisper and point in her direction. Usually, it was that she and her fiancé were living together in the same townhouse before marriage. That was an easy scandal to handle by now.
But tonight she had gone out on a limb and guaranteed her fiancé would accompany her to the gallery opening. Everyone in the art world would be there, and
it had been Françoise’s chance to silence the clucking of the hens. Now, as many times before, she would be alone.
And knowing that the main source of the world’s troubles, Numa Pergyll, was in London made her burden even heavier. George would not let her come with him of course, although he understood her need in the matter. The villain had killed her father right before her eyes.
“And for that, good sir, I shall dance over your grave.”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” the driver inquired. “May I be of service?”
The thick–bearded man looked in his rear-view at the stunning beauty in his transport. His accent indicated a European background, the Balkans maybe. His face indicated years of service as did the greying of his neatly trimmed beard.
“No, thank you, driver. I am just thinking out loud.”
“I’m sorry that the Doctor couldn’t accompany you tonight,” offered the driver, seeing her slight frustration. “I know that the gallery will be disappointed as well. It’s not often they send a car.”
“The Doctor was called away on important business. Another matter of life and death, I’m afraid.”
Upon saying the words, Françoise instantly knew that her lover’s work was far more important than a few missed events. The responsibilities of Fascinax were many and the rewards few. Mainly that the public was never to know her man’s true identity. To most, he was a handsome successful doctor who had inherited some sort of wealth and social standing–a playboy. She imagined that some of the society gossips pitied her, thinking Françoise was one in a long line of conquests for the man. Only her, a few members of Scotland Yard’s upper echelons and, of course, Detective Scott knew the truth. Her man was the only being capable of dealing with certain terrors of the world. It was a responsibility he didn’t take lightly, as she began to understand when he first told her of his life.
It was the burden she willingly undertook when she looked into Fascinax’s eyes. She smiled at that thought. Calling him Fascinax, while irritating to him, was a more accurate description of her true love. He was more Fascinax than he was simple George Leicester, M.D. For once, the tabloid papers had gotten it right–he was a superman. But did her superman have no room in his life for joy? For her?
Scott’s revolver shook in his hand as he trained it on Fascinax.
“Don’t be a fool, Scott,” uttered Fascinax, “Can’t you see I’m trying to uncover what’s really going on here?”
“Please, raise your hands, Doctor. I understand your feelings. I even agree that this… man… is, was, a threat, but I can’t condone what you’re about to do. It is against the laws of God and Man. Have some respect for the dead.”
Fascinax stared at the detective. His eyes bored through the man’s down to his soul. He read him like a book, and that made Scott sweat even more. He tightened his grip on the pistol.
“Well, if I, an upstanding citizen, am breaking boundaries, then imagine what a devil like Numa Pergyll is doing.”
Scott hesitated as he looked in the man’s piercing blue orbs. He makes sense, thought the detective. I may not entirely like this man but… He relaxed his grip slightly, and that was all Fascinax needed.
He shot his arm out, grabbing Scott by the throat with blinding speed. Nimble yet powerful fingers found the appropriate nerve clusters laced around Scott’s neck and squeezed. He followed it with a quick manipulation of the blood vessels to the brain, and Scott spasmed. What’s happening to me? he thought (for he couldn’t utter a sound). Then the feeling left his arms and legs. Scott’s pistol dropped to the floor.
Fascinax gently lay the detective down next to his pistol. He checked the man’s pulse and pupils. He would be fine. Immobilized for a short time with no permanent damage. “I’m sorry, Scott,” he apologized.
Fascinax began. He stripped his shirt, removed his shoes and stripped his pants and undergarments. He stretched his body this way and that, focusing all of his being onto the task at hand. He pressured specific nerve endings in his body and cranium sensitizing it to his surroundings. Spinal flexing opened pathways throughout his body releasing his Qi energy. In his mind, he recited endless arcane formulae designed to focus his thoughts as the Qi energy heightened his awareness even further.
As his body became a finely tuned instrument, Fascinax felt even the slightest shift in the air. Temperatures became part of the rainbow of the spectrum as his eyes shifted and became more sensitive. His core temperature rose and sweat broke out as his body worked to cool his brain and brainstem as it went into overdrive, processing all of the input it was receiving. The buds on his tongue isolated and identified the particles it tasted in the air, including the decaying body that was smeared with feces and urine. He knew what Numa’s last meal was. He knew that there was blood mixed with paint underneath his fingernails.
He just knew.
You, my dear Doctor, are damned, Detective Scott thought in his paralyzed state. His mind struggled to force some limb to move–any limb. Even to twitch his nose would be a feat. Nothing. Fascinax turned and stared into Scott’s paralyzed eye. Had he “heard” the detective’s thoughts?
“What you believe, and what is, are two different matters, Scott,” he said. “I do not require your belief in me, or my methods. What I am about to do, I do because I have to. You will be my witness on this adventure.”
And what a terrible task it was.
The whole of Fascinax thought of Françoise at that moment. His right lobe was disturbed that he associated his love with his enemy. Then his left lobe realized it was because the language center had used the word “adventure.” When Fascinax had proposed to Françoise, he had used her that very same word…
India, 1926
“Will you go on an adventure with me?”
He looked in her eyes, the crystal blue that matched his own, glowing with their own fire. Françoise came up to him, put his hand on her cheek and felt the warmth there. Then she placed his hand on her breast and he felt the warmth there.
He and Françoise made love that night–their bodies and minds intertwining. He lay her on top of his body, matching her heartbeat, her breathing and her very thoughts. By the time she was ready for his body to be inside her, he already was. Fascinax felt her first few orgasms. He felt for both. They were one, and, in that moment, the whole being named Fascinax knew everything about her–her memory, her energy, her soul. And from that pure moment…
Nothing would ever come between them.
London, 1928
After that night, he never again attempted such a taxing feat. Until now…
Fascinax’ naked form lay down on top the body before him. Scott turned his head away. He could not even contemplate confessing to his Vicar what sort of necromancy he was witnessing. Fascinax relaxed, molding his body to his nemesis. His skin, the largest organ of the body, touched Numa’s, matched, and became Numa’s.
His breath was Numa’s. His eyes were Numa’s. With each heartbeat, Fascinax sank further into the darkness that was Numa Pergyll.
Slower…
Slower…
Until he reached that point of calm, of focus, where he was Numa. He was the dead thing underneath him-cold and unmoving. He fell into the darkness that was death, and embraced its cold love. He felt everything the body “felt”; the splinters in the floor, the cold of the air, and the intense pain in the back of his head.
Fascinax lay over Numa, seeing Scott with his dark, blue eyes. He lay immobile as Scott maintaining contact with Numa’s skin. Matching the electro-conductivity of his aura to Numa’s. Seeking his energy to learn its secrets.
But Numa’s aura wasn’t there!
This was wrong. Fascinax’s lobes each independently processed that even the dead still retained some residual energy of their inhabitant’s “soul.” This thing Fascinax was linked to, was a husk, a shell–a darkness that was soaking up every ounce of his energy. Fascinax felt as if he were swimming in black syrup. No, not swimming, drowning!
Fascinax went n
umb as he sank deeper. Feeling his lungs not breathing. Feeling his heart not beating. Feeling the searing pain in his skull. Nervous spasms wracked his body as his mind reeled with images and pain… lots of pain… he had to get back to his own body!
Françoise accepted another glass of champagne from the waiter as she wandered through the huge glass-enclosed gallery. So far, she had been spared the direct confrontation of the social hens, but noticed several stares and whispers. Oh well, they simply won’t receive an invitation to the wedding, she thought.
She did notice that her gown had the desired effect on the male population in the gallery. Too bad there wasn’t a real man among them, she thought. At least not one who could hold a candle to her George. He burned too brightly for them.
Oh, I have been such a fool. He is Fascinax, a superman among men. I have pressured him to be something he is not–ordinary. And that is why I love him so …for no ordinary love would ever satisfy me.
She vowed to stay for a respectable amount of time and then hurry home. She would get some roses and scatter them around. Find the right bottle in the cellar. Yes, it would be the right apology for her foolishness. No more pressure. No more “hints.” She loved him and that was enough. Nothing would ever come between them.
“Excuse me, madam.”
Françoise held onto her drink as she turned to see who had tapped her–only to see her driver. He was dressed anew in a formal uniform with a wonderful smile across his features.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware you were still here,” said the startled Françoise.
“Yes, madam. I was told to conduct you to the VIP area of the gallery. That is where the special exhibition tonight is being held.” The driver gestured toward a set of grand curtains set off by a velvet rope. “Only honored guests such as yourself will be allowed to see the exhibit. The artiste was quite specific.”
Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Page 6