The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Quatermain drew his revolver, and Nemo dropped into a fighting stance, while the invisible man froze in the process of pouring himself another drink. Faster than any of them, though, the mysterious young imposter leaped down from the upper levels of the library. His boots slammed on the floor with a crack like thunder. He aimed his flamboyant Winchester at the marksman's face. "Let 'er go, Mister, or I'll shoot ya!"

  Cornered, the Fantoms' marksman had nothing to lose. "Shoot! Go on! I'll kill her on reflex!" The hand that held the knife twitched against the hollow of Mina's throat, and she remained very still. Her head lolled forward, obscuring her face. Her hair fell into disarray.

  In the frozen standoff, the young imposter lowered his Winchester. Nemo remained tense, but took a step backward to a safer, nonthreatening distance. Quatermain lowered his revolver with an angry sigh. "I told you from the beginning she'd be trouble."

  The cornered marksman fairly crowed with triumph. "I guessed as much! They'd do anything to protect you." He cinched his muscular arm tight around her narrow waist.

  "That's your biggest mistake., sir," Mina said in a quiet, threatening voice. "Thinking I need the likes of them to protect me." She turned on him, her eyes demonic red and pulsing now with an unearthly glow. She opened her mouth to show the long, ivory sabers of vampire fangs. Then she was upon him.

  Though still holding the knife, the marksman gasped in terror and tried to squirm away, but she easily sank her extended fangs into his throat. He struggled, beating futilely at her. She bit deeper. Arterial blood sprayed.

  Then, with a savage twist of her jaw, she ripped out his windpipe. His dagger slid harmlessly away from her throat, then clattered to the library floor.

  At the drink cart, Skinner gulped down another Scotch.

  As if she were discarding a dirty handkerchief, Mina let the dead marksman drop to the ground.

  Quatermain looked at Nemo, stunned. "Extraordinary," the captain said.

  Mina's features rapidly returned to her cold pale beauty. Dorian Gray watched her without surprise. She flicked open her vanity mirror, withdrew a soft white cloth from her pocket, and calmly dabbed blood from her mouth.

  "Boy, they told me European women had funny ways," said the handsome young imposter, propping his modified Winchester at his side. "There, Ma'am, you missed a spot." In a gentlemanly fashion, he pointed out a drop of blood on her ivory-pale cheek.

  "Excuse me… and you are?" Mina regarded him with piercing green eyes now. Quatermain also turned to the unexpected ally, waiting for the young mans answer.

  "I'm Special Agent Tom Sawyer, Ma'am," he said proudly, "of the American Secret Service."

  TEN

  Dorian Gray's Residence

  While the others in the library stared at the young man in surprised silence, a chuckle came from the invisible man. "So you're a… spy?" Skinner sounded slightly drunk. "I thought spies get shot."

  "Not if they shoot first. Which I did," Sawyer said with exaggerated pride. "I followed you all. Knocked out a straggler and took his place." He rapped on his wide-brimmed metal helmet, then took it off. "Darned silly outfits."

  Despite his frenetic exertions in the fight, Captain Nemo had not broken into a sweat. He adjusted his blue turban, seating it on his head, then looked in barely veiled dismay at the countless books that had been ruined in the recent battle. Paper and bindings lay scattered and mangled on the floor. When he noticed the subject matter of many of the volumes, however — detailed analyses of the Marquis de Sade, drawings and daguerrotypes of numerous people in bizarre and painful-looking sexual positions — he turned away with a frown, reassessing the magnitude of the loss.

  Gauging Sawyer, Quatermain said, "So Americas aware of the situation?"

  Sawyer gave an emphatic nod. "War starts in Europe, how long until it's crossed the Adantic? We already lost one good man trying to nail this maniac. The man who fell victim to the Fantom was another agent — and a darned good one, too. A close friend of mine. He believed in what he was doing." The young man seemed amazingly earnest, and optimistic. "And now I'm going to finish the job." His customized Winchester seemed to be all he needed.

  Gray noticed Mina sizing up the handsome young American and clearly wasn't happy about it. He sniffed. "Very noble. But this is a private party. You're not invited."

  Sawyer stubbornly squared his shoulders. "I intend to find the Fantom. So do you all."

  Mina came closer to the young spy, smiling seductively. "Actually, since Dorian has already declined to join our little effort, we are one shy of a full deck."

  Remembering the incident moments earlier in which she had used her fangs to rip out the throat of the last hapless marksman, Sawyer swallowed hard and flinched from her close attention. "Uh, Ma'am…"

  Gray took up the challenge. "On the contrary, that unexpected battle was just the spur I needed. Very exciting, for a change, with the promise of more to come. And the thrill of an old, sweet friendship renewed."

  Mina rolled her eyes.

  Gray plucked at his smoking jacket, frowned again at all the bullet holes. "I will have to change my attire, however." He turned to Sawyer and made a shooing gesture. "So, as you can see, young man, you're not needed here."

  While Sawyer glared at him, Quatermain came forward to inspect the American agents customized rifle. "Winchester?"

  "Modified, American style," Sawyer confirmed, proud to show off his piece and purposerully ignoring Dorian Gray.

  Quatermain took it and sighted on the narrow spine of a book on a high shelf. "American style of shooting, too."

  "Whatever it takes." Sawyer grinned at the old adventurer, nodded toward the Winchester. "Like it? I brought two of'em."

  "He's in," Quatermain said.

  ELEVEN

  The Thames, London

  Night

  Leaving the bodies and wreckage behind, the League exited from Grays opulent residence into the foggy streets. Dark river water lapped against the nearby docks, but a thick mist hid the Thames from view.

  Tom Sawyer looked behind him. "I sure hate to leave such a mess in there. My Aunt Polly would give me a tongue-lashing I'd never forget."

  "Leave it." Gray was not concerned. "My private staff has had considerable experience in dealing with messes that were far worse." He didn't explain further.

  "We don't have time for house cleaning." Nemo led the way toward the unseen docks, striding ahead in his elaborate blue uniform. "We had best be about our business. According to his instructions, the League has one final member to recruit before we can be off to Venice."

  "Recruit? Capture is more the word. It will be quite a hunt," Quatermain said. "Though I prefer the open savannah to the streets of Paris."

  "You make him sound like an animal," said Mina.

  The old adventurer glanced at her with undisguised curiosity. "Speaking of which, Mrs. Harker — your conduct in there… let's just say the attacker wasn't the only one who had his breath taken away. Would you care to explain yourself?"

  "Indeed, we're aquiver with curiosity," Skinner said, edging forward with a grin on his painted face. "After all, you have plenty of dirt on me, dear lady — as you are so keen to remind me over and over again. Heh!"

  Mina looked at the men, each one a member of the odd team sworn to save the world from a devastating war. "Very well, in the spirit of cooperation." She touched the corner of her lip, possibly feeling a speck of dried blood still there.

  "My husband was Jonathan Harker. Together with a professor named Van Helsing, we fought a dangerous evil. It had a name: Count Dracula. He was… Transyivanian." Mina lifted her delicate eyebrows, but saw no sign of recognition from her companions.

  "European? One of those radical anarchists the newspapers love to report on?" Skinner said.

  Mina pulled down her ever-present scarf, exposing two pale puncture marks that scarred her otherwise perfect throat. "I don't know, Mr. Skinner. Is the vampiric sucking of peoples' blood considered radical behavior?"
/>
  Tom Sawyer turned away with a mixture of embarrassment and horror. Quatermain studied the scars, trying to guess what kind of animal would have made such wounds. Dorian Gray simply seemed interested in admiring Mina's neck.

  "In the course of battling Dracula, I was brought under his influence. Rather violently. That monster has been destroyed now, and I have recovered. Partially, at least. However, if I ever appear cold to you, it's because I am filled with enough of Draculas essence that I fear where unbridled emotion would lead." She turned to Quatermain, as if implying that he had passed some sort of judgment on her. "Put that in your file." She tucked her white scarf back into place and strode purposefully after Nemo to the end of the dock.

  "Enough stories," Nemo said. "We must be off on our journey."

  Seeing nothing but the fog-shrouded pier and the murky Thames, Dorian Gray crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "Now what?"

  At that moment, the jetty started to rumble. Bubbles began to boil in the black waters, accompanied by a bright submerged glow and a loud throbbing like massive muffled engines.

  Nemo walked to the edge of the jetty, as if he meant to leap into the river itself. Instead, he stood at the brink, waiting. "Our transportation is forthcoming." As the splashing, churning noise increased, he turned to look at them with a secretive smile. "We will be in Paris soon."

  "Is it a boat?" asked Sawyer. "I've been on a big paddle-wheel steamer on the Mississippi."

  "Not that sort of boat, Mr. Sawyer, though it goes on water, if that's what you mean," Nemo said, facing the gathered companions. "And beneath it as well."

  Behind him, a huge black conning tower broke the surface like a breaching whale. Nemo didn't flinch. The plated vessel rose up, gushing water as it climbed higher and higher, until its shape loomed over them.

  "Whoa," said Sawyer.

  But the conning tower was just the tip of the iceberg. High and long with elegant seafaring lines, the submarine boat surfaced majestically, splitting the surface of the Thames. Like the scales of an aquatic dragon, it was plated with white ceramic derived from the shells of mysterious crustaceans and encrusted with golden statues of Vishnu, Ganesh, and Shiva.

  While the invisible man hung back from the mammoth boat in nervous uncertainty, Quatermain and Sawyer stepped forward together, amazed. Dorian Gray did not seem impressed, but Captain Nemo showed obvious pride. "Behold, Nautilus. The Sword of the Ocean."

  The members of the League stood together at the end of the dock and watched the amazing colossus ease against the jetty. Massive rudders worked with exact precision, guiding it perfectly into place.

  Once it had come to rest, exhaust vents opened with a sigh, and the Nautilus let out a breath of air.

  So did each member of the League.

  TWELVE

  Rue Morgue, Paris, France

  Night

  The creature bounded across tiled roof slopes, eaves, and chimney pots. His broad, bare feet slapped on the slats, and he made an impossible leap over a deep alley to an adjacent building. His clawed hands grasped for a hold on the gutter, and then he hauled himself onto the angled rooftop. A beasts brutish shadow momentarily showed in the moonlight, eclipsing the Eiffel Tower, then it sprang onward.

  Its breath was heavy and wet, its grunting halfway between a howl of rage and a roar of victory. But first it had to escape the hunters. Its every muscular movement expressed exuberance for the chase, the hot pursuit — even though it was the quarry.

  "This way!" Quatermain called, refusing to slow down. "Don't let him out of your sights."

  "I've got 'im!" Tom Sawyer said. The two men hurried through the streets of Paris, close behind the monster, trying to track its movements as it charged overhead from rooftop to rooftop. "But I still don't see why our team needs a big monkey."

  Out of breath but keeping pace with the young American agent, Quatermain said, "That big monkey's been terrorizing the Rue Morgue for months. Imagine the mayhem he'll give the enemy — if we can manage to get him on our side, that is."

  The American swung his Winchester, searching for a target, then ran onward. "Well, I still think Inspector Dupin could have offered a bigger reward if he was so keen on stopping this beast."

  "We all suffer from budgetary constraints, Sawyer. Welcome to the modern world."

  Up ahead they saw movement in the moonlight. Quatermain signaled, but Sawyer had already seen. A large, malformed shape sprang with a heavy grunt from one building to the next. He landed heavily, sending loose roof tiles clattering down into the alleys.

  Quatermain fired two shots to the left of the monster, shattering a narrow, crooked chimney. The gunshot sent the monster darting to the right as it reacted with animal instinct.

  Gripping their rifles, the two men sped after the brute, trying to keep up as the monster bounded along the length of the shadowy conjoined roofs. They followed the sounds, tracked the monsters silhouette. Sawyer aimed vaguely in the direction of the inhumanly muscled figure and fired five shots in rapid succession. All to no effect.

  Quatermain chided the young man for wasting ammunition. "If you can't do it with one bullet, lad, don't do it at all."

  As if to prove his point, the old hunter fired at the monster. A section of roof decoration exploded in the beast-man's face, spraying tile shards and making the creature spin about and leap awkwardly to another rooftop across the street.

  "He's doubled back!"

  "Precisely. He doesn't know where we want him to go," Quatermain said. "Come on! We'll wrap this up soon."

  Sawyer ran ahead of the older man around a left corner just as a stone angel came tumbling down from high above. "Look out!" Quatermain snatched the young man's arm and dragged him back as the statue smashed on the cobblestones, missing them by inches. "That was naughty of him."

  "Thanks," Sawyer said. "Who does he think he is, Quasimodo?"

  "Keep your eyes open, boy! This isn't a coon hunt, and I can't protect you all the time." Quatermain sniffed the air. "Ah, but he's afraid. It won't be long now, mark my words."

  "I can't smell anything." Sawyer drew an exaggerated sniff. "Just the gutters."

  "Shhh." Quatermain put his ear up against the moist brick wall and listened for vibrations. He waited for a moment, then stepped out of cover, aimed upward, and fired a series of perfect shots, driving the monster out of the shadows. The beast roared a challenge, lifting clawed hands, but Quatermain fired again, once more barely missing.

  Each well-aimed shot was about a hair away from the beast, and each impact sent plaster and brick exploding around its misshapen head. The monster had no choice but to back away, trying to dodge the attack. Each bullet drove the creature closer and closer to a steeply tiled roof that sloped into a cul-de-sac. A carefully orchestrated trap.

  Finally, predictably, the beast leaped and landed with broad bare feet on the dew-slick tiles of the steep roof. His thick, blunt toenails were like spatulas carved out of horn.

  As the monster scrambled for purchase, Quatermain paused below and lifted his trusty elephant gun Matilda. He aimed and fired the perfect coup de grace — not at the cornered brute, but at a sagging gutter upon which all the tiles depended.

  With a thunderous, shattering clatter, the tiles slid off en masse, like an avalanche. High above, the howling monster tried to scramble up. His clawed hands tried to get a hold on the sliding surface. Finally, he snatched at a chimney pot with long clawed fingers and strained with iron-cable sinews — but the pot itself broke free with a groan. Airborne, the monster tumbled into the cul-de-sac.

  "Perfect," Quatermain said. He pulled out a flare gun and launched a blooming phosphorus flower high into the night sky of Paris. "Now we've got him."

  The light of the flare illuminated the stunned monster as he sprawled grunting and twitching on the hard ground. With an inhuman groan, the beast lifted its head up, cradling its temples from the pain of the impact.

  "We've got to get there before it moves!" Sawyer said.

/>   "Not to worry for now. Captain Nemo rigged up a little surprise."

  As it tried to regain its feet, the huge, man-shaped thing began to realize it had fallen on top of a thin mesh of wire and rope — a hidden net that suddenly activated. With a sound like an overstressed spring breaking loose, the net shot upward, engulfing and lifting its prey.

  Once the trap was triggered, a central cable drew the corners of the mesh tight and then began to drag the snarling package down the cul-de-sac at incredible speed. Helpless, the captive monster jostled and bounced in the net that rapidly pulled him — roaring all the while — to a slipway on the Seine river.

  Gleaming and enormous in the moonlight, the Nautilus waited at the end of the cable, engines humming as it reeled in the trapped beast. The tough cable led straight into an open hatch. Turbines and spindles whirled, pulling the netted creature through the hatch and into the submarine boat.

  The heavy metal door slammed shut as Quatermain and Sawyer bounded back to the underwater vessel, satisfied with their night's hunting.

  "There we are," the old adventurer said. "Our team is complete. Now, off to Venice."

  THIRTEEN

  The Nautilus

  Aboard the underwater war vessel, Nemo's loyal crewmen went about their duties. Their captain had issued his orders, and the submarine craft was under way, heading for their important rendezvous in Venice.

  When two of the sailors cast uneasy glances at each other with each roaring howl from the lower chamber, the salty first mate Ishmael scolded them. "Never mind that. You've got work to do."