“Who are you people?” Helman had run out of theories. He had no idea what he was doing there.
The figure third from the left spoke again.
“We wish to offer you a contract. We wish you to assassinate for us.”
A cold, detached part of Helman accepted that as a legitimate request. That was the reason they had approached him: they wanted to buy his services. He examined them closely. Eleven indistinguishable figures. All with black cloths obscuring their faces and hands. All with the same whisper-hiss way of speaking. Their request seemed legitimate, even if they did not. But the request made no sense. What were they hiding?
They had the resources to completely uncover one of his closings. They had the ability to locate him within minutes of his arrival in New York. They were surrounded by the trappings of wealth. Helman had no doubt that they also had the resources and ability to hire anyone in the world to kill anyone else. Why did they come to him?
“I’ve retired,” was all he said.
Instantly Mr. King was behind him, his steely fingers pressed deeply into the soft muscles just below Helman’s skull.
The room turned red. Blood roared through his ears. Helman’s head was twisted slowly and painfully up to meet the incredible eyes of the man who held him motionless. The eyes did glow. Or was it the blood being forced from his head? As if at a great distance, Helman heard Mr. King’s single word. “Respect.”
And then the room steadied and the warm light of the chandelier returned. Mr. King was no longer behind him. He was sitting in his chair. Helman had not been aware of any movement. The group at the table came into focus once more. The figure third from the left spoke again.
“You are an assassin. You will not speak to us otherwise. Your fee shall be the destruction of the evidence we hold against you.”
Another voice spoke. From which figure it came, Helman could not be sure.
“Remember your sister and her children. You have no choice.”
Helman rubbed gently at his inflamed neck. He knew what the penalty was for saying something to these people which they aid not want to hear, but he had to risk it.
“With all respect, why have you chosen me for this? I’m an independent. I don’t compare to the capabilities your organisation has shown in bringing me here. Surely there are others who would be more suitable?”
Mr. King spoke.
“Mr. Helman. They have chosen you. That makes you suitable. I strongly advise against questioning their judgement.” A lesser man might have punctuated that threat with an ominous clenching of a fist or some other reminder of the pain which had been inflicted, but Mr. King simply sat still. Everything about these people was understated and brutal. They had no need to threaten, they simply got their way. They were in complete control.
The confusion was leaving Helman. The resolve and, from the shadows, fear were growing.
Again a masked figure spoke.
“It is precisely for those reasons about which you have expressed concern, that we have chosen you.
“There are spheres of influence operating in the world which are far removed, in goals and power, from the areas in which you find yourself. You are involved in the petty circles of criminal endeavour, of corporate enterprise, political machinations. None of them concerns us. Just as we, at present, are of no concern to them. We all of us go our own ways, and only time will tell who is the master.”
Helman listened in fascination. Were they mad? After crime, business, and politics, what was left?
The figure continued.
“These spheres are quite rarefied and open only to a few. Much power is exercised among them but a drawback is that all within are known to each other.”
Helman saw what they were driving at.
“You have never operated in such concerns and therefore are useful as an unknown quantity.
“Simply, we wish to punish one who has fallen away from us and our ways. This person is to be your target. Our usual operatives, and our usual methods, are known to the target, and certain defences are possible. We wish you to carry out this contract because you will be able to move freely without being identified, without causing alarm, until it is too late,”
Helman asked the question his training demanded.
“There have been other attempts against the target?”
The figure nodded. “There have been other attempts.”
And there it was. Nothing more had to be said. Like the Delvecchio closing, Helman was being brought in to correct a mistake. Only this time he had no idea whose mistake it was. His retirement, it seemed, was over. He had to kill one more time or risk the lives of the only people who mattered to him. His dreams and his life were secondary. They did not have to mention their evidence against him again. They had said it once. He doubted that these people would ever bother to repeat themselves.
“What guarantees do I have that after I complete your contract, the evidence will be destroyed? My family will be safe?”
Mr. King spoke. He seemed to be taking the role of interpreter, as though Helman represented a completely different world to the group at the table; a world which needed constant explanation.
“You have no such guarantees, Mr. Helman. Frankly, you’re not in a position to demand them. You also have no guarantee that upon completing the contract we simply won’t kill you ourselves.”
Helman had known that.
“All I can offer,” Mr. King continued, “is an appeal to your professional instincts. Each death is another opportunity for unpredictability. A careful plan can unravel with unanticipated inquiries from those who investigate bodies and death. You represent no threat to us. You don’t know who we are, where we are, our motives, or the victim. Why risk a murder investigation when there is no need?”
Helman had no doubt that his body could disappear, just as easily as Joe Delvecchio’s.
“Besides, Mr. Helman, at the very least, co-operating with us will buy you time,” For the first time, the man’s expression changed from one of deadly earnestness. He smiled at Helman.
For no particular reason he could think of, Helman noted that the man’s teeth were perfect. White and even and regular, contrasting vividly with dark, brooding eyes.
Surrounded then, by a man with deadly fingers and a movie star’s smile, and a mysterious group of people who wore bizarre masks in a peculiar room which, he noted for the first time, had no windows, Helman realised he must make his choice. And he realised that, in actuality, there was no choice to be made. There was only one course of action open to him.
He asked, “Who do you want me to kill?” and the briefing began. An envelope was produced containing pictures of the target, lists of recommended strategies and conditions which must be met.
The first thing he learned was that his target was Adrienne St. Clair, a woman who had just arrived in North America from England. The second thing he learned was that she was deadly. And after he had learned all that they would tell him, Mr. King, again without movement which Helman could sense, was behind him, fingers of steel pushing into his neck.
Helman collapsed, unknowing, without a shudder.
And now that the human would be removed from their presence, the masks could come off.
Chapter Seven
LORD EDUARDO DIEGO y Rey rose from his position at the middle of the meeting table. His fingers worked delicately through the covering layers of loose black cloth wrapped around his hands, until he was free of its disguise.
His hands were gaunt and white. Each bone and tendon marked out in high relief. Not even the blue of arteries showed through the whiteness of his skin, as though something other than blood coursed through him.
His nails were inch-long wicked talons of brilliant white. They seemed to glow in the warm light of the meeting room’s chandelier. He moved his hands behind his head to the fastening clip of the mask cord, and it too came free.
King felt envy as he gazed upon the face of Diego. It was the face of a Lord, un
marred by the necessities of the camouflage needed for dealing with the humans. Diego’s rank was such that he never had to deal directly with them. Or else the humans he did deal with were of such rank that he did not have to disguise his true nature.
Diego’s skin was paler than any albino’s. The white was not just an absence of colour, it was a colour of itself. And his fangs, pushing delicately against his lower lip, had the appearance of marble: a true Lord of the Conclave, ruler of all yber. It was the name they called themselves. Humans called them by one far more foul.
“Mr. King,” Diego said, his pale lips drawing back from the exquisite, needle-sharp incisors. His own kind would consider it a smile, as if it amused Diego to call King by the name he took while working among humans. “The situation seems controlled. When it is settled, consider travelling back with me to Spain. There is work there for you which would not require masks, of any kind.”
“Of course, Lord Diego,” King replied calmly. But in his thoughts he was thrilled. Lord Diego had just offered to be his mentor, an escape from the cruel mutilation of his own fangs so that he might pass among the humans. And such offers led to others; a century or two from now, he might even be allowed a seat on the Conclave itself.
“When this matter is completed,” Diego said.
“When the heretic St. Clair has been given the Final Death,” King agreed.
“And the human, Mr. King. It would be best if his body could be easily recovered and tied to whatever actions he might commit. When the human authorities have the dead suspect, they will not look further into it.”
King nodded. Implicit in all his plans was the feel that Granger Helman could not be allowed to live. If the foolish human had believed what King had told him about going free after the heretic had been dealt with, so much the better. If Helman did not expect any treachery, the treachery would be that much easier.
“What shall be done about his sister, my Lord? And the children?”
“That depends on what his actions are likely to be. You were correct when you said he would react favourably when we threatened them. In truth he reacted more strongly to the threat against them than the threat against himself. Do you think he will attempt to contact them?”
“As soon as he can, my Lord.”
“Then we will have to establish our presence. He cannot be allowed to think that we have no actual power over them. What do you suggest?”
“Methods he would understand, my Lord. An audible phone tap to begin with, so he will know all his communication with them is monitored. I also suggest some familiars place themselves in a position of watching. He must often communicate over unsecured lines. He works extensively with subtle codes. Quite likely he might have some way of alerting her.”
“And afterward?”
“If she does not try to elude us and we do not have to contact her directly, she is nothing to us.”
“Still, from what you have told us of him, he is unusual for a human. Are the children related to him by blood?”
“They are, my Lord.”
“And what are their ages?”
“Steven is twelve. Campbell is ten,” said King. His research had been extensive.
“Very good. When both Adrienne and the assassin have been given their respective deaths, kill the sister and bring the children to me. A decade or two as familiars and if they share any of their uncle’s attributes, they will make worthy additions. Yes?”
“As you wish, Lord Diego.”
“Delightful.” Diego waved his hand at the unconscious form of Helman, his claws flickering through the air like scythes. “Take him away. Start him on his journey.”
King picked up Helman as if the unconscious form were only the weight of its empty clothes and carried him through the doors at the end of the meeting room. The doors were closed behind him by two young men, their eyes dark and sunken, with black cloth wrapped around their necks: Diego’s familiars.
“And now we shall deal with the Jesuit who dared come too close and spy on our place of meeting,” Diego announced.
The ten others at the table agreed. They had removed their own masks and hand cloths as Diego and King had decided Helman’s fate. All, like Diego, bore delicate, needle-sharp fangs and white, polished claws. It was a full gathering of the Eastern Meeting. The last had been fourteen years ago to plan a foray into the politics of humans which had ended disastrously five years after it had begun in an unprecedented scandal at the highest levels. The reasons for this gathering were even more urgent.
The first reason was Adrienne St. Clair, but Diego was satisfied with King’s arrangements, and felt the matter was settled. The threat had been neutralised and the Conclave was safe from within. But from without, danger grew stronger each passing night. Something had happened within the Jesuits of the Seventh Grade. The equilibrium of centuries was being threatened and, ironically, it had taken the heretic woman to bring it to the Conclave’s attention.
The fiasco at Heathrow was, without question, the work of the Jesuits. By itself, it was meaningless. Such attacks occurred from time to time, from both sides. But what was chilling in its implication was that for the first time in over four hundred years of conflict, the Jesuits had involved outsiders, and those outsiders had been told what to expect. The British soldiers had carried crossbows: weapons of the Final Death.
For the past two hundred years, the conflict had been contained. Both the Jesuits and the Conclave had skirmished incessantly, but each had kept their battles secret, for each held awesome weapons against the other. The Jesuits of the Seventh Grade knew the true nature of the Conclave and through the world-wide missions of their brothers of the first six grades, that truth could be told to the world of humans. Some of these humans would believe and the Conclave would be crushed, not by the strength or intellect of humans, but by their numbers.
But before the Conclave would let that happen, the catacombs of Rome would also be exposed to the world: the sordid truths of actions taken by the hypocrites who for two thousand years had existed in the Jesuits’ Holy Church, were catalogued and ready. The yber had also moved within that same church for generations. Documents existed concerning certain saints, certain phenomena, and, more damning in these times, certain political expediencies. One of those expediencies was known to the world by a special name. And if the Conclave were threatened by any revelations by the Jesuits of the Seventh Grade, then those documents would find their way into the hands of those who would not hide them.
Madmen, removed from the seat of the Church’s power, but acting for it nonetheless, had drafted those documents so they might survive the storm that threatened Europe. Those documents engineered the insanity that followed. The insanity that the world called the Holocaust.
The Conclave might not survive, but the Jesuits’ beloved Church would be swept into oblivion with it.
Thus each had battled, constrained from using their ultimate secrets against each other. Until Heathrow. Until Adrienne St. Clair. Lord Diego would learn why the enemy had involved humans in their conflict or the bound and captive Jesuit his familiars now brought before him would pray for eternal damnation for release from what Diego would do to him.
The Jesuit’s arms were tied behind his back and he was firmly held on each side by the familiars. He was old. The hair that was left to him was sparse and white. Though he appeared frail, he stood proudly before the massive table. But his eyes were closed and his mouth moved silently in the words of prayer.
Diego walked around the table and stood in front of the Jesuit. He held his claws lightly against the face of the praying man. Slowly he pressed into the flesh, depressing it, deeper, until tiny wellings of red formed at each claw’s tip.
“Open your eyes, Father Benedict,” he hissed. “Look into the eyes of Hell.” The last word was screamed. The startled Jesuit jerked backward, eyes opened on the hideous fanged monster before him. His face was shredded by the knife-sharp talons.
Father Benedict wailed in
agony, blood streaming from ten deep slashes down his face. Diego lifted one blood spattered claw and slowly guided it to the Jesuit’s left eye.
“Don’t you like my face, Priest? Does your eye offend thee?”
The Jesuit strained backward against the solid grip of the familiars, his eyes transfixed by the closing tip of Diego’s outstretched claw.
“What is it your bible says about your eye offending thee? What is it, Priest?”
Father Benedict mumbled prayers feverishly, not moving his eyes from the evil point inches from his face.
Diego’s other hand shot out and slapped the Jesuit with a crack like lightning. Blood sprayed from the wounds of his face.
“What is it? What is it? What does your bible say?”
Father Benedict looked into the eyes of Hell, looked into the face of Diego. “Pluck it out,” he whispered.
Diego’s claw thrust out before the Jesuit could blink. It sliced through his eye, gouging savagely. The eyeball burst from its socket, collapsing as its inner fluid ran down the Jesuit’s face, mixing with the still-dripping blood. Diego pulled back with a sudden twist. The upper eyelid hung grotesquely over the gaping socket like peeling paint. The Jesuit’s screams were deafening at first, but changed quickly to deep sobs, obscured by the constant mouthing of prayers which still he continued.
“Perhaps if you thought of something to say to us other than your cursed pleas for help from your insipid god, I might do something about the pain. And you would still have at least one eye left by sunrise.”
Father Benedict said nothing. He squinted through his right eye. It was impossible for him to open it wider because of the massive damage to the other.
“What are you to your god that he would let this happen to you, Priest? What can this be worth?”
The Jesuit, finally, spoke. “Salvation.” The word was garbled. Blood and other liquids gathered in his mouth.
“I can give you that,” said Diego, stepping away slightly, decreasing the threat.
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