by DD Barant
“Yeah. He was put into the jar while drugged, but the killer didn’t turn on the blades until his victim woke up and understood the situation.”
“Out of sadism?”
“I don’t think so. I think he was giving him a chance to escape.”
Neil nods. “I’m not aware of this TV show, but the conception reminds me of Batman’s early creators—artists like Bob Kane and Dick Sprang, writers like Bill Finger. They often used giant props in their stories; the gigantic penny and oversize Joker card in the Batcave are a legacy from that era. A huge blender is exactly the sort of thing they would have come up with… but of course, they would have scripted a less messy ending.”
“Yeah, Batman always managed to escape. His villains almost seemed to want to fail—some of them were compelled to leave him messages in advance. Riddles, jokes. My guy left a poem.”
I recite it from memory. Neil listens intently, raising his eyebrows at the second line. “Interesting. It’s neither a riddle nor a joke, though it does contain several puns: nightly and late, for instance. Some of the other words may have double meanings as well.”
“Such as?”
“Promethean, for one.”
“Yeah, I noticed you react. Why?”
“It’s a reference to both Grant Morrison and Alan Moore, two of the writers I mentioned last time. Morrison introduced a villain named Prometheus to fight the Justice League, and Moore created Promethea, a comic book series thirty-two issues long—the same number of mystical paths said to exist in the magic system Kabbalah. It concerns a powerful female warrior with both African and Greek roots, a metaphysical being who possesses a female host and can be summoned in a number of ways—one of which is through reading a poem. She is, in fact, a living form of art itself; sometimes a poem, sometimes a song, sometimes a comic strip or story.”
“This Moore—he was one of the ‘practicing magicians’ you talked about, right?”
“Yes. And the plot lines of the Promethea series tie in to several of the themes that seem to obsess your killer—the intersection between imagination and reality, ritual magic used in a superheroic context, transformation from one state to another.”
“In this case, from solid to liquid. But not metal, like the previous two.” I lean against the railing, watching the hypnotic motion of the waves below. I can see something massive and luminescent swimming far beneath them. “Tell me more about Promethea.”
“The series is basically a philosophical lecture on the nature of Kabbalah and the ten levels of the Tree of Life, though there are also more traditional story elements to it. One of the major subplots involves a ‘celebrity omnipath,’ a serial killer called the Painted Doll. He turns out to be a sophisticated robot.”
So now we have an artificial man and a half-African warrior woman involved. “Do any cowboys, pirates, or gladiators show up?”
“I see where you’re going. I’d have to double-check, but I don’t believe so—though a sun god does put in an appearance.”
He’s referring to Cassius’s role as the Solar Centurion. “I’m starting to think I’m dealing with more than one person. One’s a thief, the other’s a killer. One stages elaborate postmortem scenes that refer to comic book history, the other locates and steals powerful, hidden magical items.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
I sigh. “Maybe I am. The one possibility I can’t ignore is that the killer is one of the Bravos that conveniently survived. Maybe even both of them.”
“Or one of the ones that hasn’t been targeted yet?”
“Brother Stone and the Quicksilver Kid. One I can’t locate, the other doesn’t have anything to steal—not unless you want a few statues for your backyard.”
“So—the two lems? The African Queen and the Solar Centurion? Or perhaps some combination thereof…” I don’t reply. I’m missing something, I know it. It has to do with the Sword of Midnight, that much I’m sure of—I just don’t know what. I stare down at the water, watching that immense, glowing shape glide past in the depths. Wondering how deep it is, and how large. Wondering what I’d do if it abruptly surfaced and decided to ram the ship like some kind of sentient iceberg…
“Penny for your thoughts?” Neil says. “Sure,” I say. “Got a giant one handy?” He chuckles. We go back to staring down at the ocean. At least nobody showed up naked this time. I lie in bed for a long time after I wake up. I run through things in my mind, fitting things together.
Sometimes, that’s all you need; just some quiet time, with no distractions or crises, to do some thinking.
Then I get up, put some coffee up, and prod the vampire who’s asleep on my couch. Cassius snaps awake like a TV turning on. Once second he’s an inert lump, the next his eyes are open and he’s there, completely alert. “Yes?”
I shake my head, mutter something dire, and shuffle back to the kitchen. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I think I know who our killer is. Kind of.”
“Who?”
“No. Caffeine first, then revelations.”
For an immortal, he’s surprisingly impatient. I don’t drag the coffee-making process out, but he’s practically vibrating with frustration by the time I take my first sip. “Ah,” I say. “Okay.” He’s seated across from me at the kitchen table, me in my bathrobe, him in the same clothes he slept in.
He still looks more composed than me. “Time travel,” I say. He frowns. “Time travel.”
“That’s what I figure.” I take another long sip. “Barbarossa’s sword can cause temporal effects. The fact that she was killed first threw me off, but I think I’ve got it worked out.”
“Go ahead.”
“I think there were two people involved from the start—Barbarossa and John Dark. And when I say ‘involved,’ I mean they were seeing each other, way back in the Seduction of the Innocent days. That didn’t end well, but Dark survived. I think he and Barbarossa cut some kind of deal with the Hexagon, something that gave the Bravos the advantage when they attacked and let Dark disappear afterward.”
He studies me, not saying anything. After another sip, I continue.
“Jump to present day. Dark plans his comeback. He enlists Barbarossa—maybe they rekindle their relationship—and she can’t resist the ultimate score: stealing the Bravos’ weapons. “She uses the Sword’s time-travel abilities to mess with the sequence of events. The first two thefts—the shield and your armor—go well. They plant volcanic rock at the storage locker to implicate Brother Stone, who’s already half crazy with survivor’s guilt. “Then something goes wrong. They have a falling-out, probably over methods. The Sword doesn’t want to kill any of her old teammates, and Dark’s plan hinges on it. He kills her over it—then uses the Sword to make it appear as if she were killed at a different time than she actually was.”
“Uh-huh.”
“After that, Dark kills Aquitaine. He makes the crime scenes look like the work of someone both insane and obsessed with comic books. And then—this is really bizarre part—gets killed himself, in one of his own staged scenes. By Barbarossa.” I lean back, trying—but not too hard—to hide my triumphant grin behind my mug of coffee. “I see,” Cassius says thoughtfully. “Barbarossa, of course, has traveled forward in time to kill her lover, doing so sometime between when they argue and when he actually kills her. Very clever.”
“Thank you. I haven’t quite worked out the actual sequence of events, but I think—”
“There’s only one problem.”
“Which is?”
He shakes his head. “Jace, the Midnight Sword only causes temporal effects. Actual jumping around in history isn’t possible. If it were, don’t you think a thief like Barbarossa would have taken advantage of that a long time ago?”
I blink. I finish my coffee. I get up. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me when I’m as smart as I think I am.”
“Jace.” Cassius gets up, stops me with a hand on my arm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself
. You’re dealing with a lot of unpredictable elements, from political agendas to unnatural laws.”
“I know that. But I’m used to dealing with crazy people, and what goes on inside some of those skulls makes this seem as straightforward as a soup recipe. It’s just—damn it, I know Barbarossa is the key. I just don’t know where the goddamn lock is.”
“Which is largely my fault.” His tone is confessional, not accusing.
“You’re just doing your job. I’m sure that if I were in your position I’d be just as protective of my secrets—”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve made many hard decisions—but that doesn’t mean I’ve always made the right ones.”
“Nobody does, Caligula.”
He refuses to take the easy, bantering way out. “That doesn’t mean you ignore your mistakes. Or stop trying to fix them.”
I sit down on the couch and motion for him to sit next to me. He does. “Okay. There something you need to tell me?”
“Yes.” His eyes meet mine. “Maybe this is a mistake, but I can’t watch you flailing around in the dark anymore. It’s time you learned about the Hexagon—and what its real purpose is…”
EIGHTEEN
“The Hexagon,” Cassius says, “was formed in 700 BC. Its first members were two lycanthropes and two hemovores: Romulus, Nebuchadnezzar, Makeda, and Nefertiti.” He pauses. “They were all rulers: of Rome, of Assyria, of Egypt. Makeda was better known as the Queen of Sheba. They came together to establish an alliance between the two supernatural races and originally called themselves the Quadrangle—the name was changed in the sixteenth century when two golems were added to the ruling council.
“Their plans were far reaching. Long lives had shown them that countries rise and fall, but a dynasty—properly tended—could last forever. There were two problems, though: Thropes had many children, which could tear apart a ruling family with internal strife and power struggles; and pires didn’t procreate in the natural sense at all, while a bloodline based on turning human victims didn’t have the kind of stable continuity a dynasty required. The group established a set of protocols to counter these problems.
“The lycanthropes agreed to a system of arranged marriages—essentially a breeding program. Litters would be limited through sorcery, producing only one or two heirs at a time. These would be groomed as future rulers, their loyalty to the Hexagon ingrained from birth.
“The pires had to use a more complex method: human proxies—usually powerful warriors or rulers—bound to them by magic and manipulated into mating with each other. The child produced would be taken away at birth and raised by pires, and then turned when it came of age.”
“By who?” I ask. “The male pire, or the female?”
“Both, actually. The ritual used was the precursor of the one used today to impart life force from pire parents to their offspring. It wasn’t nearly as powerful, but it did ensure that certain traits were passed along: qualities like leadership, ambition, intelligence.”
I nod. “So the Hexagon are queen and kingmakers. Not so different from royal families marrying off children to produce political alliances—just more focused on long-term results.”
“In essence. Magic was also used in other ways—to preserve the genetic legacy of a powerful thrope leader, for instance. Not effective with pires—at least not at the time—but a long-dead thrope could still wind up fathering children centuries later.”
“You’re talking about artificial insemination. Magic sperm from a dead werewolf.”
He smiles. “It doesn’t seem as far-fetched when that werewolf has conquered most of the known world.”
I take a guess. “Ghenghis Khan?”
“Among others. Not all the Hexagon’s children go on to positions of power, but many do. Some even become legends.”
“Like the Bravos.” It suddenly hit me, a connection so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t seen it before. “Oh, for—Saladin Aquitaine. It’s more than just a memorable name, it’s a thumbnail of his heritage.”
“Yes. He’s a descendant of Saladin, the Egyptian sultan of the twelfth century, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was both French and English nobility. Some Hexagon members disguise their names by changing them slightly, but some bear them proudly.”
I think about it. “Catharine Shaka. Catherine the Great and Shaka Zulu.”
“Yes. John Dark’s full name is John Tamerlane D’arc, from the great Turkish conqueror and Joan of Arc. The Sword of Midnight was born Lucille Borgia Barbarossa, after the famed Italian schemers and the pirate known as Redbeard.”
Another name was tugging at my memory. “How about Cali Edison? I get the second part, but—”
“Calamity Jane.”
“Calamity Jane? Really?”
He shrugs. “We wanted strong genes, aggressive instincts. She was one of the toughest women alive. Combined with Thomas Edison’s intellect, you get—”
“A snappy redhead in a jail cell.”
“It’s not an exact science.”
“Guess not. How do lems fit into all this? They don’t breed.”
He looks away for a moment. “No, they don’t. But they’re still a large and powerful part of society, one the Hexagon recognized needed to be dealt with. By giving them a say in our affairs, we acquired the loyalty of their own leadership. It’s one of the reasons golems acquired rights in the first place—we arranged for it.”
Sure. Better to head off the inevitable slave revolt by conceding a few liberties here and there; the most loyal dog is the one you pamper, not the one you beat. “And how about you, Cassius? Who are you descended from?”
He shakes his head. “That’s not relevant. I told you earlier that the Hexagon splintered just after World War Two. What you need to know—what may be the most important factor in this entire affair—is what led to that schism.”
“You said it had something to do with methodology and direction.”
“Yes. Specifically, it was about the hemovore reproductive process.”
He pauses. This is a delicate subject, and he knows it. A global spell was cast at the end of the war, one that allowed pires to reproduce the way they do today. The cost of that spell was six million human lives, demanded by the extradimensional fertility god that powered it. It was paid.
“Most of the Hexagon—myself included—wanted to abandon the methods we’d been using for pires up until then. Another faction, headed by John Dark, thought that it was too valuable an asset to give up. The mental coercion used to persuade humans to breed to pire order was more useful when humans still ruled the planet, but it was still a powerful tool. I argued that the human race had sacrificed enough.”
“Don’t you mean had been sacrificed enough?”
He looks back at me, pain in his eyes. “Yes. That’s exactly what I meant. It had to be done for my species to survive, but that does not excuse the monstrosity of it. All right?”
“No,” I say coldly. “But keep talking.”
“Dark formed his own group. He bided his time until he saw an opportunity with Wertham—the rest you know.”
I think about it. This puts a whole new slant on things—connections I hadn’t made before suddenly seem obvious. Any alliance between Hexagon members was more than just a partnership—it was a potential family. If Lucy Barbarossa was having an affair, it could have led to her switching sides—especially if a child was involved. Which means—
“Gretchen,” I say. “How would the Hexagon react to a nonmember having a child with a member? Or am I wrong, and Gretch’s real name is Anastasia Rocke feller?”
“She’s not part of the Hexagon. The practice isn’t encouraged, but neither is it forbidden—however, a child of such a union would not be groomed for future leadership.”
But it might be enough to get the child’s father targeted by a homicidal lunatic with a decades-old grudge. Maybe this is about more than revenge or amassing power; maybe it’s about a birthright denied. “Cassius
, are there records kept of such children? Ones born to Hexagon members, but passed over because of their mixed heritage?”
“Yes, of course—many rise to prominence, anyway. But none of them would have access to the kind of information our killer seems to possess.”
“Not officially, no. But maybe Mommy or Daddy spilled the beans…”
We don’t even have to leave the apartment; Cassius taps into a secure database from my laptop and downloads the files we need. I make coffee and we spend the next few hours poring over the data, trying to find a connection between one of the unsanctioned offspring and our killer.
It’s slow going; there are a lot of them, mostly thropes, but no one that jumps out at us. “Maybe we’re not looking at this right,” I say, leaning back and stifling a yawn. “Maybe it’s not someone who didn’t have the right mother or father—maybe it’s someone who didn’t have either one. In any sense of the word.”
“A golem? That’s unlikely.”
“Is it? They’re part of the group, but they don’t have the same power—no world leadership for them. And you told me yourself that sometimes lems go rogue.”
“Yes, but not insane. They essentially revert to their animal natures, losing their intelligence while becoming more violent and impulsive. It’s usually an easy thing to spot, with a very distinctive pattern to it. There’s nothing like the kind of complex irrationality we’ve seen with the staging of the crime scenes.”
“So you’re saying that lems don’t go crazy—they just go wild?”
“Yes. And before you ask—no, the Ghatanothoa effect that’s producing mental illness in thropes and pires hasn’t affected any lems yet. They seem immune.” So no insane golems. I shake my head, thinking of Brother Stone alone in his self-made crypt, chiseling the forms of the dead. Isn’t religion a form of craziness? If so, Stone definitely qualified. Or how about the Quicksilver Kid, hunting down bail jumpers and locking them in the trunk of his car? He hadn’t seemed crazy to me, but—like Stone—he was a loner. Maybe he reverted to the persona of the rattlesnakes that powered him when he was alone, spent all his time lying on a rock in the sun.
