When Quincey finally pulled away he said, “Now as I was saying, you really mean to recruit my fiancée into your organization?” He turned and winked at her.
“Relax,” Roosevelt said. He revealed another piece of paper and slapped it against Quincey’s barrel chest. “Major Pascal chose her. I choose you. I need a hunter of unquestionable distinction. You up for it?”
“What are we hunting?”
“We will track the most ferocious and sly beasts of all. Bad ones,” Roosevelt said.
Quincey smiled; he knew what that meant. “Where about?” he asked.
Roosevelt leaned in closer. “Everywhere.”
“Men aren’t difficult to track, sir; they’re difficult to kill.” Quincey folded his orders, slid them into his back pocket, and with a practiced movement, kicked up the bolt-action rifle from the ground into the air and caught with two hands before bringing it casually to one shoulder. He winked. “A wise man once told me that.”
“Not as wise as people say,” Roosevelt said.
Quincey shook the former president’s hand again. “You have yourself a hunter, Teddy.”
“Speaking of which,” Roosevelt continued, “have you finished my animals yet? The Smithsonian is breathing down my neck for its new exhibit.”
“Almost. Having trouble setting the right kind of eyes on the water buffalo.”
“You still own the shop on East 86th?”
“Sure do.”
“If you would read the fine print on your appointment letter . . .”
Quincey handed the rifle to Mink in almost parade-like fashion. He fumbled for the letter and unfolded it, perusing it carefully. “You’re commandeering my shop?”
“We need a place with lots of space. Somewhere inconspicuous—a place where people walking in with rifles and dead things is the norm. A taxidermy shop is perfect. And don’t worry, you will receive just compensation from the government for this much-needed annexation.”
“So let me get this straight. You want me and my beautiful fiancée,” he turned and winked again, “to travel around the world and secretly hunt down, what? Bad people?”
“The worst people, actually. But yes, and to use your taxidermy shop as a headquarters,” Roosevelt answered.
“Count me in!” Quincey exclaimed.
“How about you, Minerva?” Roosevelt asked.
“No one calls me that anymore.” She looked with hawk-eyes toward the milk can in the distance. “Call me Mink. And I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“All right then, it’s settled. I’ll be in touch,” Roosevelt said before starting down the hill.
“Where are you going now?” Quincey yelled.
“I need to see a scientist,” Roosevelt called back over his shoulder.
EPILOGUE
The Council
September 11, 1914
Bannerman’s Castle
Pollepel Island, New York, New York
The Grand Vizier Francis Bannerman made his fortune in military surplus and arms dealing, and his partially finished castle looked as though it had weathered centuries of siege and storms. In reality, it had only weathered 14 years of Hudson River humidity and government red tape. Situated on the west end of the six-acre Pollepel Island, its sandy and rust-colored stone towers were just a 1,000 feet from the east bank. The main keep was meant to house more than 30 million munitions cartridges that Bannerman’s current warehouse on 5th Avenue was unable to accommodate. In his failing health, however, construction had slowed to a virtual standstill. Empty scaffolding surrounded much of the castle. Walls were incomplete and some roofs were missing entirely.
Beneath the southern rampart was a partially finished tower with wooden planks acting as a makeshift roof. The top of the tower connected to the main keep and trailed down a hill to a rocky shoreline below. Dark green vines enveloped the tower, making it nearly invisible from some vantage points. The concrete foundation at the bottom, however, provided a stable platform for all of Dr. Fatum’s equipment. Twelve metal backboards, complete with straps and accompanying tubes, formed a circle around a massive vat of churning, fluorescent-white liquid. Some of the tubes came from the vat itself, other led to another empty vat nearby. Buzzing wires traversed the room, some of them leading to monitoring equipment to one side of the room, and the rest leading off through the wilderness to a generator on the east side of the island. Ironically, torches provided all the ambient light, the flames constantly bowing in the evening winds that careened through the gaps in the walls. As Dr. Fatum frantically prepared for The Transcendence, he recalled his favorite book, The Modern Prometheus. With the lighting flashing in the distance and the continuation of his life’s work in progress, he never felt closer to the book’s protagonist, Victor Frankenstein.
“They’ve come!” yelled Dr. Fatum’s newest assistant, a teenage boy wearing brown trousers and a matching vest. His dirty blonde hair was held back by the goggles on his forehead. “They’ve already come onto the docks.” Bannerman’s castle had its own private wharf on the north end of the island, which provided the only real access point. It would be a matter of minutes before they arrived.
“Get ready, boy!” Dr. Fatum yelled back.
The first person entered the tower from the rounded stairway above, which hugged one of the finished walls. He was absurdly tall with bright blue eyes, blonde hair swept back into a long ponytail, and a thick beard that tumbled to his chest. His casual three-piece suit looked normal enough, but the two small axes that hung from his belt, as well as the Finnish-made rifle that lay diagonally across his large back, provided to be odd accoutrements. The Norseman looked about the tower as he slowly descended the stairs, noting the only exits, which were the one behind him up the stairs and the largest gap in the wall at floor level. At the base of the stairs, he crossed his arms and maintained a close watch on Dr. Fatum and his assistant. He was the same man who had been scouting the grounds over the last week or so, secretly watching Dr. Fatum toil about his lab before The Council’s arrival. The Council had plenty of questions for Kasper Holstrom when he finally resurfaced, so Mr. Vault anticipated this reconnaissance and instructed Dr. Fatum to continue his work in a focused and oblivious manner.
“Good evening,” Dr. Fatum said, adjusting a dial on one of his machines.
The Norseman said nothing. A figure clad in a red-hooded robe next appeared at the top of the stairs. Like a scarlet specter, it floated down the stone staircase. Eleven more red-hooded figures followed suit, all of them folding their arms so they disappeared into their wide sleeves. They all wore large gold chains with shimmering gold medallions suspended from them, each golden disc with a different, alien inscription.
“Replace the primary suction on number nine, boy, and refasten the ground wire on number three. Quickly, quickly!” Dr. Fatum yelled. The young assistant darted across the floor, coming close to the staircase. The Norseman instinctively grabbed the boy’s neck and hoisted him three feet off the ground with little effort. The boy struggled against the impossibly tight grip; he could already feel his eyesight fading and limbs going numb. The Norseman finally dropped the boy when he was on the cusp of blacking out. He fell limply to the ground and gasped for air. The figures in red walked past stoically and lined the circle of metal backboards. An eerie silence filled the tower.
“Are you the one they call Dr. Fatum?” came an accented male voice from under one of the hoods. “Are you the harbinger of eternal life?” asked an accented female voice under another hood.
“Honored guests,” Dr. Fatum began as he made his way to the center of the circle, his cane making a rhythmical click on the floor as he did. “I am Dr. Fredrick Fatum, and this,” he pointed to the churning vat,” this is your ticket to immortality. After tonight, you will fear death no more. Tonight begins your eternal reign.”
“Where is Kasper Holstrom?” one figure asked.
“We were told there would be proof of your claims before we begin,” another added
. “We require proof,” demanded yet another. They all talked as if they were a collective being.
“Uh, yes,” Dr. Fatum said. “Kasper will be here soon.”
One of the red figures took a step forward and removed his hood. He was a tall black man with tiger-like, caramel eyes and no trace of hair. “I am Uruk,” he said slowly, making the slightest of bows. “And if you have wasted our time, the price will be your life.” Another Council member pulled down her hood. It was a beautiful Indian woman with dark eyes and dark hair streaked with gray. An ornate golden chain connected a nose ring to her ear. “I am Nippur,” she said. “We had Kasper’s assurance that he would be here.”
“Oh he’s here,” a glowing man said, walking through the gap in the wall. He wore all black and tipped his bowler hat to reveal a widow’s peak. His skin was translucently pale. The Norseman had his rifle up and fired a deafening shot at the ghostly man. Mortimer barely evaded it and fell down to one knee. He lifted both his hands and yelled, “Relax! Relax! I mean you no harm.”
“Who are you?” Uruk demanded, pointing a finger.
Mortimer bowed deeply. “I am your proof of Dr. Fatum’s work. I am the first immortal. I am what you wish to be. I am what you will be.” Mortimer pulled up his coat sleeves, revealing and showcasing stark-white arms.
An Asian man pulled down his red hood and yelled something in Mandarin. He pointed to Mortimer’s skin. Another figure, a stately looking Asian female whose hair was done in a top knot translated in broken English, “Sippar is right. Your skin? Why it is white?”
“It is the side effect of Demeter-20,” Dr. Fatum interrupted as he tapped the churning vat with his cane. “When my solution replaces your blood, your skin becomes much, much whiter. I call it The Divine Shade.”
An old man, slightly hunched with gray hair and a closely cropped white beard spoke with a French accent. “You have found it? You have found the secret to immortality then!”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am immortal,” Mortimer replied with his arms open wide. “But as Dr. Fatum will inform you, although I cannot die of natural causes and will not age, death is still possible by certain means. Means which are known only by Dr. Fatum and myself.” The remaining hooded figures all revealed themselves for a closer look. There was a Maori with swirling tattoos on his face, elderly Russian twins with their gray hair done up and makeup concealing identical wrinkles on their thin faces, a wide-nosed Incan man with countless hoops hanging from each ear, an olive skinned Middle Eastern man with a pointed goatee, piercing eyes and windblown skin, and a frighteningly frail man with glasses thick enough to stop a bullet who muttered phrases in German under his breath.
The Middle Eastern man gruffly said, “Then you know the arrangement.”
“I do,” Mortimer replied. “It has been a pleasure to serve The Council. Oh, Kasper, my friend, it is time.” Every Council member looked to the top of the stairs to see the tall, clean shaven Kasper Holstrom standing above them all with his fine blonde hair streaking from his worn fedora. Kasper signaled back, pulled out a revolver, aimed it quickly, and fired six shots at Mortimer. Mortimer dramatically grabbed his chest and winced in pain. He fell backward into the large gap in the wall, seemingly lifeless, with white fluid leaking from his sleeves and chest.
“Uh, yes,” Dr. Fatum muttered, limping toward the fallen Mortimer. “Sudden and massive exsanguination, as it were, can strip away this immortal gift. Any injury or disease requires an immediate treatment; in this case, a replacing of the fluids, which naturally decay. Think of it like replacing the oil in a combustion engine. Over time, nutrients are depleted and viscosity slows, requiring an exchange.”
“How often is a change required?” one of the Russian twins asked.
“How lengthy is the process?” her sister asked.
“Right now, under optimal conditions, the fluid will last approximately three months,” Dr. Fatum replied. He poked the dead man with his cane. He waved back at Kasper.
Kasper bowed and coughed as he said, “Let The Transcendence commence.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, the process is just as Kasper explained it. When you are ready you may take your stations,” the doctor directed. “The transfusion will require you to be strapped to these tables. Please, please,” Dr. Fatum said, gesturing to the metal backboards.
His assistant helped up each of the robed figures and strapped them in. The tall and intimidating Uruk helped secure his fellow Council members. The Norseman kept a hand on one axe, ready to cut away the men and women he was charged with protecting should they need it. His counterpart, The Ottoman, roamed the grounds and secured the perimeter. Kasper Holstrom still stood quietly atop the stairs.
Small flecks of rain blew into the tower as the wind picked up. Doctor Fatum’s assistant, still rubbing his throat from his encounter with The Norseman, finally strapped in Uruk to his board. Dr. Fatum flipped a switch, and the whole room filled with an ominous buzz. The vat of Demeter-20 churned faster. “Prepare the injection sites and double check the pressure gauges, boy!” Dr. Fatum yelled. The assistant turned a mechanism on the back of all The Council members’ boards, securing them tightly. “The process,” Dr. Fatum continued, “is only mildly painful, but it can be tiring, as your blood is replaced with my serum. Once the transfusion is complete, we will need to implant magnets, temporary at first, so as to facilitate the movement of fluid through your entire body. As requested, all of you will undergo the procedure simultaneously.”
Kasper lifted his hands and shouted something in a cryptic language. The Council replied collectively with a phrase from the same language.
Uruk looked around and noticed that most of the other Council members now had their eyes closed in an understandable reverence as the doctor and his assistant prepped for the procedure. From his position, Uruk could see Mortimer laying half outside the tower as the heavier rain came down. The massive puddle of white fluid mixed with rainwater and flowed like the strands of a spiderweb down the nearby hill. Despite the leaking fluid, Mortimer remained stark white. Uruk squinted his eyes. Blotchy patches of normal-looking human skin were appearing on Mortimer’s hand. The rain was washing away a white powdery substance.
“Something is wrong!” Uruk shouted, waking his colleagues from their reverence. Before he even finished his sentence, The Norseman had both axes in his hands and rushed toward the nearest backboard, intent on freeing the now-wide-eyed old French man. The Norseman grunted as he heaved both axes into the air. But suddenly, a hole formed in his head and skull fragments and blood erupted from it. Both axes clanged to the floor as The Norseman dropped them and fell with a massive thud. Kasper Holstrom fired five more shots into the man’s body, each sinking into him like water into a sponge.
“What is going on?” the Indian women asked, her nostrils flared and her eyes wide in shock.
“I demand to know the meaning of this!” Uruk yelled. The rest of The Council murmured in different languages. Kasper Holstrom placed one hand on the wall and gingerly walked down the stairs. Mortimer rose to his feet and tried to dust off his rain-soaked suit. Wet white powder now ran from his face and hands. He looked like a clown caught in a rainstorm. Thunder echoed in the distance. “Everyone calm down,” he said as he walked to the center of the room. “I am immortal, remember?” He reached into his shirt and pulled out two large, empty bags with white residue in them and dropped them to the ground.
“Idimmu!” Uruk shouted, struggling against his restraints. “Idimmu!”
Kasper Holstrom walked slowly to the center of the circle. “I wouldn’t bother,” he said to Uruk in a soft voice. “I’ve already killed him.”
“You are not Kasper,” Uruk snarled back.
“No.” Estella Blake removed her hat, the blonde hair going with it, her own black hair tied up. Then she ripped away her trousers. Underneath the large pants, she wore sleek, close-cut black pants and stilts strapped to her small feet, which gave her the required height. She unbuckled the straps, hopp
ed down and removed the inserts from her mouth that had altered her jawline. She bowed.
“I will have both your heads!” The French Councilman yelled. Mortimer drew a pistol and shot him the heart. The man groaned and his head slumped forward.
“Anyone else?” Mortimer asked, twirling in a circle. The remaining Council members stayed silent.
Dr. Fatum’s assistant pushed one of the monitoring machines along the stonework. It had covered a large gap in the wall seamlessly. And from that gap now came a slow clapping. A well-dressed gentleman emerged from the darkness, bowing slightly so his top hat would clear the entrance. He wore a small cape over his suit, and a finely crafted golden lion, roaring in triumph, covered his face. His sinister laughter came from behind the mask.
“It is a great honor to finally meet The Council,” Mr. Vault said. Mr. Steel emerged from the gap, turning sideways so his portly frame could fit through. He was wearing an intricately sculpted goat mask with rounded horns. He was followed by Mr. Black, whose fang-bearing snake mask appeared as he gingerly walked through the opening. The doctor’s assistant scurried to set up a tripod and accordion camera. He loaded the film as quickly as he could. “I hope you don’t mind, but I would like to preserve the moment,” Mr. Vault said. “I have waited for it for such a long, long time.” A blinding magnesium flash lit up the tower.
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