The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Page 6

  "Gray?" Quatermain growled. "What is this? Your own brand of home security?"

  "They're not mine." Finally, a note of interest had crept into Grays voice, altering his usual bored demeanor.

  "They are mine." The voice was rough, powerful, and slightly muffled.

  As one, the members of the League whirled. At the top of the library's spiral staircase, a thin man stepped forward dressed in a heavy overcoat and black gloves. His hair was wild, and a silver mask concealed his upper face and part of his cheeks, leaving only his chin and twisted lips exposed. Hideous scars covered the visible portions of his face, implying terrible disfigurement beneath the mask.

  The Fantom looked even worse when he smiled, seeing them so helpless.

  EIGHT

  Dorian Gray's Residence

  No one dared exhale. The Fantom took a step down the metal stair. He moved like a heavy shadow, powerful and completely confident in his control of the situation.

  Quatermain took half a step forward. "First meetings usually warrant introductions." All the threatening rifles shifted slightly, tracking him. He ignored them, concentrating on the real enemy. "Do you have a name, or just a mask and a costume?"

  "Fine. I am the Fantom. And you are the League of so-called Extraordinary Gentlemen." Firelight shimmered like quicksilver on his mask. "There, introductions made. Now we can be about our vital, and possibly deadly, business." He continued down the spiral staircase. "And while I may be scarred, Mr. Quatermain, I am not blind. Drop the gun."

  Quatermain lifted his eyes to the numerous marksmen stationed all around the library. Reluctantly, he dropped his Webley revolver.

  All of the Fantoms' rifle bearers wore long leather coats, handkerchiefs tied across their faces, and wide steel hats that made them look like drones. The identical marksmen all had an anonymous quality, as if they had been stamped out of a factory line — all except for one young man on the upper level.

  He wore the same helmet and leather coat, but the young man didn't seem to fit in with the other henchmen. Quatermains' hunter sense picked him out, and the mysterious marksman raised his head so that light fell on his determined blue eyes. His face was young, handsome, flushed with excitement. He had been trying to catch Quatermains' attention; noticing that he had finally succeeded, the marksman actually winked at him.

  Suddenly, Quatermain recognized the suspicious-looking young man who had been ineptly following and watching them all afternoon, slouching on doorsteps and attempting nonchalance. He was not surprised to see the stranger among these enemies. But something wasn't right. What was the young man doing here?

  The Fantom, reveling in the moment, continued his grand entrance. "Your mission is to stop me. That, of course, I cannot permit." He reached the bottom of the staircase and faced them in the library. "So I give to you all a one-time invitation. Join me."

  Not wanting to draw attention to what might be a potential ally, Quatermain did not look again at the mysterious young marksman. He met the Fantom's masked gaze. "Join you — or die? I'm familiar with that ultimatum. Not very original."

  His revolver lay on the floor, but he would never be able to reach it before all the marksmen riddled him with bullets.

  The Fantom raised his arms and spread his black-gloved hands, "And I am familiar with men such as you, Mr. Quatermain. You walk the knife-edge of law and disorder. An individual, not a blind soldier to march empty-headed into battle. What do you owe England? Come, undo the stuffy waistcoat of tyranny. Why remain loyal to an empire that uses you, but can barely abide you? Bring me your talents and I'll—"

  "— add us to your collection of lackeys and kidnapped scientists?" Mina finished for him. "How appealing."

  "Don't you see?" The Fantom stroked his silver mask, tantalizing them, threatening — or promising — to yank it off and reveal his horribly disfigured face. "We're all of us outcasts, society's dregs."

  "Heh, he's not exactly wrong about that," said Skinner, still holding his full glass of Scotch, as if about to propose a toast.

  "As much as I despise the conflicts of nations, you think we'll help you start a war that will consume the planet?" Nemo said. His stern face could barely contain the outpouring of disgust he felt for the suggestion.

  "While you profit from your 'arms race'?" Quatermain added. "How noble."

  The Fantoms' laugh was like breaking glass. "I cannot deny that fortunes are made in war, gentlemen. Not the politicians or kings, not the hapless fighters — it is the businessmen and visionaries who profit from such a situation. Imagine the riches a world war will yield!"

  Quatermain glanced up again at the odd young marksman, who seemed to be anxiously trying to get his attention. The imposter gestured slightly with his rifle barrel; from his own familiarity and expertise, Quatermain identified a customized Winchester with exotic aiming sight, decorated barrel, and carved stock. Very interesting. The mysterious young man seemed to be bidding him to act when the time was right.

  None of his companions had noticed the misfit henchman above. Quatermains' mind raced, and he tried to stall for time. He stood up to the black-garbed Fantom. "I have held the treasure of King Solomon in my hands, sir. It taught me that happiness can't be found in mountains of gold, nor in visions of power."

  From across the library, Skinner cleared his throat nervously. "Aheh! I, on the other hand, find gold to be a beautiful hue." He lifted his glass. "Like this Scotch."

  When Quatermains' glance flicked down at his Webley lying on the floor, the Fantom noticed at once. "Remind me to play you at cards one day. Your face is like an open book." With his polished shoe, he kicked the revolver far away. It skittered and spun, coming to rest under the library ladders.

  Impatient now, he squared his shoulders and raised his voice to address the League. "So what's it to be? Does Quatermain speak for all of you?"

  "Your evil is palpable, sir," Mina said. "Even a so-called 'dreg' such as myself must maintain her standards. I have associated with vile men before," — she shot a quick glance at Dorian Gray, who had not even bothered to rise from his chair at the fireplace—"but I do have certain standards."

  "Personally, I don't care for guns in my home." Gray sounded bored again. "And I don't recall extending an invitation to any of you."

  "I, on the other hand, always side with superior force." The invisible man stepped forward. His white face paint showed his grin. "Take me, Fantom. I'm yours."

  Nemo was at his side so fast that Skinner barely had time to take another step. He placed a firm hand on the invisible man's shoulder, squeezing so hard that the thief winced and squirmed. "Skinner is with me. And I am with them."

  The Fantom let out an exaggerated sigh. "Then I'm truly saddened. I had hoped you would take advantage of an obvious opportunity." He lifted a black-gloved hand. "Men!"

  The marksmen aimed. With a loud click, the firing bolts of sophisticated breech-loading rifles were drawn back.

  Just then, with a fierce yell, the young imposter turned his modified Winchester on his fellow marksmen. He blasted away, killing two of the unsuspecting henchmen, then dove for shelter.

  The Fantom wheeled, surprised.

  Everything happened in an instant. All the members of the League had tensed, looking for any last-chance opportunity, and they flew into action. Nemo and Mina leaped for cover.

  Quatermain launched himself at the nearest library ladder, grabbing the rungs and running. He shoved it along its rail, smashing the marksmen's protruding rifles aside as it went. Several weapons, wrenched free, tumbled to the library floor.

  The marksmen on the other side of the library did not hesitate to fire, though. Gunshots blasted out like a dozen firing squads, and the air filled with bullets. Dorian Grays paintings, lamps, and ornaments shredded or shattered. With muffled thuds, dozens of books exploded; some tumbled off the shelves, as if trying to escape the fusillade. Paper fragments filled the air with a parchment blizzard.

  The dapper Dorian Gray, looking incon
gruously elegant in his purple smoking jacket, staggered and jittered from multiple impacts. His body was riddled with bulletholes, and his face wore an expression of surprised displeasure.

  "Dorian!" Mina struggled to run to him, but Captain Nemo snagged her and pulled her behind a pillar. A bullet struck the pillar, sending a spray of wood splinters near their faces.

  With a sharp yelp, Skinner ran the opposite direction. He tossed the full glass of Scotch onto his white-painted face, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily; the alcohol dissolved his makeup coating, making it easier for him to wipe away with a piece of cloth, and by the time he had thrown off his coat, the invisible man had completely vanished.

  After reloading his Winchester, the young imposter advanced on the other marksmen, opening fire again. He cocked the customized weapon one-handed while yanking the bothersome handkerchief from his face. Then he blasted again. But, to his disbelief, his shots ricocheted off the Fantom's marksmen. These were wearing body armor, much like the assassins who had attacked Quatermain at the Britannia Club.

  With remarkable strength and determination, Mina Harker struggled free of Nemo's grip. She took an urgent step away from the shelter of their hiding place — and gasped in a new sort of shock at what she saw: Gray stood in front of the fireplace, still on his feet and apparently unhurt. He snatched up a long cane resting beside the fireplace implements and pulled away its covering to reveal a thin, wickedly sharp sword. He stormed into the fray, showing no evidence of wounds, despite all the bullets that had struck him.

  At this sudden turn of events, the Fantom turned and sprinted for the staircase that would take him to the house's exit and the street.

  "Not one for a bit of a fight, are you, Fantom?" Quatermain called after the masked villain. In a blurred sequence of movement, he retrieved his revolver from where his opponent had kicked it, cocked the hammer, aimed, and fired. His shot passed directly through the bookcase, striking the Fantom squarely in the right shoulder. But the impact only spun him around. He hit a column, caromed off, and kept running, though in the opposite direction now. His black overcoat was torn, but no blood oozed from the wound.

  "Damned body armor," Quatermain mutterered, then ran after him, heedless of the danger. As he zigzagged through the lethal gauntlet, he passed Dorian Gray coming the other way, furiously slashing right and left with his cane-sword.

  From above, the mysterious young marksman covered Quatermains' pursuit, using his Winchester to pick enemy shooters from their high perches around the library.

  Upon seeing Quatermains' insane act of bravery in charging after the Fantom, Captain Nemo stepped out of the shadows himself. He glared at one of the enemy henchmen and rushed toward him.

  "No gun, darkie?" said one of the marksmen. "What's the matter?"

  Nemo turned with slow poise, gathering his concentration and his energy. His voluminous black beard bristled as he smiled. A group of marksmen had drawn a bead on him, considering the unarmed captain an easy target. "No gun. I walk a different path."

  Before they could open fire, Nemo exploded into astonishing action, using his entire body as a weapon. He became a blur of limbs, landing crushing blows with his hands, elbows, knees, and booted feet. His spinning kicks carried a lethal force against which body armor was no use. Caught in the hurricane of martial arts destruction, enemy marksmen fell and scattered like ninepins.

  The Fantom reached a rickety stairway and scrambled up it with Quatermain in hot pursuit. Though panting, the old adventurer seemed intent on not letting his enemy escape. Hand over hand, clutching the rail, the Fantom climbed higher — until the stairs ended abruptly against a trapdoor.

  His gloved hand grabbed at the handle of the trapdoor, but it was locked. Taking little pleasure but great satisfaction, Quatermain charged forward and was almost upon him—

  When the Fantom's Lieutenant Dante dropped from nowhere and slammed into him. Quatermain staggered, losing his balance.

  "Run, James!" Dante shouted.

  The Fantom smashed at the trapdoor with his armored shoulder, broke it open, and hauled himself up to the next floor.

  Recovering himself, Quatermam slammed a heavy fist into Dante's chin, and the lieutenant reciprocated with punches of his own. Finally, the old hunter, impatient to be after his true quarry, delivered a decisive head-butt, which sent Dante reeling. Quatermain shoved the other man aside and pushed forward, silently cursing Dorian Gray. "Why does one man require such a ridiculously large house?"

  Bested for now, Dante stumbled into the shadows.

  From across the upper level of the library, the imposter marksman saw the Fantom about to escape. He kicked an advancing marksman aside and clashed off to help Quatermain.

  Reaching the edge of the upper level, he did not pause but took a flying leap over the railing of the alcove and landed on the same floor. Panting, and grinning, he joined in the pursuit of the Fantom.

  Meanwhile, Nemo ducked, rolled, and leaped. He seemed untouchable, unshootable. He broke limbs without mercy. The marksmen had never seen anything like him. They could understand bullets and knives and clubs… but not this. The captains face wore such an intense and merciless expression that the henchmen turned to run away in terror.

  Instead, they ran into Dorian Gray and his wicked, slender sword.

  The suave man stabbed and slashed, looking uninterested even as the henchmen fought back, howling. He was oblivious to the wounds that the men inflicted on him. "Ow," he said, though his tone of voice was less than convincing.

  A skewered marksman fell to his knees before Gray and took a death grip on Grays shirt beneath the smoking jacket. It tore open, affording the man a dying glimpse of Grays wounds as they healed completely before his eyes.

  "What are you?" the henchman gasped.

  Gray pulled his long blade from the man's body and kicked him aside like a discarded pillow. "I'm… complicated."

  Across the room, the invisible man had found a blade of his own and went to work. His hovering knife floated and swooped like a flying projectile. The nearest henchman didn't understand what he was seeing, until the blade swung down to slash his throat.

  Leaving blood droplets dancing in the air, the invisibly wielded blade struck sideways beneath the marksman's raised left arm to exploit the opening in the bulletproof armor. The knife dealt a lethal blow to the man's heart.

  Pulling ahead of Quatermain, the imposter marksman chased the Fantom up two more flights of decaying stairs. "I sure didn't think a man in such fancy duds could run like a greased pig!"

  Cocking his Winchester one-handed again, he let loose another booming shot up through rotted floorboards. Splinters and dust flew from the blast, but the hoped-for cry of pain from the Fantom did not come.

  The masked villain smashed through a thin barricade to reach the dim, topmost level of Dorian Gray's old dock house. Every window in the attic was bricked up, leaving no escape.

  Face flushed, his rifle extended, the young imposter cornered the evil mastermind. The Fantom backed against the grimy wallboards, which had been weakened by age and decay.

  The masked villain turned and with fearless resolve threw himself against the thin patch of wallboards. Engulfed in dust and cobwebs, he broke completely through the attic wall and plunged out into the night.

  "Hey!" The imposter marksman cursed and raced for the broken opening. He peered through it, desperately trying to get a glimpse of the escaped man, but saw nothing.

  A moment later, Quatermain reached a window on the floor beneath the attic. He threw open the sash and stuck his head out, hoping to catch sight of his quarry. He saw debris still falling, broken boards, loose shingles, dust, and shards of glass. Far below, there was only a fogbound dock and empty streets.

  And no sign of the Fantom at all.

  NINE

  Dorian Gray's Residence

  In the aftermath of the fight, Nemo checked for survivors among the bodies strewn in the library. He moved methodically from man to man, ear
s cocked for a groan of pain — though it wasn't clear from the grim set of his face whether he intended to succor or execute any of the Fantom's men he found alive.

  One severely wounded marksman looked up into Nemo's angry face and fierce black eyes and died with a sudden whimper, before the black-bearded captain could even check his injuries. Nemo was neither pleased nor disappointed.

  Taking care of important business, Skinner finished applying fresh greasepaint over his features. He donned his dark-lensed pince-nez spectacles over the empty craters of his eyes, shrugged on his long-sleeved coat, then carefully tugged his hat over the hollow top and back of his head.

  Though he was completely visible now, Skinner still managed to startle Dorian Gray out of his preoccupied thoughts. "Heh, Mr. Gray! And I thought I was special. You're invulnerable to harm."

  "And also invulnerable to the sands of time, if indeed you're older than Quatermain," Nemo mused, looking up from another victim on the library floor. "As we were discussing before our unexpected interruption." The captains implacable expression demanded answers, but their host was not forthcoming.

  "I don't like to boast," Gray said dismissively. He frowned at the numerous punctures and bullet holes in his fine smoking jacket; he seemed unsettled, even disappointed. "By the way, what happened to Mina?"

  A fuming Allan Quatermain returned with heavy footsteps to the main library chamber. Without a word, he tucked his revolver into his interior jacket pocket. "She's probably hip-deep in some kind of peril. Expecting us to rescue her, no doubt."

  Mina reappeared, her auburn hair perfectly in place. She casually brushed at a few small blood spatters on the colorful fabric of her dress. "Oh, don't be such an old alarmist, Mr. Q. And my hips are none of your business."

  She sensed someone behind her, but before she could turn, one of the last marksmen lurched out of an alcove. Although he knew he was outnumbered and trapped, all of his fellows slain, the Fantom gone, the marksman grabbed Mina with a powerful grip and held her before him as if she were a shield. He rammed a gleaming knife within a hair's breadth of her pale throat. The silk scarf she always wore would offer no protection from the sharpened steel.