Under Cover of Darkness (26 page)

I obeyed. It was such a bizarre thing, to see the look of perplexity and astonishment in that man's eyes as my hand mimicked the same motions that the Master had just taught me. I worked as swiftly as I could, and instinctively took the greatest care to conceal what I was doing from the wretch who had so foolishly provoked the Master's wrath.

I dropped the brother's hand: I was done. He looked immediately to the Master who nodded benignly and said, “Yes, that's right: A new one. It's just as well; this last one was getting a bit
too
old, and I was afraid that the uninitiated would discover it. That would not do. Now come to me, my son. Let me see whether this child has discharged her trust faithfully.”

My partner crossed the floor, under the stricken eyes of his former comrade, took the Master's hand, and stealthily repeated the same series of manipulations I had just performed upon him. I held my breath and pressed a fist to my mouth, praying fervently that I had remembered every nuance of those secret hand signs and reproduced them faithfully.

The Master looked at me. He was smiling. “Welcome, child,” he said for the second time, and I understood that this was no ordinary salutation, but my official reception into the ranks of the elect. I wanted to sing for joy, to seize the Master's hands and bathe them with tears of thanksgiving, but before I could make any such untoward show, I felt my every natural impulse unexpectedly dampen and subside. A Jovian calm infused every fiber of my being. Dignity set her seal upon my brow. I stood tall and inclined my head only slightly to the Master.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I promise that in thanks for the great distinction you've given me today, I will dedicate my work and my life to bringing honor to our ranks.”

“Ah, promise . . .” the Master mused, steepling his fingertips. “That, my child, was why I had you brought here in the first place. But surely you must know that there are many, many souls out there with equal or greater promise than you own. It is no easy task, determining which shall rise and which shall fall.”

He sighed wearily, then his expression hardened into an icy, terrifying mask of Judgment that he brought to bear upon the gabbling dunce whose rash words became a snare for his own feet.

“You!”
the Master's voice rolled like thunder through the hidden chamber. The man collapsed in a heap, face to the ground, groveling and babbling for mercy. “Save your breath. You forgot the one rule by which all of us live or die: For every one of us within the charmed order, there are a thousand clamoring to take our places. You, fool, have now been thus displaced. The word will go forth, along with the newly established secret sign by which our brethren live and thrive: You are outcast!
Outcast!
Begone, and may your error serve as a cautionary lesson to us all.”

The pitiful object of the Master's wrath slowly raised his face from the carpet. There was a feeble glimmer of defiance in his eyes. “You can't scare me,” he declared. “And you can't displace me. Do you even know how powerful I am, how many follow me, hanging on my every word?” He clambered to his feet and shook a fist in the Master's face. “All this mumbo jumbo, all the secret handshakes, the so-called exclusionist conspiracies, they're nothing but a load of hooey! It's
quality
that counts in this world, quality and skill that get rewarded. I don't need you or your stupid secret society! I can
still
make it on my own! You'll see!”

He ranted on until his former comrade glided up behind him and clapped a chloroform-soaked rag to his face. Then he crumpled.

“Well done,” said the Master. He cast a long, regretful look over the splendors of his den. “The new secret handshake is the least of the changes that churl has forced upon me. I shall need a new lair—I mean, a new
headquarters
—as well. Too bad: I liked it here,” he said with a shrug.

My new brother and I bowed low, and in perfect accord intoned: “As you will, O Master; as you will.”

 

I did not encounter the Master again for almost five years after my initiation into the hidden brotherhood. I would have regretted this more if I'd had the leisure to do so. Instead, almost from the day of my admittance, my life was transformed from a series of petty, exasperating disappointments, to a progression of triumphs, each greater than the last. As marvelous as my newfound success was, it did keep me busy. (It is a grand thing to be rewarded for doing work you love, but that does not mean you will be rewarded if you do no work at all. A golden touch still requires that you touch
something
.)

Those who had scorned and dismissed me in the past now became my dearest friends. Those who formerly had neither known nor cared to learn my name now counted themselves fortunate if I knew theirs. I was acclaimed, feted, lionized, and if the monetary rewards were not all I could have wished, the salve to my ego was often enough to take the edge off that discontent.

Oh, what a heady delight, to achieve such recognition! My new brethren chuckled indulgently over my neophyte's elation, and showed their support by attending as many of the gatherings that honored me as I attended those which honored them. The halls of many a fine hotel buzzed with our knowing whispers.

It was at one such convocation that I saw the Master again, seated at the bar. He greeted me warmly and insisted I join him. As we spoke, my eye happened to light on a sorry sight: In the dimmest corner of that same bar, huddled over a lone beer, long gone flat, was the man whose exile from our ranks I'd witnessed at my own initiation. His eyes were glazed and he held forth pompously for the benefit of empty chairs that his mad fancy had populated with his former acolytes.

A discreet cough behind me diverted my attention from that dreadful spectacle. I turned to face one of my own followers, a young man in his early twenties, bashfully requesting my autograph. (His eagerness to accost me had led him to edge his way into the space between the Master and myself. Ever gracious toward the young and ingenuous, the Master took no offense at this.) As I signed the title page of my eighth novel, I saw my supplicant's gaze wander to that same shabby corner of the bar where the poor madman blustered among his phantoms.

“Say, isn't that X over there?” my fan asked. “Didn't he used to be somebody?”

“Yes,” I said, a catch in my throat. “Yes, he did.”

At that moment, the atmosphere in the bar tensed. An editor had come in. The tables filled with aspiring writers hummed as they fumbled for copies of their latest manuscripts, their famished eyes fixed upon the all-powerful one, their minds clearly working wildly, trying to come up with a way to obtain his favorable attention without appearing to be too pushy.

I glanced back at my fan. A sheaf of crisp, neatly printed pages had appeared in his hands as if by magic. That same ravenous, yearning look was in his eyes as once had been in mine.

“Gosh,” he said. “He's coming this way! Do you think—Do you think that if I handed him my story, he'd mind? I mean, if I offered to buy him a drink first—?”

I smiled and patted his hand. “That's not the way a
real
pro does it.”

“Does what?” the editor asked, taking his place beside me.

I leaned toward him. “So good to see you,” I said, taking his hand and making the secret sign.

“Ah! That reminds me,” he said. “That latest submission of yours, the one about the cat who coughed up a hairball that was a transdimensional portal? Loved it. I'm making it the cover story for our January issue. The check's already in the mail.”

I heard a wistful sigh from my fan and saw his head droop over his precious manuscript. Perhaps it wasn't the kindest thing I could have done, but I felt that I had to do
something
.

“You mustn't feel bad,” I said to him. “You have to understand, it wasn't
always
like this for me. Getting published isn't easy, but it
can
be done. You'll get your turn before you know it. After all, it's not as if we've got some secret handshake or anything.” Here I laughed lightly. “No, really, just keep working. It'll happen for you. Trust me.”

His sorrow turned to gratitude. He put away the manuscript and offered to buy me a drink.

Behind his back, the Master caught my eye and smiled approval.

Noblesse oblige
.

Russell Davis

 

 

 

RISING TO THE surface of consciousness, my first awareness is of black. The blackness that lives behind tight closed eyelids or the strange hindbrain awareness of lucid dreams.

Then, silver. The gleam of stainless steel knives or the bright mental flare that comes from a sharp blow to the temple.

Finally, white. Untouched snow or a wedding dress worn by a virgin at the altar.

I am awake.

Aware.

I breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

My muscles spasm with cold and ache from an exertion I don't remember. They twitch and pulse with uncontrollable shivers.

Nearby, I sense movement and then a slow warmth as a thermal blanket of some kind is draped across my skin.

Voices. I can hear voices, though they are unfamiliar and the words are not clear at first.

My fingers and toes begin to tingle as my body warms.

The voices gain clarity. A female voice says, “He is awake. Do you see how patient he is? He does not struggle or open his eyes, but waits. Waits and listens and assesses.”

A male voice replies, “He can hear us, yes?”

There is a noise beside my right ear.
SNAPTH!
I am reminded of fingers snapping, but the sound is not quite the same. It is that sound, with a lisp.

“Yes,” the female voice says. “Did you note how his eyes, even closed, tracked to the sound?”

The salt-and-copper taste of fear fills my mouth. The sensation is rare for me, unnatural, and I push it away. I do not know where I am or how I got here. For a moment, I am not even sure
who
I am, but I vaguely remember. . . .

“You are Damon Graves,” the female voice says. “And you are here because we have chosen you.”

The last part of the sentence, “chosen you,” reverberates and echoes in my mind.

A memory rises to the surface of my thoughts. A woman, young and pretty with dark eyes and long hair the color of a raven's wing saying, “Damon, look! That lake is the same color as your eyes!”

The lake is in Montana. The woman is dead. I remember that on that same day we shouted “I love you!” echoes through a box canyon.

I open my eyes that are the same color as that lake. Above me, a white ceiling that glows softly with some kind of hidden lighting comes into focus.

“Yes,” I say. My voice is the croaking of a bullfrog. “I am Damon Graves.” When I say my name, I know it is truth. I am Damon Graves. I am—

“You are an assassin,” the female voice says. “And you have been chosen.”

The word “chosen” echoes in my mind once more. It is important, I think.

Without moving, I let my gaze travel as much as possible. There is no form to go with the feminine voice, and the rest of the room, what I can see of it, is as white and sterile as the ceiling.

I try to sit up, but while the shivering of my muscles has subsided, they are not yet ready to move. I stop trying. “Where am I?” I ask.

“An astute question,” the female voice replies. “Your current physical location is what we call a nexus sphere. It is a place that stretches across multiple dimensions, including the one known as Time. To ease your understanding, you might think of it as a bubble or pocket that
transcends
time and space as most people think of those concepts. It is a location that is, in fact, everywhere and nowhere. The center of all things. And none.” Her voice
sounds
human, but some instinct tells me that she is not. Most emphatically
not
.

“How?” I ask, testing my muscles again. They are starting to respond.

“You have been identified and chosen for a task suited to your particular talents. Once you have performed this task, you will return to the nexus sphere. Then, you will be returned to where you belong.”