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clear and fresh.
The guard scanned the open, rocky landscape all around, dazzled by the white glare. Then he saw two
figures in the distance, black shapes: a woman and& something massive. He frowned, stroking one end
of his ice-crusted mustache, then called out to his partner deeper inside the tunnel.
Oddly, he saw another set of footprints much closer in the fresh snow& coming all the way up to the
sluice gate. Made by naked feet.
Though the guard saw no one, he heard a noise. "Who's there?" He extended his high-tech rifle,
narrowing his eyes to scan for any target within range.
Suddenly, something yanked the long gun right out of his hand. The weapon floated in midair for a
second, while he stared at it in astonishment. He snatched for the barrel, but the gun danced out of his
reach, then turned itself about.
With a resounding smash of bone and a spray of blood, the haunted weapon clubbed him in the face. It
struck again, battering the guard until he fell unconscious.
Responding to the call, a second guard came running out of the dark tunnel. When he saw his collapsed
comrade, he skittered on the ice-slick walkway. Before he understood what he was seeing, he let out a
yell, but it was lost in the roar of the meltwater sluice.
Then his warning cry shriveled to a squeak, and the guard stopped in his tracks as he became aware of
something& huge. There was a bloodcurdling roar of challenge, a meaty arm covered with coarse black
hair, a flash of jagged teeth designed to bite off flesh in dripping, painful chunks.
Terrified, the guard scrambled back into the sluice and ran toward the end of the tunnel until he reached
a bolted gate. He dragged at a heavy iron pin, struggling to open the barrier.
A moment later Edward Hyde loomed behind him and let out a low grumble that sounded like boiling
mud. He reached out to clench both the hapless guard and the metal grating in one massive fist and
wrenched the sluice open. The guard broke before the latch did, and his screams abruptly ceased.
Hyde tore the gate free and tossed it aside along with the man's corpse. Then he bellowed for the others
to hurry up.
At the top of the sluice tubes deeper inside the fortress factory, a third man, having heard the awful cries
of his fellow guard, turned from his station. He felt even greater uneasiness as the noises were cut off.
With wide eyes adjusted to the torchlit shadows of the deep tunnels, he peered down the sluice hole.
He caught a frantic rustling, high-pitched squeaking and buzzing just beyond the edge of his ability to
hear. His breath caught in his throat as he realized something was coming up toward him coming fast.
The guard scrambled backward as a black storm of flying creatures erupted up through the hole in a
tornado of thin shrieks, sharp claws, and beating wings. Bats. Thousands of them.
And in the center of the swarm, he saw a whirling thing with piercing green eyes. He screamed, but he
was trapped inside the crowded sluice tunnel. There was no place to run.
The bats enveloped the guard.
When they dispersed, the man's skin was a chalky, cadaverous white, pricked and punctured by scores
of tiny teeth. And his throat had been torn out entirely. An expression of horror had frozen on his face.
Mina Harker crouched and wiped blood from her mouth. Then she adjusted her scarf and stood primly
again, waiting for the others.
FOURTY
M's Fortress
Private Planning Room
Even in the cold and uncivilized landscape of Mongolia, M had contrived to create a fine private parlor,
full of rich wood and velvet. He reclined his gaunt body in a leather chair in front of a roaring fire.
Here, the fortress's stone walls were thick enough that he did not hear the pounding clamor of the
foundries and factories, though he could feel a reassuring industrial tremor through the floor. He smiled.
Everything was proceeding very nicely.
He poured a glass of the finest sherry from a cut-crystal decanter on the table beside his chair, sniffed it,
then enjoyed a long sip. "A woman's drink, indeed!" He would let Allan Quatermain have his bathtub
gin, or whiskey, or whatever it was the old hunter preferred.
As he set the glass down, he winced, touching the tender pain of his dressed wound. Though has battle
with Quatermain in the Venice cemetery had occurred several days earlier, he still nursed the injury.
Luckily, his armored vest had mostly deflected the deadly blade, but unlike some of his recent
acquaintances, he could not heal instantly.
The coffered wooden door opened quietly, and Dorian Gray, once again wearing fine clothing, entered
the private parlor. His cool expression was a bit too tense to make a convincing show of his usual
feigned boredom. In silence, he looked expectantly at the evil leader.
"All right, then." M sighed without looking around. "Your precious paintings in your room." It was
pitiful how poorly Gray covered his relief.
"In return for the League. That was our deal, M, and I'm glad you honor it."
The mastermind took another relaxed sip of his sherry. "On the subject of honor did it bother you at
all? Betraying them."
"A little. I'd be lying if " Gray cut himself off and paused to reconsider. "No, I'm lying now. It didn't
bother me at all. Frankly, I found it amusing, all of them wrestling with past wrongs& " He caught
himself gloating. "I, on the other hand, am an unabashed villain. I need no justifications or
rationalization."
"So what now for you?" M asked. "A man of your many years must have long-standing plans."
"London." Gray shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "I've had my fill of violence. Now I'm in the
mood for vice." He turned to leave.
"You could stay. Share my dream," M called to Grays back. "You have many extra years to invest. Why
not take a chance?"
M reached quietly for a pistol on his desk, laid his hand over it. He could snatch it up and fire in an
instant. Though normal bullets had been harmless against Dorian Gray, this sophisticated projectile [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
