Aces High

1986

By Walton Simons

Picking out the right victim was always murder. They had to have plenty of cash to make the kill worthwhile, and it had to be done in an isolated place. The rent was due and killing somebody of the street made more sense than murdering the super. That might alert others to where he was, and he was tired of changing apartments.

The cold annoyed him. It seeped into his thin six-foot body and settled in his bones. He turned up the fur collar on his loose-fitting coat. Before he had died, when he was just James Spector, the New York winters had been numbing. Now, only the agony of his death, constantly welling up inside, caused any real pain.

He walked past St. Mark's Church and headed east down Tenth Street. The neighborhood was rougher in that direction, and more likely to suit his needs.

"Shit," he said, as the snow began to fall again. The few people on the streets would likely take refuge indoors. If he could not find a victim here, he would have to try Jokertown. The thought did not please him. The flakes settled onto his dark hair and mustache. He brushed them off with a gloved hand and moved on.

Someone lit a match in a nearby doorway. Spector walked slowly up the stairs fumbling for a cigarette.

The man in the doorway was tall and powerfully built. He had pale, pockmarked skin and light blue eyes. He drew deeply on the cigarette and blew smoke into Spector's face. "Got a light?" Spector asked, undaunted.

The man frowned. "Do I know you?" He looked at Spector carefully. "No. Maybe somebody sent you, though."

"Maybe."

"Wise guy, huh." The young man smiled, revealing even, white teeth. "You'd better state your business, my man, or I'll kick your skinny ass down these stairs."

Spector decided to play a hunch. "I haven't been able to get anything for days. My source dried up, but a friend said there was somebody around here who might be able to help." He projected need with his voice and posture.

The man patted him on the back and laughed. "This must be your lucky day. Come on in to Mike's parlor, and we'll fix you right up."

Mike's apartment smelled worse than a week-old catbox. The floor was littered with dirty clothes and pornographic magazines. "Nice place," Spector said, barely concealing his contempt.

Mike pushed him roughly against the wall and pulled Spector's hands over his head. He frisked him quickly, but thoroughly. "Now tell me what you need, and I'll tell you what it's going to cost. You make trouble, I'll blow your brains out. I've done it before." Mike pulled out a chrome-plated. 38 with matching silencer and smiled again.

Spector turned slowly and stopped when his eyes met Mike's, then linked their minds. The terrible sensations of Spector's death rushed into Mike's body. He could feel the crushing weight on his chest. The muscles had involuntarily contracted with such force that bones snapped and tendons tore. The throat constricted as vomit surged into the mouth. The heart pumped wildly, forcing the contaminated blood through the body. Fiery pain screamed into his mind from dying tissues. Lungs burst and collapsed. The heart fluttered and stopped. Even after the darkness there was still pain. Spector kept their eyes locked, making Mike feel every detail, convincing the pusher's body that it was dead. He did not stop until Mike shuddered in a way he had come to recognize. Then it was over.

Mike's eyes rolled up and he toppled lifeless to the floor. A twitch of his dead finger fired the. 38. The slug caught Spector in the shoulder, spinning him against the wall. He bit his lip, but otherwise ignored the wound, and flipped Mike over.

"Now you know what it's like to draw the Black Queen." He picked up the gun and clicked on the safety, then carefully stuck the weapon in his belt. "But look on the bright side. You only have to go this once. I wake up with it every morning." Spector searched the body. He took all the money, even the change. There was just short of six hundred dollars.

"Small-time jerk. I'm so glad I could share something with you," Spector said, cracking the door to look into the hall. He saw no one, and walked quickly down the stairs. The cold and snow dampened the city's sounds, muffling its life.

His shoulder was healed by the time he reached his apartment.

He was being followed. Two men across the street were keeping pace with him, staying just far enough behind to avoid his field of vision. Spector had sensed them several blocks back. He turned south, away from his apartment, into Jokertown. It would be easier to lose them there. He walked slowly, saving his energy in case he had to make a run for it.

Maybe they were friends of Mike the pusher. Not likely; they were too well dressed, and people like Mike didn't make friends. More likely they were working for Tachyon. Out of necessity Spector had killed an orderly at the clinic the day he escaped. The little carrot-headed shit would almost certainly try to find him and send him to jail. Or worse, take him back to the clinic. The only memories he had of the Jokertown clinic were bad ones.

You little bastard, he thought, haven't you already done enough? He hated Tachyon for bringing him back. Hated him more than anyone or anything in the world. But the little alien scared him. Spector began to sweat under his heavy coat. A four-legged joker blocked the sidewalk in front of him. As he approached it moved crablike down an alley, to avoid him. He turned and looked across the street.

The two men were there. They stopped and huddled together. One crossed the street toward him. Spector could kill them, but then Tachyon would only come after him harder.

Better to lose them and hope the Takisian forgot about him. The ice-slicked streets were almost deserted. Even jokers had to respect the bitter cold. Spector chewed on his lip. The Crystal Palace was only a block away. It was as good a place as any to try to shake them. Maybe Sascha would catch them and throw them out on their asses.

The doorman gave him a nasty look as he went in. Spector wanted to show him what a really nasty look was, but pissing off Chrysalis was the last thing he needed to do right now. Besides, so few places in Jokertown had doormen.

The interior of the Crystal Palace always made him uncomfortable. It was furnished floor to ceiling with turn-ofthe-century antiques. If he accidentally broke or damaged anything, he would probably have to kill twenty people to pay for it.

Sascha was not around, so there would be no help there. He walked quickly through the main bar and into an adjoining room which contained privacy booths. He slid into the nearest one and pulled the heavy burgundy-colored curtains closed behind him.

"Something I can do for you?"

Spector turned slowly. The man sitting across the table from him wore a death's-head mask and black cowled cape. "I said, is there something I can do for you?"

"Well," he said, trying to buy time, "do you have anything to drink?" The mask had startled him, and Spector never needed an excuse for a drink these days.

"Only for myself, I'm afraid." The man indicated the halfempty glass before him. "You seem to be in some kind of trouble. "

"Who isn't?" Spector disliked the fact that he was as transparent as Chrysalis's skin.

"Yes, trouble is universal. One of my closest acquaintances was eaten, devoured, by one of our extraterrestrial visitors last month." He took a sip of his drink. "It's an uncertain world we live in."

Spector opened the curtain a crack. The two men were at the bar. The bartender was opposite them, shaking his head. "Obviously, you're being followed. Perhaps if you had some kind of disguise, you could get away without being noticed." He pulled off the cowl and cape and laid them on the table.

Spector bit his fingernails. He hated trusting anyone. "Okay. Now tell me what I have to do for you. There is something, right?"

"Just refill my glass. Brandy. The bartender will know what kind." He pulled off the mask and tossed it onto the table. Spector turned away. The man's face was identical to the mask. His skin was yellow and tightly drawn over the prominent facial bones. He had no nose. The joker stared at him with sunken bloodshot eyes. "Well…"

He quickly put on his disguise, then picked up the glass. "Back in a minute." He opened the drapes and stepped out. The men were sitting about twenty feet away. They stared at him as he walked to the bar. He was sweating again.

"Refill," he said, after getting the bartender's attention. The man did as he was told. Spector walked slowly back toward the booth. Only one of the men was looking at him, but he was looking hard.

"Here you go," he said, delivering the drink. "And here I go."

"You might want to keep the outfit," said the skull-faced man, "I think you're going to need it." He pulled the curtains closed.

Spector walked with measured slowness to the door. Both men were still seated.

As soon as he stepped outside, Spector ran. He sprinted down the icy sidewalks, a caped vision of death, until his breath was gone. Slipping into an alley he took off the cape and mask and tucked them under his coat, then headed home.

He had gone to bed drunk for the third time in as many nights. It eased the pain enough for him to sleep. He was not sure if he really needed sleep anymore, but he had gotten used to it in the years before his death.

There was a clicking noise. Spector opened his eyes and took a deep breath, dimly aware that something was happening. The door opened slightly, revealing a crack of light from the outside. Spector rubbed his eyes and sat up. As he fumbled for his clothes the door stopped short, held by the chain. He backed toward the windows while pulling on his pants.

As he shrugged into his coat, he heard something hit the floor. The door closed. Spector smelled smoke and rotting citrus. His eyes began to water and he wobbled on unsteady legs. He had to move or the gas would knock him out. He opened the window and kicked out the screen, but caught a foot on the windowledge and fell onto the fire escape. He landed off-balance and smashed his head against the snowcovered steel railing. The pain and cold air cleared his head momentarily. There was a man above him on the fire escape, hurrying downward, and he heard another one banging up the stairs from below. They would both be on him in a moment. Spector struggled to stand. The man below had turned to climb the last flight. Spector leapt at him, catching the man offguard, driving him toward the railing. Spector heard the man's spine snap on impact. He gathered himself and ran down the stairs, leaving the man screaming on the landing.

From two stories above the street he leapt. His feet skidded on the icy pavement as he landed, and his body crumpled beneath him. He fought for breath and managed to roll over. A woman wearing mirrored sunglasses was bending toward him. She was holding a hypodermic. He recognized her just as he felt the needle sink into his flesh.

Spector came to in a hallway, his hands and feet securely bound with nylon cord. The woman who had drugged him supervised as two men wearing heavy coats and mirrorshades carried him into a dark room. As long as they were wearing the protective glasses, he could not lock eyes with them. Spector was dumped in a hard wooden armchair. The room had an old smell, like an attic or long deserted house. "Ah, Nurse Gresham, I see you're back with our troublemaker." The voice was that of an older man; his tone was firm and cold.

"He was a handful, though. Somebody else got killed." The man clucked his tongue. "Then, he's as dangerous as you said. Let's have a good look at him, shall we?" Spector heard stone creaking as the ceiling above him opened. The moon and stars shone brightly through the skylight. He had lived in the New York City area his entire life. Smog and city lights made it hard to see the stars at all, yet here they shone hard enough to hurt his eyes. His interrogators remained outside the lighted area.

"Well, Mr. Spector, what do you have to say for yourself?" Silence. "Speak up. Bad things happen to people who waste my time."

Spector was scared. He knew that Jane Gresham worked for Dr. Tachyon at the Jokertown clinic, but the man questioning him was definitely not Tachyon. "As far as I can tell," he said, "you people came after me for no reason at all. I'm sorry that guy got killed, but it wasn't my fault."

"That's not what we're talking about, Mr. Spector. Three nights ago you murdered one of our people for no reason. He was merely trying to satisfy your need for some drugs."

"Look, you've got everything wrong." Spector figured he must have stumbled into a big-time dope operation. Nurse Gresham could be stealing all kinds of drugs at Tachyon's clinic. "The deal went down fine. Somebody else must have done it."

There was a hum, and an old man moved forward into the light. He was seated in an electric wheelchair. His head was abnormally large and sparsely covered with white hair. His thin body was twisted, as if forces inside it were trying to move in different directions. His skin was pale, but healthy, and he wore thick glasses.

"Do you remember this?" The old man held up a coin. Spector recognized it instantly. It was an old penny that he had taken from Mike's body. Since it was the size of a half-dollar and dated 1794 he had saved it, thinking it might be worth something.

"No," he said, stalling for time.

"Really? Look at it carefully." The penny shone blood-red in the moonlight.

Spector had heard enough to know he was in deep trouble. Gresham and the old man were going to kill him. If he was going to stop them, now was the time. "Nobody move, or I'll kill this old guy the same as I offed your pusher friend." They laughed. "Look at me, Mr. Spector." The old man leaned forward. "Use your power on me."

Spector locked eyes with him and tried to share his death. He could feel it wasn't working, for whatever reason. The old man seemed to be blocking him off somehow. He slumped beaten into his chair.

"Sorry to disappoint you. You're not the only one to have extraordinary powers. Untie him, Nurse Gresham."

The woman reluctantly did as she was told. "Be careful of him," she warned the old man. "He could still be dangerous." Spector did not feel dangerous. Whatever he had gotten himself into, it was certainly no run-of-the-mill drug operation. "How do you know about me? What do you want?"

"Nurse Gresham kept a very complete file on you at the clinic." The old man opened a notebook and began reading. "James Spector, a failed CPA from Teaneck, New Jersey, infected by the wild card virus nine months ago. You were clinically dead upon arrival at the Jokertown clinic. Since you had no living family members to object, Dr. Tachyon revived you with a now-abandoned experimental process. You spent six months in ICU screaming uncontrollably. Finally, with the help of medications you were brought back to sanity. You disappeared approximately three months ago. Coincidentally, an orderly died mysteriously the same day. It's all here. Very complete."

"Bitch." Spector tried to locate the nurse in the darkness. "Now, now," said the old man. "If I let you live, Mr. Spector, you may get to like her."

"You'd let me live?" He realized it was the wrong way to put it. "I mean-"

"Realistically," the old man interrupted, "you have a great talent. Aces are rare, you don't just flush them down the toilet. You could be quite useful to our cause."

"What cause?"

The old man smiled. "You'll find out if we accept you into our.. . society. But before we even consider that, you'll have to prove your value. We have a little job for you, but with your abilities and the information we'll give you, it shouldn't be too hard."

"And if I don't play ball?" Spector was scared, but he wanted to know the exact consequences.

The old man tore a sheet of paper from the notebook and handed it to him with a pen. "Write your address on that piece of paper and put it in your pocket." Spector was confused, but did what he was told. The old man closed his eyes tightly and placed the tips of his fingers together.

Spector shivered. He felt as if cold water were being poured over his naked brain. "I feel…" He stopped, overcome by the sensation.

"Yes, I know. Not like anything else, is it? Now, tell me your address."

Spector opened his mouth to answer and realized he could not remember. The information was simply gone. "Selective amnesia. When a person is physically present with me, I can take out whatever I want." He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Or I can remove everything."

Spector was shaken, but knew that the old man's power might also be used to remove the memory of his death. The loss of his power would be a small price to pay to sleep nights again. "I see what you mean. I'll do whatever you say."

"You see, Nurse Gresham, he's no trouble at all. It would be stupid to kill someone who can be so useful. Inject him again and return him to his apartment before he wakes up."

"Hold on a minute. Who are you? If you don't mind telling me."

"My real name would mean even less to you than it does to me. You can call me the Astronomer."

Spector figured that anyone who called himself the Astronomer was certifiable, but this wasn't the time or place to bring it up. "Fine. Well, Astronomer, what do you want me to do for you? The only thing I'm good at is killing people." The Astronomer nodded. "Precisely."

Spector was nervous about killing a cop, especially since it was Captain McPherson. Nobody had been stupid or courageous enough to mess with the head of the Jokertown Special Forces Unit. The Astronomer had given him no choice. McPherson's death had to appear accidental since one of the Astronomer's people was in place to succeed him. If Spector failed or tried to get away, the Astronomer would brainwipe everything but his death.

He laced the shin guards on tightly and rolled his jeans down over them. He was also wearing additional protection under his shirt, on his forearms.

The Astronomer must have been planning to kill McPherson for some time. Spector was seated on a sofa in the apartment directly beneath his target. The woman who lived here was one of the Astronomer's underlings. From what he had been told, McPherson's maid was also in on the operation. "If you want to replace someone, first replace the people around them," the Astronomer had said.

Spector looked at the wall clock. It was between one and two in the morning. He checked to make sure the hypodermic was in his pocket, then turned out the lights and opened the balcony door.

He picked up the rope and hefted the padded grappling hook at the end. The distance to the balcony above was about twelve feet. He leaned out and tossed the hook. It landed perfectly, one large barb catching the edge above. A handful of snow fell on his face. He tugged at the rope. It snapped taut and the hook held fast.

Spector climbed up quickly and heaved himself over the edge of McPhersons balcony. The accumulated snow muffled the sound of his feet on the concrete. He waited for a moment. He heard nothing from inside.

The maid had done as she'd been told. The balcony door was unlocked. Spector slid it open; a blast of cold air rushed into the apartment. He entered quietly and closed the door behind him.

The dog was waiting for him. He could see the red glow reflecting off the animal's retinas. The dog growled a threat and charged. Spector could not clearly see the animal and threw up one arm to protect his vulnerable head and throat. With his free hand he reached for the hypodermic which Nurse Gresham had given him.

The Doberman slammed into him, grabbing his extended arm in its jaws. He could feel it trying to bite through his armguard to sever his tendons.

He jabbed the hypodermic into the animal's stomach. It continued to growl and grind away at his arm. A light came on in the next room. Now that he was able to see, Spector pushed the dog away. The Doberman fell heavily and tried immediately to stand.

"Get him, Oscar. Tear him to pieces." The voice came from the lighted room.

Oscar tried to respond. He bared his teeth and took a step, then his eyes closed and he collapsed.

So far, so good, thought Spector. He faked a limp toward the lighted room. "I give up. Your dog hurt me bad. I need a doctor. Help me, please." He tried to sound hurt.

"Oscar?" McPherson's voice was unsure. "You all right, boy?"

The dog breathed heavily and did not move. The light went out in the next room.

Spector fought down panic. He had not planned on McPherson turning the lights back of. His power was useless in the dark. He stood motionless for several long moments. There was no sound from the other room.

He took a step forward. He knew the layout of the apartment. The light switch was by the door on the right-hand side. To reach it, he would have to be fully exposed in the doorway. He knew McPherson had a gun and would be ready to use it. He began to sweat. The pain knotted up inside him, readying itself for the attack. He took another step. One more and he would be in the doorway.

Spector heard the sound of a telephone being lifted of the hook. He stepped forward and reached for the light switch. His finger came underneath it and turned on the lights.

McPherson was crouched behind a large brass bed. He had the phone in one hand and an automatic in the other. The gun was pointed at Spector's heart. Their eyes met and locked. Spector remembered Mike's dead finger and shuddered as his death experience flowed into McPherson.

The policeman trembled and gasped, then slowly keeled over behind the bed. Spector clenched his hands into fists and sighed. He moved to the dead man's side and pulled the gun from his hand. He opened the drawer of the bedside table with one gloved hand and set the weapon carefully inside. Spector felt a surge of relief. He had vividly imagined the bullet ripping through his chest cavity, causing him to bleed to death before he could regenerate.

He picked up a pillow and threw it to the floor, like a wide receiver spiking a football after a touchdown. Now, maybe the Astronomer and Nurse Gresham would leave him alone. He put the pillow back in place.

The phone began to beep.

Spector put the receiver back on the hook and set the phone onto the bedside table. He sat on the rumpled bedspread and examined his victim. The look on McPherson's face was the same as the one he imagined had been on his own face when he died.

"Is it dead, or is it Memorex?" he asked the corpse. "More impressive than breaking glass, eh, cop?"

He laughed.

Spector took a swallow of Jack Daniel's Black Label and savored the warmth as it spread through his insides. He was lying on his lumpy mattress, staring at the small black-and white television. A late-night news program was doing a rehash of the alien invasion. The monsters were still big enough news that McPherson's death did not even make the front page of the Times.

The videotape of the attack at Grovers Mill was being shown for the thousandth time. A National Guard unit was using a flamethrower on one of the things. It made a high pitched scream as it caught fire and burned. Spector shook his head. Being able to kill people by looking at them should be enough to give a person some security, but that was not the case. The space monsters gave him the same creepy feeling in his guts as the Astronomer. Spector hoped that he would never see or hear from the old man again, now that he had lived up to his part of the bargain.

The tape ended. "And now," the announcer said, "for some final thoughts on this tragedy, we're pleased to have as a guest-Dr. Tachyon."

Spector picked up the almost-empty bottle and prepared to hurl it at the set. The air shimmered next to the bed and he felt the room grow colder. The translucent outline formed into a giant disembodied jackal's head. Colored fire poured from its mouth and nostrils.

Spector fell off the bed, pulling the covers on top of him. "Drinking again," the jackal said. "If I didn't know better, I would say you had a guilty conscience." The head turned to vapor and formed quickly into the Astronomer.

"Holy shit. Is there anything you can't do?" He tossed the covers aside and climbed back onto the bed.

"We all have our limitations. By the way, if you see the jackal head again, address it as Lord Amon. I only appear that way by using an advanced form of astral projection. One of my less-impressive abilities, but it has its uses." The Astronomer looked at the television. The tube went black with a crackle. "I don't want any distractions."

"Look, I did what you wanted. The guy is dead and everybody's calling it a heart attack. Let's say everything's square, and you leave me alone now." He threw the bottle at the image. It passed silently through and crashed against the opposite wall. "So fuck off."

The Astronomer rubbed his forehead. "Don't be foolish. That wouldn't help either of us. We can use you. A man of your power would be a great help. But I'm not being entirely selfish in trying to get you to join us. It would be criminal to stand by and watch you waste your talent like this. You only need direction to realize your potential."

"Oh," said Spector, trying not to slur his speech. "My potential for what?"

"To be one of the ruling elite in a new society. To have others turn pale at the thought of you." The Astronomer extended his ghostlike hands. "What I offer is no empty promise. The future is in our grasp at this very moment. What we are doing is of cosmic importance."

"Sounds good," Spector said without conviction. "I suppose if you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. But I'm not really in any shape to handle cosmic problems right now."

"Of course. Get a good night's sleep if you can. My car will pick you up outside your apartment at ten o'clock tomorrow night. You will learn a great deal, and take your first step on a path toward greatness." The Astronomer's image flickered and disappeared.

Spector was drunk and confused. He still did not trust the Astronomer, but the old man was right about one thing. He was wasting his new power and his new life. Now was the time to do something about it. One way or the other.

The Astronomer's black limousine pulled up right on time. Spector tucked the. 38 into his coat and walked slowly down to the front door. When he got the chance, he would kill the old man. The Astronomer was dangerous, and he knew too much to be trusted. A mirrored window lowered and a pale hand beckoned him into the car. The Astronomer's head was swollen with large wrinkles that had not been there the night before. He was dressed in a black velvet robe and wore a necklace made of the 1794 pennies.

"Where are we going?" Spector tried to appear unconcerned. He knew that the gun was his only possible weapon against the Astronomer.

"Curiosity. That's good. It means you're interested." The Astronomer adjusted his sash. "You've had a great deal of pain and death in your life. Tonight there will be more. But it won't be your pain or death."

Spector fidgeted. "Look, what do you really want from me? You're going to an awful lot of trouble for an outsider. You must have something special in mind."

"I always have something special in mind, but you must trust me when I say that you won't be harmed. My powers took years of experimentation to control. Some you are already aware of. Others"-he rubbed his swollen forehead-"you will witness tonight. I have glimpsed the future, and you will playa great part in our victory. But your powers must be strengthened and honed. This can only happen if you are given the proper instruction."

"Fine. You want me to kill more people for you, just say the word. Of course, I will expect to be paid. But I just don't think I belong in your little group." Spector shook his head. "I still don't know who the hell you are."

"We are those who understand the true nature of TIAMAT Through her we will be given unimaginable power." The Astronomer stared unafraid into his eyes. "The task will be difficult, and great sacrifice will be needed to accomplish it. When the job is done you can name your price."

"TIAMAT," Spector muttered. The Astronomer's fervor seemed genuine, but he sounded insane. "Look, this is a bit much for me now. Just tell me where we're going."

"After a brief stop, to the Cloisters."

"Isn't that a little dangerous? Bad trouble on and off with teen gangs. Lots of people get killed there."

The Astronomer laughed softly. "The gangs work for us. They keep people away, including police, and we help them in solidifying their local power base. The Cloisters is perfect for us, an old building on old soil. Perfect."

Spector wanted to ask, perfect for what? but thought better of it. "You don't have a controlling interest in the Metropolitan Museum, do you?" His attempt at humor went unnoticed.

"No. We did have another temple downtown, but it was destroyed in an unfortunate explosion. One of my very dear brothers was killed." There was a satisfied sarcasm in the Astronomer's tone. "Select a woman for us, Mr. Spector."

The limousine cruised methodically through the Times Square area. "Why don't you just have a call girl sent up to the Cloisters?" Spector had always wanted to harm a beautiful woman. "These bitches are the scum of the earth."

"A call girl would be missed," the Astronomer cautioned him. "And we don't need a stunning beauty. We've had difficulties in the past when expensive women were used. Since then, we've had to be more careful."

Spector sullenly accepted the advice and looked around. "The blonde over there isn't too bad."

"A good choice. Pull up next to her." The Astronomer rubbed his hands together.

The driver eased the limousine over and the Astronomer lowered the window. "Excuse me, miss, could we interest you in a little party? A private one, of course."

The woman stooped to look inside. She was young with dyed platinum hair and a no-nonsense disposition. Her tattered synthetic-fur coat fell open to reveal a wellproportioned body, which was only partially concealed by her tight black minidress.

"Slumming, boys?" She paused, waiting for a comment, then continued. "Since there's two of you it'll cost double. It's extra for kink or anything else special you might have in mind. If you're cops, I'll tear your fucking hearts out."

The Astronomer nodded. "That sounds fine to me. If my friend agrees."

"Am I what you had in mind, honey?" The woman blew a wet kiss at Spector.

"Sure," he said, not looking at her.

The West Side Highway was nearly empty and the trip took little time. The Astronomer had injected the woman with a drug that left her conscious, but unaware of her surroundings. As the car pulled into the driveway, Spector saw several shapes pressed close against the naked trees. In the dim light he caught the glint of cold steel. He fingered the. 38 in his coat pocket to make sure it was still there.

Spector got out of the car and walked quickly around to the other side. He pulled the woman out and guided her toward the building. The Astronomer was walking slowly toward the doors.

"I thought you were crippled?"

"Sometimes I'm stronger than others. Tonight I must be as strong as possible." A blast of cold wind whipped his robes about him, but he showed no sign of discomfort. He spoke briefly to a man at the door and shook his hand in a ritualistic manner. The man opened the door and motioned Spector to follow.

He had been inside the Cloisters several times when he was very young. The era conjured by the architecture, paintings, and tapestries seemed more pleasant to Spector than the one he was forced to live in.

In the foyer a carved marble beast loomed over them. It had an angular physique and small wings tucked against its broad back. Its head and mouth were huge. Thin taloned hands held a globe up to the vast fanged mouth. Spector recognized the globe as Earth.

A figure moved out from behind the statue and away from them. It wore a laboratory smock over its vaguely human shape. It hid its brown, insectlike face and disappeared into the shadows. Spector shuddered.

The woman giggled and pressed hard against him. "Follow me," the Astronomer said impatiently. Spector did as he was told. He noted that the interior of the building had been adorned with other hideous statuary and paintings. "You do magic, don't you?"

The Astronomer stiffened at the word. "Magic. Magic is just a word that the ignorant use for power. The abilities you and I possess are not magic. They are a product of Takisian technology. Certain rituals which have heretofore been perceived as black magic, in fact, merely open sensory channels for those powers."-

The hallway opened into a courtyard. The moon and stars lit the snow-covered ground with a brilliant glow. Spector figured that this was where they must have interrogated him. There were two stone altars in the center of the courtyard. He saw a young man bound naked to one of them. The Astronomer moved to his captive's side.

"Take the woman's clothes off and tie her down," said the Astronomer.

Spector stripped her and bound her hands and feet. The woman was still giggling. "Extra for kink. Extra for kink," she said.

The Astronomer tossed him a gag. He shoved it. into her mouth.

"Who is this guy?" Spector asked, indicating the naked man. "The leader of a rival gang. He's young, his heart is strong, and his blood hot. Now, be quiet."

The Astronomer raised his palms upward and began to speak in a language that Spector did not understand. Several other robed men and women moved silently into the courtyard. Many had their eyes closed. Others stared at the night sky. The Astronomer put his hand into the young man's chest. The man screamed.

The Astronomer motioned to a group of people in the back of the courtyard with his free hand. A dozen or so carried a large cage toward the altar.

The creature inside was massive. Its furry, sausagelike body was built low to the ground and was supported by several short legs. The beast was mostly mouth and gleaming teeth, like the statue in the foyer. It had two large, dark eyes and small ears which were folded back against its head. Spector recognized it as one of the alien monstrosities.

The man continued to scream and plead. He was only an arm's length from the thing's open mouth. The cage was pushed slowly forward until the man's head was between the bars. The creature's jaws snapped shut, cutting off the final scream.

The Astronomer pulled the decapitated corpse upright, snapping the restraining ropes. The man's blood fountained over his skin and robe. The Astronomer's body straightened and his skin shone with an unnatural vitality as he continued to chant. He removed his hand from the man's chest and raised it above his head, then tossed an object at Spector's feet. The heart had been removed with surgical precision. Spector had seen films of psychic surgeons, but nothing as spectacular as this.

The old man walked to the cage and stared at the thing inside. "TIAMAT, through the blood of the living I will become your master. You can have no secrets from me."

The creature mewed softly and moved as far away from the Astronomer as the cage would allow. The Astronomer's body became rigid, his breathing slowed. For several moments, nothing moved. Then, the old man clenched his fists and screamed. It was a wail unlike anything Spector had heard before.

The Astronomer staggered to the corpse and began tearing at it, throwing hunks of flesh and viscera about like a whirlwind. He ran back to the cage and sank his fingers into the creature's head. It tried to break free, but could not get either of the Astronomer's arms into its jaws. The Astronomer howled and viciously twisted the thing's head. There was a loud pop as the neck snapped. The old man collapsed.

Spector held back as the others rushed to the Astronomer's side. The bloody scene had filled him with an intoxicating glow. He could feel the need to kill rising fast and hard inside, overpowering his other thoughts. He turned to the girl on the altar.

"No!" The Astronomer righted himself and lurched forward. "Not yet."

Spector felt a calmness being imposed on him. He knew the Astronomer was causing it. "You did this to me. I have to kill soon. I need it."

"Yes. Yes, I know. But wait. Wait and it will be better than you can imagine." He swayed and took several deep breaths. "TIAMAT does not reveal herself so easily. Still, I had to attempt it." The Astronomer gestured to the others in the courtyard and they quickly filed out.

"What were you trying to do with that thing? Why did you kill it?" Spector asked, trying to control his need.

"I was trying to contact TIAMAT through one of her lesser creatures. I failed. Therefore it was useless to us." The Astronomer pulled off his robe and turned to the woman. He ran his bloody fingers through her dark pubic hair, then placed both hands on her abdomen. As he mounted her he slipped his hands under her skin and began kneading her internal organs. The woman whimpered, but did not scream. Apparently she was still too disoriented to accept what was happening to her.

Spector watched the act with little concern. From what he could tell, the old man was massaging himself inside the blonde's body. Spector had been only moderately interested in sex before he had died. Now, even that was gone.

If he wanted to shoot the old man, he would probably not get a better chance. He reached for the gun. As he did, the need to kill overpowered him. The Astronomer had released his calming influence. Spector took his hand out of his coat pocket. He knew what he needed. Satisfaction was not what came out the barrel of a gun.

The Astronomer became more excited. The wrinkles on his forehead began to throb visibly, and he was tearing small pieces out of her. Now the woman was screaming.

Spector felt his need building in harmony with the old man's.

"Now," said the Astronomer, thrusting wildly. "Kill her now."

Spector moved in, his face only inches away from hers. He could see the fear in her eyes, and was certain she could see her death in his. He gave her his death. Slowly. He did not want to drown her in it; that would be too quick. He filled her mind and body. She was a writhing, screaming container for the viscous black liquid of his death.

The Astronomer groaned and fell on top of her, jolting Spector from his trancelike state. He was ripping hunks from her with his teeth and hands. The woman was dead.

Spector stepped back and closed his eyes. He had never enjoyed the act of killing until now, but the satisfaction and relief he felt were beyond what he had thought possible. He had controlled his power, made it serve him for the first time. And he knew he needed the Astronomer to be able to do it again.

"Do you still want to kill me?" The Astronomer pulled himself, spent, off the corpse. "I assume the gun is still in your coat. It's either that or this." He held up one of the pennies. There was no real choice. Any doubts were erased by what he had just experienced. He took the coin without hesitation. "Hey, everybody in New York carries a gun. This city is full of some very dangerous people."

The Astronomer laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "This is only the first step. With my help you'll be capable of things you never dreamed possible. From now on there is no James Spector. We of the inner circle will call you Demise. To those who oppose us, you will be death. Swift and merciless."

"Demise, I like the sound of it." He nodded and put the penny in his pocket.

"Trust only those who identify themselves with the coin. Your friends and enemies are chosen for you now. Spend the night if you like. Tomorrow, we'll continue your education." The Astronomer picked up his robe and went back inside. Spector rubbed his temples and wandered back into the building. The pain began to grow again. He accepted it, even loved it. It would be the source of his power and fulfillment. He had drawn the Black Queen and suffered a terrible death, but a miracle occurred. His gift to the world would be the horror inside him. It might not be enough for the world, but it was enough for him.

He curled up under the statue in the foyer and slept the sleep of the dead.