Kevin Anderson - The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

"A bit of hyperbole." Embarrassed, Quatermain took another sip of his Scotch, noting that it was indeed quite good, far superior to anything Bruce at the lamented Britannia Club had ever served. "Well, a witch doctor did bless me once… I saved his village. He said that Africa would never allow me to die."

"Ah, but you're not in Africa now," said Gray.

"No. Therefore, I'd best be careful."

Mina leaned over Gray's chair and looked down at his full head of hair. She ran her fingers lightly through it, seductively, as if she had a purpose. "So will you join us, Dorian?"

He sighed long and slow, staring into the flames. His expression was a mask of utter disinterest. "Ah, there was a time when my love of experience would have drawn me to this adventure. I would have enjoyed it, no doubt. A lark But now I have other priorities. I seek to… tame my own demons. Therefore, I must decline. Sorry. I'm sure M can dredge someone else out of his extensive files."

Nemo turned from studying the spines of the extravagant books in the library. "Yes, his files. I confess a curiosity as to what those files say about Mr. Gray. And why he is considered so important. We, all of us, have obvious traits useful in this endeavor. Quatermain is a hunter, and Mrs. Harker represents science. I myself am quite skilled with technology, and Mr. Skinner has stealth." Crossing his arms over his blue uniform, he scrutinized Dorian Gray. "What of you?"

"I have… experience," he answered with an undertone of great weariness. "A vast amount of experience."

Nemo looked at the man's boyish appearance, and his lips turned down in a skeptical frown. "How could one as young as yourself have experienced more than Quatermain or I?"

For the past several minutes, Quatermain had been staring at the man, ransacking his memory. Finally, the answer came to him, unlikely as it seemed. "Because Gray and I have met before. I didn't recall it at first, but I remember now. Many years ago at Eton College."

"A lecture, no doubt?" Mina said. "You the nations hero, telling of your exploits in Africa, King Solomons mines, the lost city of gold. Dorian the eager listening boy." She seemed amused.

"No, quite the reverse, Mrs. Harker." Quatermain seated himself in the second leather wingback by the fireplace, leaning closer to their host. The suave man in the other chair looked at him, secretly amused. "It was Gray visiting Eton, giving his lecture — and I was just a boy. Isn't that right, Mr. Gray?"

Their host pointed a finger at him. "Touchй."

Quatermain shook his head, turning back to Mina and Nemo. "He hasn't changed a bit in all those years. Not a bit."

"Must be a healthy diet and virtuous living," the invisible man said snidely from the drink cart.

"Hardly," Gray said.

Skinner finished his Scotch with a slurp and poured a third, very full glass for himself. "Anyone?"

The others were still trying to make sense of Quatermain's remark when the old adventurer suddenly snapped to attention. He surveyed the room's upper levels, peering toward the high bookshelves, the railed alcoves above, the loft filled with shadows. Everyone felt his tension.

"What is it?" Mina whispered.

Without a word, Quatermain slowly rose from his chair. The old leather let out a rustling sigh, but when he held out a hand for silence, no one dared to ask what he sensed. The others stared into the shadows, noticing nothing. The tension grew, accompanied only by the crackle of the fire and the quiet breaths of the waiting companions.

Gray seemed to think he was overreacting. "Really, Mr. Quatermain. You must be on edge—"

Then they heard a creak, the faintest sound. Dust sifted downward from the loft railing. Mina instinctively crouched; she moved like a panther, despite the tight, confining bodice and voluminous skirts of her dress.

Quatermain reached inside his linen jacket and eased out his Webley revolver. It felt heavy but comforting in his grip.

Before he could cock the hammer, though, a flurry of marksmen appeared like a startled flock of birds from every shadow on every level. Long rifle barrels extended, ominously reflecting the gaslights and the library fire.

"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.

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—"