Kevin Anderson - The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

The distaste on Jekyll's face showed that this wasn't necessarily what he'd wanted to hear. He looked as if he had swallowed something particularly unpleasant… such as one of the oysters Tom Sawyer had enjoyed so much.

"But try to make sure we don't see Hyde until we actually need him." Quatermain turned a corner and passed Nemo's cabin again. Sawyer had already gone to bed, stuffed from his large meal, but the captain's door was ajar. Nemo knelt before a large, many-armed statue of Kali, muttering in prayerful devotion. He bowed low and touched his turbaned head to the feet of the idol, unaware of the other mans curiosity.

"That's Kali, the Goddess of Death," said Mina's voice in a whisper. She had crept up on the hunter with absolute, unnerving stealth. "Nemo worships death. Can we trust him?"

Quatermain looked over his shoulder at the vampire-woman, embarrassed to be caught observing the man's private devotions. "He's not the one I'm worried about." He walked away, clutching his papers under his arm.

Mina looked back into Nemo's cabin, intent on learning what she could about him. But the dark and mysterious captain rose, went to the door — obviously aware she had been eavesdropping all along — and closed it coldly in her face.

Weary and troubled, very unsure about how well the members of this group would manage together, Quatermain returned to his cabin and sat down. By the light of a single lamp, he began once again to study his files and papers.

His research ranged far from the specific dossiers of the League members to the activities of the Fantom. He perused Scotland Yard criminal reports and several copies of The Strand Magazine . He compared information from an illustrated article in one issue of the periodical, and made a note in his crime files. He saw connections, albeit faint ones, everywhere.

Suddenly, Quatermain sensed something nearby: a breath, a presence. In an instant he turned off his light and, with a single fluid motion, lunged from his chair.

In the pitch black cabin, they were on equal footing. He heard movement, touched skin, and caught a handful of hair. Quatermain struck out, responding to a frantic struggle, and landed several blows, which resulted in a very rewarding series of whimpers.

He reached the cabin door and flung it open, flooding the room with a shaft of light from the hall. Quatermain stood there, glaring. "I want you dressed at all times, Mr. Skinner — or it's my boot up your arse. Now get out!"

Without an apology, the invisible man hurried out. His bare footsteps hurried down the corridor, and the door to his own cabin opened, seemingly by itself.

Satisfied that he was truly alone again, Quatermain slammed the door shut and went to bed.

Ancient stuccoed buildings loomed on either side of Venice's famous, sluggish canals. The smell of floating garbage, wet stone, and old moss suffused the night mists that crept along the pilings. Overhead, windows were shuttered for the night, most of them dark; only a few denizens of the darkest hours remained awake.

The following night there would be a spectacular Carnival, with dancing and celebrations, music and drinking. Tonight, the people rested, content with anticipation.

But the Fantom did not rest.

In the odorous, gently lapping water that rose and fell like the sleeping breaths of the ocean, several dead fish floated belly-up, far from the reach of the feral cats prowling the alleys. A rank of unoccupied gondolas, moored to brightly striped poles near a boathouse, creaked and knocked.against each other. The black-painted, curved hulls were slender and graceful, resembling dark crescent moons; the single, long oar for each boat had been stored for the night under a patched canvas covering.

The uneasy night silence only made the pained groans and gasps louder by comparison as they drifted down to the water from the boathouse. The sound of an open hand striking flesh was like that of a chef tenderizing a veal cutlet.

Inside the building, behind closed doors and barricaded windows, the Fantom paced in front of the bespectacled German structural engineer. Karl Draper writhed in misery, though he was drugged and only semicoherent. He didn't seem to know where he was, only that he wanted to crawl away.

Beside the Fantom, Dante watched the captive as if the man were nothing more than a smear of something unpleasant he had scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

The Fantom turned his back, holding a wide-barreled syringe with a dauntingly long, thick needle. "My truth serum isn't fully developed, Herr Draper, or I'd know everything by now." In the lamplight that illuminated the boathouse, a final droplet of greenish liquid glistened like a tear at the sharp end. "It has had sufficient time to work."

In disgust, the Fantom dropped the empty syringe to the boathouse floor and ground it to glass dust under his black heel. He slapped Karl Draper to consciousness, aiming his blows at the bright red welts that already covered the man's cheek. "Still, despite its deficiencies, I'm sure the serum doesn't feel very pleasant coursing through your veins."

Dante unrolled a sheaf of thick, yellowed sheets of paper on a worktable made of rough planks. Judging by the sticky stains and clumped flakes of silver scales, the table had recently been used to gut and clean fish.

"Look at the plans and tell me what I need to know," the Fantom insisted. His voice was low and quiet now, and much more threatening.

"No," the engineer croaked out in German. "I can resist your serum. Nothing will make me tell."

With another backhand, the Fantom knocked Draper's spectacles loose. Dante dutifully retrieved them, holding the glasses a bit too tightly, as if he wanted to clench his fists and twist the frames. Instead, he gave them back to the Fantom.

"You force me to rely on more proven methods," said the Fantom, swirling his black cape. "Fortunately, they are just as effective." He turned to Dante, gave a meaningful glare, and the lieutenant nodded.

Around them in the drarty boathouse room, the Fantom's henchmen worked diligently on their tasks. Each man had his assignment, and they knew better than to debate their masters orders. They worked quietly, muffling any suspicious sounds that might attract too much attention in the still night. The city of Venice would have no advance warning of its doom, and their party tomorrow night would be much different from what they expected.

Two henchmen taped and waterproofed a set of wooden barrels while another group of the Fantom's followers outfitted themselves in thick diving gear: oiled leather suits, rubber-coated gloves, and heavy helmets with glass windows. They strung weights around their waists to help them reach the foundations of the centuries-old buildings and remain in place long enough to complete their tasks.

The boathouse's back rooms and stalls held the Fantom's other prisoners, bound and gagged. The captives crowded together like animals in pens, forced to wait while the evil genius competed his preparations. So far, two of them had died trying to escape; the Fantom had tossed the horribly mutilated bodies back in among the prisoners as "an appropriate lesson." Since then, no one else had made an attempt to break free.

Now, wearing a determined expression, Dante retrieved the German prisoner the Fantom had chosen as his first bargaining chip. The lieutenant brandished his weapon and pulled the man away from his comrades, who shrank back, praying they would not be noticed themselves. Dante shoved the prisoner out of the holding pen and dragged him into the main room. The man stood cringing, barely able to remain on his feet.

The Fantom regarded the man, dismissed him as an inadequate specimen, then returned his attention to Karl Draper. Like a stern mother, he replaced the structural engineer's spectacles on his face, then let him blink at the hapless prisoner until recognition clearly showed on his face.