Miles away, Rex Blackeagle awoke in a cold sweat with his pineal gland throbbing madly. It didn’t help that he was in a strange bedroom that already stank of stale dust and indifferent hygiene. He couldn’t later decide if it was good or bad that he couldn’t immediately find his pistol.
“Shit!” his companion mumbled into her pillow. “If I’d known you woke up like that, I’d never have brought you home!” She rolled over to regard him with tired eyes that reflected a hint of fear. Here was a dangerous man in her bedroom, acting unexpectedly out of control.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, composing himself. “I had a nightmare…” Think quickly, he told himself. “It was about the war.” She sighed and rolled back over. He took a moment to admire the curves of her body that had tempted him back here, curves not yet worn down by the ravages of a life in poverty. Here I am, he thought, war hero and scourge of the underworld, bedding a negress in a cramped tenement bedroom while her children sleep on the other side of the wall. Well, he had saved her life from that junkie mugger, and she had been very grateful in a slightly drunken way.
Something unclean had entered the world of men from somewhere else, Rex knew. His third eye never lied, and it was all the more honest for the pint of bourbon and half a lid of hash he’s shared with the woman before having her. Her hand, nails redly aglitter, crept across his thigh as he sat on the edge of the threadbare mattress. Her fingertips tangled in the thick hair on his leg and teased their way towards the half-flaccid mass of his cock.
“I should help you relax and get back to sleep, honey,” she purred sleepily. “You wore me out pretty good, and I’m sore as I’ve ever been, but I could play with it for ya’.”
“I should go,” he said flatly. She turned her head just far enough to give him a knowing look that warned him not to come back if he left now. Just as well, he thought. He found his clothes and shoes, shrugged on the shoulder harness with his guns and knives, and covered it all with a greatcoat that was starting to look as world-weary as he was.
“What about your mask?” she asked.
“I don’t wear one,” he replied. Why should he? He was nobody. He shut the door and crept out quietly.
Hidden in an alley outside was Nosferatu The Third, a Henderson motorbike he’d picked up as a souvenir on one his last missions in Eastern Europe. He’d lost two previous bikes by the same name during the war; Nosferatu The First had been preceded by a long line of motorcycles (mostly Army issue) named Caliban. He himself had been called everything from The Necromancer to The Black Beast, The Midnight Avenger, The Spectral Detective, The Hooded Nightshade and sometimes simply The Dark One. He had always preferred his original appellation, given him by a small tabloid that reported on his first successful case back in the 30s: The Reaper. The mask was no longer part of his getup (there didn’t seem any need for it), but the identity remained, and it was how he had always introduced himself professionally.
Pulling his scarf up over his mouth, he walked the bike away from the building and down the block towards the main street before starting it. Muggers and fornication were only a temporary diversion, he knew. He had tasted bat’s blood and spider venom and he knew: he knew that something sinister lay in the cards for him. The Reaper pulled up the dark woolen hood that hid his face in shadows but for the glint of his mischievous eyes. He needed to find a phone, and a cup of coffee. Nosferatu rumbled in assent.
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