The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (7 page)

Nemo had not moved. "Another demonstration of the much vaunted British
civility."

The three men stood there in uncomfortable silence, then the door opened
again. Now Gray wore a more friendly expression, smiling so that his youthful
face appeared ready to crack. "Please, gentlemen, excuse my bad manners. Come
in." He extended a welcoming hand.

Mina stood in the foyer behind him, looking satisfied.

"Mina tells me that an intelligent man, an open-minded and cultured person
such as myself should do his guests the courtesy of
listening
to
them—before turning down their request." He shot a sly look at Mina, whose green
eyes reflected the challenge back at him.

Dorian Gray seemed full of life, but in the way a piece of spoiled fruit is
full of flavor. His eyes were wide and bright, as if dazzled by harsh lights,
despite the gloom of the day and the dimness of the foyer. His skin was vibrant,
almost feverish, but when Quatermain shook his hand, Gray's grip felt dry and
cool.

Strolling with unhurried grace after they had all made introductions, their
host led them up a flight of creaking stairs. The wood of the rail was the most
expensive mahogany, polished to a fine luster, no doubt by the sweat of many
servants, though the house seemed quite silent Gold-framed mirrors hung in
prominent positions on the walls, implying that the man often liked to inspect
his general appearance.

The walls were covered with portraits, all of them originals and no doubt
quite valuable. The people featured on the canvases looked dark or oddly
unhappy, possibly malformed in an indefinable way. Not being an art critic and
unschooled in such things, Quatermain could not pinpoint exactly what was wrong
with all these people. Perhaps the artist had been playing a malicious trick on
his subjects, or perhaps he simply saw deeper to an inner rot in Dorian Grays
ancestors.

Farther along the wall, though, a single portrait was prominently missing.
The vacant spot was like a shout.

"You seem to have lost a picture, Mr. Gray," Quatermain said.

"And you don't miss a thing, do you, Mr. Quatermain?" Gray walked along,
running fingers through his thick hair as if admiring it; he didn't seem to feel
that any additional answer was necessary.

"Maybe someone stole it," Skinner muttered under his breath.

They entered an impressive library, lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves and
shelves of leatherbound books. Sliding ladders on rails ran up the walls,
extending to even higher alcoves, and a spiral staircase led to a loft in the
immense room. The chairs, vases, and furniture were all of the most stylish and
expensive variety. Dorian Gray certainly enjoyed his material pleasures.

Removing his rain-wet hat and leaving a gaping emptiness where the top and
back of his head should have been, Skinner zeroed in on the drinks trolley.
"Scotch, anyone? Ah, an excellent double-malt. Pricey!"

"Yes. Please. Help yourself," said Gray.

Gaslight radiated through the invisible man's greasepaint mask. With gloved
hands he poured a large tumbler of scotch and drank it in gulps. The fluid was
visible as it poured down his throat and pooled in his stomach. "Ah, nice and
smokey! Burns as it goes down. Care for a snort, Quatermain?"

"At least it isn't sherry."

Nemo watched the transparent thief's performance, but seemed more curious
about Dorian Gray's complete lack of surprise. "You take Skinner's uniqueness in
your stride."

Sounding bored, Gray led them to a sitting area where a roaring fire blazed.
"Yes, well, I spent many years seeking new pleasures and unique experiences. And
I did them all. By now, I've seen too much in my life to shock easily." He
picked up a poker and stabbed at the burning logs like a hunter slaughtering his
kill. Sparks flew from the grate as he turned to Mina, who stood behind a
high-backed leather chair. "Although, I must say, I was surprised to see you
again."

Mina answered with equal parts venom and sarcasm, "When our last parting was
such sweet sorrow, Dorian?"

"Meow," Skinner said, dutifully handing a drink to Quatermain after pouring a
second Scotch for himself. Both glasses were very full of the amber liquid.

Their host looked as if nothing in the world could penetrate his cool
composure, or bother him in the least. "Ah, so you're merely meant as an
enticement to me, Mina. M must be losing his touch."

Skinner said, "I read the papers, Mr. Gray. Wasn't there some sort of
business with you and Oscar Wilde? Before his numerous… er, troubles with the
press, eh?"

"Mr. Wilde and I are no longer on speaking terms, and I'm afraid it ended
badly." Gray turned with a flicker of anger that made him look incalculably old,
but the invisible man did not know when to stop.

"Was it his fondness for the highlife?"

Gray snapped at him. "I have no fear of hedonism. I simply lost my tolerance
for Mr. Wilde's immeasurable ego. Nothing about him warrants my further
interest."

He seated himself in the comfortable chair in front of the fire and crossed a
leg over his other knee, dangling his exotic slipper close to the flames. He
looked up at the older adventurer, raising his eyebrows. "Nevertheless,
your
presence intrigues me, Mina. And Quatermain. They say you're
indestructible. They say you ve survived enough exploits to kill a hundred
men."

"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. "Touché."

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—"

"—add us to your collection of lackeys and kidnapped scientists?" Mina
finished for him. "How appealing."

"Don't you see?" The Fantom stroked his silver mask, tantalizing them,
threatening—or promising—to yank it off and reveal his horribly disfigured face.
"We're all of us outcasts, society's dregs."

"Heh, he's not exactly wrong about that," said Skinner, still holding his
full glass of Scotch, as if about to propose a toast.

"As much as I despise the conflicts of nations, you think we'll help you
start a war that will consume the planet?" Nemo said. His stern face could
barely contain the outpouring of disgust he felt for the suggestion.