Antillia - The Order of the Lucifuge, Book One

THREE

LIMEHOUSE, LONDON ENGLAND 1898

THICK, ACRID SMOKE snaked through the back room of The Jade Gate, each swirl a memory, a fantasy, or phantom given life by the withering self-condemned patrons languishing on large stained pillows behind silky curtains. A sickly lime-colored light, barely capable of wading through the murky darkness, emitted from a single strand of decrepit green paper lanterns hung precariously from the ceiling.

The Jade Gate was infamous as an establishment of ill repute; its primary commodities being prostitution, opium, and fine tea. On this night, Alexander Grimstead was among the lost souls. He lay curled in a fetal position, shirtless, on a tattered oversize pillow, drenched with sweat and abdication. A long pipe dangled precariously from his thin lips, barely visible through the thicket of coarse facial hair. His gaunt cheeks barely moved to draw the poisonous smoke through the pipe stem and into his lungs. He had often been a man who defied death, but now he longed for its cold embrace. He looked far older than thirty six. Only a year had passed since he last laid eyes upon his wife's beauty, but his poor decisions had ravaged him quickly. Not as swiftly as he had hoped, however. His dark brown hair, once slicked-back and neat, was now long and matted with sweat and filth. His six-foot frame wilted from neglect. His mind, addled and thickened from the opium, now floated idly, but always to the same thoughts…

Would that he could turn back the clock. Shore up the sands of the hourglass and regain the happiness he once held dear. Beloved Lilly. Chestnut hair caressing her shoulders, encompassing a face so lovely none could find comparison. She was beauty incarnate. Grimstead's True North. Alas, the hands of time tarried on without reprieve, Grimstead understood that all too well. Especially here, in this hell he had built, where he was both tormented and tormentor.

He gazed absently into the green, smoky nothingness. A dark figure materialized from the shadows.

“This is how you mourn me?” an ethereal voice pierced his opium stupor. Grimstead rolled his eyes toward all four corners of the room, but could not discern anything from the deep, swirling shadows. “I expected more from you, Alexander.”

The pipe slid slowly from his mouth. “What… would you… have of me?” The curtains flapped as if a strong breeze had passed through.

“I would have you live in my memory, not languish from it!”

Grimstead slowly rolled onto his back. His hazel eyes tried in vain to trace the shape of his lost love in the shadows. He could feel her presence with him in the room. “Is that why… you've never appeared to me before?”

“I have never left you,” the voice continued. “Though, you weren't ready to see—or hear—me.”

“Why now?” he pleaded. “Why reveal yourself to me now? Am I ready? Do you deem me worthy?” He extended a weak hand into the empty dark. The curtains calmed as the shadow began to dissipate. “Have you finally come to free me?”

“No, my love. You've much more left to do.”

At that moment, three Chinese henchmen rushed into Grimstead's little slice of hell, yanking him from the pillows. He wrestled against their grip, trying to scramble back to his bar-less prison, but to no avail. A fourth man approached, twirling a wisp of long, black chin hair in his right hand. His smile was wicked and thin, and his eyes were like those of a reptile. The fourth man was called Mr. Chen, his reputation for being a sadist was legendary. He grabbed Grimstead's face with the bony fingers of his left hand and looked upon the American with both amusement and disgust. His long and pointed fingernails dug into Grimstead's flesh. He tried to pull his face away, but Mr. Chen held it tight.

“Stop fighting, white ghost. Your time here finish.”

“No!”

The eyes of the men around him began to resemble those of dragons, flaring yellow against the dull, green light. The opium must be playing with my sight, Grimstead though. Mr. Chen smiled and pushed a laugh that sounded like a hiss through crooked teeth.

“Yesss.”

Grimstead braced himself against the two men holding him and kicked the hissing man in the groin and smashed the back of his head into the nose of the man holding his left arm. Then, like a wild animal caught, Grimstead flailed against his captors. One of the men drew a dagger from the red sash tied around his waist and thrust it toward Grimstead's exposed stomach. Grimstead shifted his body backwards with precision timing, missing the blade with only millimeters to spare between the blade and his flesh. He grabbed and twisted the attacker's wrist, sending him spiraling to the floor with a sharp popping sound. Grimstead clutched the knife as if it were the only source of light in a bottomless pit. The other two henchmen pulled the daggers from their sashes and began to stalk closer.

“No!” Chen raised his hand. “He live, or no money!”

The man with the broken wrist ignored his leader's order and lunged at Grimstead once more. With a roar, Grimstead buried the curved blade into the man's sternum. Chen shouted in Chinese and two men, so large and burly that their frames cut massive holes through the thick opium clouds, entered through the round wooden doors at the front of the room. Grimstead adopted a fighting stance, his body trembling from the weakness in his legs. He executed a front-thrust kick that bounced off the stomach of one of the large men. The other punched Grimstead in the head, sending him to the floor. The men each took hold of an arm, hoisted him off the ground and held him aloft. Chen stepped in close and scowled.

“You kill one of us, your price just go up!”

Outside, Gentleman Mask, Britain's premier vigilante—self-proclaimed—leaned against the side of the building and anxiously tapped his brass pommel walking stick against the cobblestone alley floor. He twitched his pencil thin mustache, pulled his pocket watch from his tuxedo jacket and sighed. He hated to be kept waiting. He returned the watch and pressed the dark mask that covered his eyes a bit tighter to his face. He flexed and released his hands inside their leather coverings and stretched his neck. The alley door opened with a slow creak. Gentleman Mask immediately pushed himself up from the wall.

“You must certainly best have a bloody brilliant reason as to why I've been kept—” Mask was halted by the grim visage of his long-time friend being carried out by Mr. Chen's bouncers. The two large men held Grimstead so high that his toes barely touched the ground. One of the henchmen held a dagger to Grimstead's throat and another followed close behind.

“What is the meaning of this, Chen?” shouted Mask. Mr. Chen folded his arms and smiled.

“The white ghost kill my man. You pay double now.”

Mask threw his head back in a hearty laugh and Chen's smile faded in confusion.

“Double isn't nearly enough for the good Professor, there.” He jerked his chin in Grimstead's direction. “I'll give you four times the bargained price! What do you say?” A thin smile crept onto Mr. Chen's face. He bared his teeth and laughed.

“You make terrible business man!”

Mask twitched his mustache again and pointed the bottom of his walking stick at Chen.

“You must certainly best have a bloody brilliant reason as to why I've been kept…” Mask was halted by the grim visage of his long-time friend being carried out by Mr. Chen's bouncers. The two large men held Grimstead so high that his toes barely touched the ground. One of the henchmen held a dagger to Grimstead's throat and another followed close behind.

“What is the meaning of this, Chen?” shouted Mask. Mr. Chen folded his arms and smiled.

“The white ghost kill my man. You pay double now.”

Mask threw his head back in a hearty laugh and Chen's smile faded in confusion.

“Double isn't nearly enough for the good Professor, there.” He jerked his chin in Grimstead's direction. “I'll give you four times the bargained price! What do you say?” A thin smile crept onto Mr. Chen's face. He bared his teeth and laughed.

“You make terrible business man!”

Mask twitched his mustache again and pointed the bottom of his walking stick at Chen.

“Not at all, you daft tit.” He smiled. “I would have promised you anything your greedy little heart desired. I would have promised the Queen's knickers if you were so inclined! I never had any inclination to make good on our so-called bargain. You lot are filthy criminals. A dragon cult no less! And I am Gentleman Mask, Britain's premier vigilante! I've terrorized London's underworld with savage elegance and brutal…”

A loud thunk echoed off the alley walls. Chen spun in time to see his burly henchmen fall to the floor like sacks of offal. A very large man stood just behind Chen cracking his leather-clad knuckles and chomping a fat cigar. He was curiously decked in a bowler hat and frock coat which came down only midway on his pinstripe trousers. He wore a black mask around his eyes that matched his cohort's.

“…panache!” Mask winked. Chen's lips fluttered in shock. Mask jabbed the tip of his walking stick into Chen's sternum, causing him to falter backwards. “It seems that my mate The Basher and I have things well in hand, my boy. Do be a dear and piss off back into your little rats nest? There's a good lad!”

Chen cursed and spat. He knew he'd just been outclassed. He walked...