4
Ernst Drexler ended his phone call and turned to find someone standing in his office.
No, not someone. The One.
He shot to his feet and broke out in a sweat as he always did in the One’s presence. The man—no, he was something more than a man—frightened him to the core, especially the way he entered and left rooms without warning whenever he pleased.
“You’ve located the troublemaker,” the One said—a statement, not a question. “Who is he?”
“Surprisingly, it was a woman.”
“What is her name?”
“We, um, don’t know yet. But she won’t be bothering us anymore. That I can guarantee.”
“Nothing is guaranteed.”
“Yes, sir.”
In apparent deep thought, the One wandered the office. Ernst observed him as he waited for him to speak. His appearance had undergone subtle changes lately. His frame seemed smaller, his skin tones just a shade darker, his features softer, the brown of his hair deeper. All incremental, nothing dramatic, but right now he could pass for Hispanic. Ernst wondered why. Some reason beyond vanity. The One was anything but vain.
Although he did seem to enjoy good suits. He wore dark blue silk today, with a white shirt and a maroon tie. He tended to look like a businessman.
Ernst preferred the opposite. As a young man he had begun wearing white, three-piece suits, no matter what the season, and had continued the practice into his sixties. He did not feel his age, knew he did not look it, and was glad of that. He confessed to a modicum of vanity.
Finally the One turned to him.
The news startled Ernst.
“It is? I had no idea. I was going to check on it later when—”
“I sensed it awaken a few hours ago. We must waste no time. The Fhinntmanchca process must begin as soon as possible.”
“Yes, of course. This is wonderful.”
“It won’t be truly ‘wonderful’ until the Fhinntmanchca successfully completes its task.”
“Of course. The Order—”
“I am not leaving it up to the Order. The High Council consists of seven egos who will have to agree on how to proceed. I want no delay. The Septimus Order deserves untold credit for its efforts so far.” He jabbed a finger at Ernst. “But I am putting you in charge. You personally, Ernst Drexler.”
“I exist to serve.”
As Ernst bowed his head, he fought to keep his knees from buckling. He had assumed that, as actuator for the High Council, he would do most of the work, but would share responsibility with the council. But now the One was laying responsibility for the successful creation of the Fhinntmanchca—something that had never been done before—entirely on his shoulders. Should he fail . . .
He did not want to think about that.
He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Existing lore is vague on the precise purpose of the Fhinntmanchca. If I may be so bold to ask—”
“You may. Should you succeed in your task, you shall have your answer. Should you fail, it will not matter to you.”
Ernst swallowed. He did not like the sound of that.
The One stepped to the window and looked out. “One of these Taints should provide suitable raw material.”
Ernst moved to his side and saw the usual group of Kickers clustered outside the Lodge’s front entrance.
Taints . . . the archaic term for people like the Kickers. And they should indeed provide ample raw material. After all, the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order had loaned Hank Thompson and his followers the use of this Lower East Side Lodge. He was surrounded by Kickers.
The question was: Which one fit the requirements?
He looked around.
The One was gone.