2

“All hostilities must cease immediately,” the dude in the white three-piece suit said in his oh-so-lightly accented voice. Sounded like German.

Darryl stared at him in disbelief. Who did this guy think he was?

“Hey, you can’t come into our house and talk to Hank like that.”

Hank, seated beside him, gave him a rough elbow nudge. “This is his house, remember?”

Darryl suddenly felt like a fool. Right. The Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order owned this big old fortress of a building—their downtown lodge—but they’d been letting the Kickers use it since the winter. Couldn’t blame him too much for getting confused. He’d been living here lately. Only natural to think of it as home.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

The guy in white—Mr. Drexler—didn’t bother to look at him. Like Darryl wasn’t worth it. An older guy with an eagle-nosed face, black hair slicked straight back, and eyes like ice-blue lasers that could bore holes right through you.

Drexler was the point man for the leaders of the Order, the High Council of Seven that no one ever saw. Darryl wondered if even Drexler ever saw them. He’d called this meeting in the basement of the Lodge and Hank had dropped everything to make it. Darryl hated seeing Hank run whenever Drexler whistled. Hell, he was leader of the Kickers, man. Shouldn’t have to answer to nobody.

“I required the presence of you and Mister McCabe,” Drexler said to Hank. “I don’t recall authorizing anyone else.”

“Darryl’s okay,” Hank said. “Not much he doesn’t already know.” Darryl felt his chest puffing until Hank added, “Besides, we may need coffee or something.”

That’s me: trusted gofer.

Well, at least he got to hang with the Kicker Numero Uno.

His right arm started to itch. He scratched it. Damn rash.

The fourth guy at the table was Terry McCabe, the Kicker Evolution’s spinmeister. Drexler himself had brought him in, and McCabe was the guy responsible for the “hostilities” in the first place.

“They’ve provided a valuable distraction,” McCabe said. “Because of them, the press has forgotten our link to the horror show on Staten Island. As a result, so have most people. And the few who do remember think the Dormentalists were to blame.”

Drexler steepled his fingers and nodded. “Even though they were not involved in the least. All well and good, and rather entertaining in the short run. But the brawls and this ongoing Internet assault are beginning to have a deleterious effect on the Church’s abilities to fulfill its purpose.”

“ ‘Church’?” Hank said. “They’re a bunch of money-grubbing fucks whose ‘purpose’ is to fleece anyone they can grab. Their members are seeing the light and coming over to us.”

“Yes. Too many of them.”

Hank slammed his hand on the table. “Never too many! I won’t quit till every one of them becomes a Kicker.”

“You . . . will . . . stop . . . now,” Drexler said, his blue eyes glittering. “The Dormentalist Church is under our guidance and—”

“Yours? The Septimus Order’s connected to them?”

“The lower echelons do not realize it, but yes, we helped fund them in the early years until they became self-sufficient. They are involved in a project the Order had been guiding for millennia.”

McCabe frowned. “Millennia? As in thousands of years?”

“It’s called Opus Omega. You need know nothing beyond its name. I can tell you that it is near completion, but your too-successful assaults on the Church are distracting it and forcing it to direct its dwindling resources in directions other than Opus Omega. For that reason, you must back off.”

Scratching seemed only to worsen the itch on Darryl’s arm. He pulled up the sleeve of his black Polio T-shirt and examined the purple splotch. They’d been popping out on his skin for months. He had about a dozen now.

“What is that?” McCabe said, pointing to Darryl’s arm.

Darryl yanked down the sleeve. “Just a rash.”

“Well, get it looked at.” McCabe leaned away. “It looks kind of funky.”

“Funky?”

“Yeah. Like something catching. You—”

Drexler picked up his black cane and rapped it against the table. “Can we stick to the matter at hand?” He turned back to Hank. “Inform your followers to cease and desist, do you understand?”

Hank slouched and drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, we appreciate you letting us use this building and all, but we can’t let you Septimus people call the shots for Kickers. The reason for the Kicker Evolution is to get folks to break from the crowd and call their own shots.”

Darryl forgot the itch as he fought an urge to jump up and cheer.

You tell ’em, boss.

Drexler didn’t react. He simply kept his cold gaze fixed on Hank as he spoke. “On the night of your debacle in Staten Island, do you recall a visit from a rather unusual man?”

Hank jerked up straight in his chair. “How the hell do you know about that?”

Darryl’s gut twisted as he remembered that guy. He’d looked kind of wimpy at first, but his eyes . . . next to his, Drexler’s were like a warm, loving grandma’s. And he’d done something to Darryl and Hank that sort of paralyzed them.

Drexler’s thin lips twisted with what might have been amusement. “He is in contact with me from time to time. When he speaks, I listen. And when I relay word from him, you would be wise to listen.”

“All right, I’m listening,” Hank said. “What’s the word—and who is he, anyway?”

“Who is he? You would not understand. And you are better off not knowing. He goes by many names, none of which would mean a thing to you. Call him the One. But his ‘word,’ as you put it, is to cease and desist.”

“How do we know that?” Darryl blurted. “This could be your idea and you’re just saying it’s his.”

Drexler kept his eyes on Hank. “Would you like a personal visit from him?”

The words hung in the air for a few heartbeats, then Hank turned to McCabe. “Okay, Terry. You heard the man. We’ll back off the temples and leave the Dormies’ Web site alone.”

McCabe nodded. “I’ll get on it as soon as we’re finished here.”

“You are finished here now, Mister McCabe. Get to it immediately.” As McCabe rose and headed for the door, Drexler pointed to Darryl. “And take this fellow with you. I have something special I wish to discuss with Mister Thompson.”

“Darryl stays,” Hank said.

Darryl could have kissed him—not that he’d ever really kiss a guy.

“It is a sensitive matter.”

“Darryl stays.”

Darryl sensed that because Hank had given in on letting up on the Dormentalists, he wasn’t going to budge on this.

“Very well. But he must be sworn to secrecy, as must you, Mister Thompson. What I am about to reveal must remain secret from everyone, including your most trusted followers. Do you agree?”

“Yeah, sure,” Hank said. “I won’t breathe a word.” He turned to Darryl. “You cool with that?”

“My lips are sealed. Like with Krazy Glue.”

And he meant it. If Hank wanted tight lips about whatever this was, that was what he’d get.

Drexler nodded. “This is quite serious. Even though this nondisclosure agreement is not on paper, it is binding. Do you understand?”

They both nodded, then Hank said, “Let’s get to it.”

“One more thing,” Drexler said. “The gentleman we were discussing a moment ago suggests you allow the council to guide you into other areas of endeavor that will speed your goal of universal dissimilation.”

Darryl remembered the scary guy saying something about that.

Wouldn’t you like to see everyone on the planet dissimilated—every man, woman, and child an island? . . . That works into my plans as well. I may be able to assist you toward that end.

“And just what would those areas be?” Hank said.

“I’ve learned to avoid second-guessing him or the council, so I’ll stick to what I know, and . . .” His eyes seemed to glow as he smiled—the first real smile Darryl had ever seen on this guy’s puss. “What I am about to reveal is wonderful, in every sense of the word.”

“I can hardly stand the suspense,” Hank said in a bored tone. “What is it?”

“It would be almost impossible to explain.” Drexler rose from his seat. “So I will show you.”

“Better be close by,” Hank said. “ ’Cause I’ve got things to do.”

“Very close by. No more than thirty feet away.”

Hank looked around. “Where?”

Drexler pointed to the floor. “Straight down. Directly beneath our feet.”

“Nothing down there but rock.”

Drexler’s grin broadened. “Au contraire. There’s a subcellar, and it is occupied.”