Sanford glanced at the upstairs window above, where her apartments were, and thought he saw a flash of motion at the glass. Well, well. Perhaps his Diana had a gentlemen caller, and that’s why she hadn’t invited him upstairs. It could explain her nervousness, too. He dismissed the issue. He was hardly in a position to quibble about morals. Morals, in fact, were the invisible fetters that so often held one back from greatness.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “We’re going to call on the Berglunds.”

  •••

  One of his associates stayed in the car, to watch the street, and the other accompanied Sanford to the steps of the Berglund house. It was dark, well after the dinner hour. The moon was a sliver of polished bone overhead, and the air cool, though not as misty up here on the hill.

  They were close to the Lodge. Too close, if what Diana said was true. Sanford didn’t like the idea of some supernatural infestation on French Hill – at least, not one he didn’t control himself.

  Carl Sanford was not an evil man. He knew this, and further knew it wasn’t the deluded self-justification of a villain who claims a righteous cause to soften his atrocities. He has done evil things, at times, but always with a greater purpose in mind. There were forces that wanted to destroy the world – or worse, unmake the world – or still worse, negate the existence of the world entirely, and retroactively. Sanford considered himself a bulwark against those corrosive forces. He had no interest in seeing the world and its people eliminated or undone, and indeed, he had often intervened to help ensure the continued survival of humankind when it was threatened by hostile or (and in some ways these were more disturbing) indifferent forces.

  The world, to put it crudely, was where Carl Sanford kept all his things, and the people in the world were the things that most amused him. Thus, he was a champion of humanity, standing for them against the forces arrayed in the deep caverns, and beyond the stars, and behind the sharpened curves of conventional geometry.

  To stand against such forces often required mastering them, and taking their powers for his own, but what better hands were there for such powers?

  He rapped on the Berglunds’ door with the head of his cane. A few moments later it opened, and Cornelius – or an undetectable copy – blinked at him in alarm, dressed in a flannel robe. One of his hands was clumsily bandaged. “Ah, Sanford, what – what are you doing here?”

  “You were meant to call me, Cornelius,” Sanford said. “About our little thief. Do let me in. I don’t do business on stoops.”

  “It’s getting late, and Cornelia isn’t feeling well–”

  “Let me in, or Brother Cluny will.” Sanford did not bother to gesture at the hulking Brother of Night beside him, but the Brother cracked his knuckles. Cluny was not a professional leg-breaker – he’d inherited a block of office buildings and spent most of his time playing golf – but he was large and had a mean scowl. For people like Berglund, a show of overt force was all you needed. The truly dangerous people in Sanford’s circle were far less obvious. Sarah Van Shaw, for instance, wasn’t physically intimidating, but between her and her vicious “dogs”, she was by far the more dangerous.

  “Yes, please, of course, come in.” Cornelius moved back, and Sanford moved in.

  “You don’t mind if Brother Cluny takes a look around the house?” Sanford said.

  “What?” Cornelius goggled, tightening the belt on his robe. “Why would you want to–” He moved to block Cluny from charging up the stairs. Cluny looked at Sanford, who shook his head, and the beefy landlord stood back and crossed his arms.

  “To make sure you aren’t hiding the thief here, of course,” Sanford said. “You made a side bargain, didn’t you?” Sanford clucked his tongue. “Tut-tut. I was going to let you keep the jewel, but you wanted more, I suppose. What did the thief offer you?”

  Berglund stiffened. “She offered me nothing. I haven’t even met with her yet. I expect she’ll come in tomorrow.”

  “I have it on good authority that she passed through the train station today.” This was a bluff – he had people watching the station, of course, but Ruby Standish was adept at blending in, or standing out, whichever better suited her needs.

  Cornelius was not rattled. He scowled. “Then perhaps she’s enjoying an evening on the town and intends to come here in the morning. I will call you, Sanford, once I have her, you may be assured of that.”

  Sanford turned to peruse some unlovely statuary on a nearby shelf. They were copies, anyway. “What happened to your hand?”

  Cornelius looked at the bandage wound around his fingers. “I picked up a piece of broken glass and cut myself. Nothing serious.”

  “I’ve seen more than a few maimed limbs in my time, Cornelius. It looks to me like your smallest finger is missing.”

  He put his hand in his robe. “Nothing so dire as all that, I assure you.”

  “Mmm. Who’s Cain?”

  Cornelius stiffened, then looked panicked, eyes cutting up toward the stairs and back to Sanford. “I don’t know anyone named Cain. I think you should leave. I’ll call you when Ruby, when the thief, when I find her–”

  “I heard Cornelia is unwell. I should check on her.” Sanford headed for the stairs, and when Berglund tried to block him, he gave the man a chilling stare. Cornelius had all the backbone of a limpet, and he should have slunk out of the way… but he just returned the stare. He definitely wasn’t himself… so, then, who was he? Sanford intended to find out.

  “Let’s just take him,” a voice from the direction of the kitchen said. “Wrap him up and give him to Cain. We’ll never have a better chance!”

  “What in the hell?” Brother Cluny said, and Sanford looked toward the new voice. There was a man standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a claw hammer in one hand. He looked like Cornelius’s dissolute twin, his unshaven face snarling, his left eye drooping, his hair unkempt.

  “Interesting,” Sanford said. “Cluny, kill that man.” He pointed toward the double while returning his gaze to the other Cornelius, who looked terrified.

  You didn’t become a Brother of Night without proving – under difficult conditions – that you would follow the orders of the master without question, and Brother Cluny reached into his suit coat and brought out a straight razor, flipping it open.

  That blade had belonged to certain British murderer, one who’d dabbled in forbidden arts and used the corpses of his victims to fuel his research, and it had unusual properties. The other Berglund lunged forward with his claw hammer, bringing it down in a vicious overhand swing, intending to break Cluny’s wrist.

  Instead, the hammer struck the blade of the razor when Cluny moved it to block. The hammer rebounded as if it had struck an iron bar. The other Berglund howled at the pain doubtless vibrating through his hand and up his arm. Cluny swung his razor in a smooth, flat arc and turned his face away from the blood that burst from the double’s throat.

  “Cornelius?” a querulous voice called from upstairs. “What’s happening?”

  The surviving Cornelius spun and started up the stairs, but Sanford reached out and grabbed his ankle as he began to climb, making him fall and bang his face against the wooden risers. “Don’t be tiresome,” Sanford said, stepping forward and planting the base of his cane between the man’s shoulder blades. He pressed down. “Tell me what you are. Tell me what you’re doing in Arkham. Tell me who this Cain is.”

  “You can never kill us all,” Cornelius said. “We serve that which when divided multiplies.” He rolled over and, with more strength than Sanford would have imagined he possessed, wrenched the stick out of Sanford’s hands. He rose, brandishing the weapon – and then came the pop of Brother Cluny’s small revolver. A hole appeared in the false Cornelius’s throat, and he gurgled, and fell. People imagined gunshots were loud, and they could be, but the sound of a .22 could be dismissed as a backfiring car or the crack of a tree limb if it was noticed at all.

  “They die like people, anyway,” Cluny said. “They don’t bleed ichor, like that thing in–”

  “Shh,” Sanford said. “There is still someone upstairs. At least one someone.”

  Sanford retrieved his stick and mounted the steps, Brother Cluny moving along behind him. After a moment, Sanford paused, and unsheathed the sword hidden in his cane. They resumed their climb as Cornelia – or something that sounded like her – shouted: “What was that noise? Who’s there? What’s happening?”

  Sanford stepped into the bathroom, where Cornelia rested in a bathtub full of murky water. She had a bandage across her nose and two black eyes. Someone had struck her hard in the face. “You look terrible, my dear,” Sanford said. “I was just wondering. When did you get two husbands? Surely a single Cornelius Berglund is already more than the world requires.”

  She started to lever herself out of the tub. Why on earth was she wearing a nightgown in the bath? Well, it was hardly the oddest thing he’d seen in this house. “What have you done to them?” she demanded.

  “Killed them for refusing to answer my questions,” Sanford said. “Tell me: who is Cain?”

  She stood, dripping, and, to Sanford’s horror, she giggled. “He is our prince, our priest, and our prophet.”

  “I see. And where might I find him?”

  “He is everywhere, because he is our creator, and we are everywhere, because we serve that–”

  “Which when divided multiplies, yes, I heard. Could you be more specific? That title, or is it a description, does little to enlighten me.” Sanford’s knowledge of esoterica was broad, and those phrases had a faint ring of the familiar, but he was annoyed at being in the dark. He was a keeper of secrets, not the victim of them.

  “You don’t get to know. Not yet. But once Cain takes you, and you undergo the sacrament, you won’t need to be told. You will simply know, as all of us know.”

  “Is that really how it works?” Sanford leaned against the pedestal sink, giving Brother Cluny a clear shot through the doorway, should he need it. “You’ll do some ritual, and then I’ll see the light and be inspired to join your cause? Because I understand the real Berglunds are both dead in your basement. You are cheap counterfeits.” But good counterfeits, and that worried him. Sanford wasn’t in the habit of trusting many people anyway, but he could generally at least trust that people he dealt with were human.

  “Oh, well.” She waved a hand. “You won’t join us, not the you that stands before me. We’ll have to discard this version. But the new you will be better, because you will serve our god, and be blessed and joyful in service.”

  “Let’s go back to the Silver Twilight Lodge, my counterfeit Cornelia. You’ve been eager to see the innermost secrets of that place for a long time. Now you’ll have your chance.” He had researchers on his staff who could discern what manner of creature this false Cornelia was, and interrogators who could pull more useful and concrete answers out of her–

  “Die!” someone shouted from the hallway, and Brother Cluny grunted and fell, tackled by another figure. Sanford had the impression of a woman furiously slashing at the man, but he kept his focus on the Cornelia in the bathtub, and it was good he did, because she launched herself at him.

  Fortunately, she slipped on the wet tile, and lost control of her charge, and he was able to adjust his stance and allow her to impale herself on his sword. She reached out to him as she slid forward, the sword moving through her abdomen and out her back, and he expected her to grasp him by the throat. Instead, she caressed his cheek. “Cain is coming for you,” she murmured. “You will join our fellowship, and be glad.”

  Sanford stepped to one side, pointed the sword at the floor, and watched her body slide off. When she hit the floor, he delivered a short, decisive thrust to her heart. Sanford then stepped into the hallway, where the other Cornelia was sobbing and slashing at the throat of an already very dead Brother Cluny with a pair of nail scissors.

  Sanford stabbed her through the heart, too, this time from the back, then stepped over the mess in the hall and went down the stairs. He hadn’t gotten much blood on him, at least, but he still blotted at his face with a handkerchief. Killing worked up a sweat. He hadn’t personally taken a life in some time, and seldom needed to sully his hands with murder at all. But he didn’t think this was homicide, precisely. More like homunculi-cide, perhaps.

  The Berglunds had a phone, and he placed a call to the Lodge. “I require the warden,” he said to the Initiate who answered. A few moments later, Sarah Van Shaw’s crowlike voice said, “Master?”

  “We have a bit of a mess to clean up, Sarah dear.” Clearing the dead bodies out of the house and covering up the crime scene was just the start. There was a much bigger mess in Arkham, and he’d need to sort that out, too. Curse it all, he had other business to attend to, meetings and deals and machinations. The last thing he needed was some upstart cult running rampant in Arkham. But dealing with them would fall to him, as such things always did. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, he thought.

  •••

  Sanford went down to the basement to confirm that the bodies of the Berglunds were there – he might as well verify as much of Diana’s story as possible. They were indeed wrapped in a tarp under the stairs. There were things Diana hadn’t mentioned, though, notably several loops of rope around a pillar, partially cut through. Perhaps the rope only appeared after Diana departed, or perhaps she was simply distracted by the more disturbing presence of two corpses… but perhaps something else. Maybe Diana had withheld the detail for her own reasons. Sanford was not one to leap to conclusions, but he believed in leaving himself open to the consideration of possibilities, especially the unpleasant ones.

  He went back upstairs to meet his people, who would take care of cleaning up the scene. They’d take the bodies of the doppelgangers back to the Lodge for study, and the original Berglunds would be found elsewhere, the victims of a vicious and senseless attack on the street.

  Sanford would return to the Lodge, and begin the process of eradicating this new rot from Arkham before it could further threaten his enterprises. They’d already spoiled his trap for the thief Ruby Standish, and it irked him that she might slip his grasp again. Someone would answer for that, and Sanford knew that someone’s name, even if he didn’t know anything else about him.

  “Cain, Cain, Cain,” he murmured. “I simply cannot wait to meet you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Rise of Cain

  “Yes, I do think it was a good idea to tell Sanford about Cain.” Diana did her best to strike a soothing tone. Ruby could be forthright, and Abel had a stubborn streak, and she didn’t want to see those qualities come into conflict; the stakes were too high for infighting. “That’s why I went along with it.”

  Ruby nodded. “Of course it’s a good idea. It’s mine. The comets put you in the hospital, Abel. Now, after what Diana told him, Sanford will be out there hunting these monsters, using all his considerable resources against them. He’ll stop looking for me, or at least make me a lower priority, which only helps us. And he’ll be distracted by rooting out this conspiracy, and that will make it easier for us to get into the Lodge vaults and lay our hands on your god in a jar. When you have the chance to pit two enemies against one another, you should always take it.”

  “It’s just risky, is all.” Abel paced back and forth, fretting. “What if Sanford realizes what Cain is looking for? The treasure he’s had in the Lodge all this time? You say all Sanford cares about is power, Diana, so what if they form an alliance to resurrect Asterias together?”

  “Is Cain the allying type?” Diana asked.

  Abel snorted. “All right. That’s fair. Probably not. But if they meet, Cain will at least try to chop Sanford up and make a double out of him, and that double could lead Cain straight to the jar. That’s his whole mission here in Arkham, infiltrating the Lodge, and if he can get his hands on Sanford, he’ll be done. Nothing will stop him after that.”

  “Carl Sanford is hard to catch, and harder to keep,” Ruby said. “There’s a reason the comets haven’t snatched him up yet. He’s got as many protections as those vaults of his. Maybe more, since he considers himself more precious than any object, no matter how powerful.”

  “There’s no use talking about it anymore,” Diana said. “The die is cast. Sanford is distracted, now. I bet he went straight to the Berglunds’. That means Cain and his people – or whatever they are – will probably be distracted soon, too. The question is, how do we take advantage of the chaos we’ve just created?”

  “We’re all too tired to do anything tonight anyway,” Ruby said. “I say we give these fresh tensions a day to simmer and start boiling, and tomorrow night, we see about breaking into the Lodge.”

  “So soon?” Diana blinked. She’d known that was coming, that such a step would be necessary, but everything was happening so fast. Were they being decisive and swift, or acting in haste?

  “The sooner the better,” Ruby said. “I’ll admit it: Abel has a point. Sanford is powerful. He might get answers out of the comets. Zealots can be chatty. We don’t want to give Sanford time to realize what he’s got floating in that jar downstairs. Right now, that piece of Asterias is pretty easy to reach – it’s not locked away behind barriers of magic and steel, like some of Sanford’s other, prettier treasures. Getting our hands on it should be an easier heist than my last adventure at the Lodge. Even if they’ve improved security since then, they probably did so for the vaults, not a storage room off to the side. So, yes. Tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Diana countered. “The Lodge is busiest at night. During the day, often there’s no one present but the warden and an Initiate or two working inside. On the upper levels, at least. I don’t know what all goes on down below. We just have to make sure Sanford isn’t on the premises himself. I can call his assistant, and see if he’s available to talk, and if he’s not, we can go in. If he is there, we can give him a fake lead on Cain, and send him on a wild goose chase to get him out of the way.”