I believe that, in the days to come, there will arise one stronger in courage than I, more replete with cunning, one who will realize all the potential of this thing which has been heretofore hidden from us, and become the eternal creature that I sought to be.

But two things he must remember, two things he must keep in mind always.

The first thing: the blood must be found; every six months, the blood must be made available or all is lost. It was a failure to accomplish this which has killed first my companions and now me.

But there is a second thing as well: the stone dissolves. Only a little bit is needed each time, but once it is dissolved it cannot be reconstituted. The exact formula for its creation must therefore be always remembered, always preserved. For this reason, as I say, I have recorded that formula here.

Always remember: If he is deprived of either the blood or the stone—either one—his death, the most horrible death imaginable, is a certainty.

And contrariwise, if he—this future man—if he can find the blood, if he can maintain his supply of the blue flower—then it is all before him as it was once before me. Then—ah, then—what power will accrue to him, what endless power. If men worship Christ for the mere promise of immortality, what will they give to him who possesses it in living truth? If Kings kneel before the cross, what will they not lay at the feet of an actual presence? In him, I have my hope that the coming death, this awful death, will not be in vain. To him, I leave this document, this formula, these words.

And from the depths of Hell, where I soon shall surely be, I salute him across time.

VIII

THE
NIGHT
OF
IAGO

1

The day’s light faded. Rain swept against the high windows of the mansion in World’s End. Blasts of wind plastered the panes with water. An observer looking up from the street would have seen only a blur of yellow lampglow within, the suggestion of a fire in the grate, a dancing orange shimmer. Even in the moments when the storm subsided, when the rain on the glass drew into streaks and droplets, the editorial office of Bizarre! was hidden from the world by clouds of roiling smoke, an interior fog that also obscured the squat figure standing in there, made of it no more than a dim, dark outline.