He looked away from the flame, looked up. Saw the face of Frankenstein’s monster hanging somewhere above him. Well, why not? He would probably have Dracula and the Wolfman on him next. Maybe that’s who was pressing the pistol—Sir Michael’s pistol, it was—into his sideburn. No—he glanced over—it was a small, round thug with a crushed nose—the nose courtesy of Bernard, who had driven it into his face during the fight outside The Sign of the Crane.

Storm’s head fell forward towards the bright flame again. The flame moved aside a little, so he could see more clearly. He saw a man standing in front of him, holding Sir Michael’s lighter. It was the man he had seen at the auction. Tall and white-suited, with green gloves on his hands. With long sable hair framing an easy grin on a savagely angled face. And eyes—those eyes deepening and darkening in a way that captured Storm’s gaze, that made him feel sicker, weaker, muzzier still. Murky eyes but blackly revealing: windows on a hellbound heart.

And Storm thought: Iago.

“Poor Storm,” the man said. “That you ever thought to defeat me.”

Storm shook his head weakly. The words were so familiar. “What?” he said. “What are you …?”

Iago laughed. A good scary laugh. Better than Nicholson’s in Hellfire. Why was it the bad guys always seemed so happy?

“Don’t you recognize me?” Iago said. “You should do. You created me, man. I …” he pronounced, his eyes almost swallowing Storm. “I am Jacobus.”

Storm nodded weakly. Now he understood. He remembered. Those words—they were his own words. From the script of Spectre. He grimaced, trying to draw back. Trying to fight against the seduction of Iago’s stare. “Hey, babe,” he said thickly. “Everybody wants to be in pictures.”

Iago laughed again. He was moving the lighter now. Lowering it to a black candle in his other hand. He torched the wick. Clapped the lighter shut. Studied the candle quietly. “You know,” he said. “This is great. Really. The two of us meeting here like this.”

Storm tried to blink the sweat out of his eyes so he could look fiercely into that grinning, angular face. He tried to work his arms free from the grip that held them. The monster holding him jerked him back, tightened his hold. The pistol pressed harder against his aching head. He grunted with the pain.

Iago smiled. He was moving away, the candlelight receding into the shadows of the tunnel. He bent gracefully at the knees and lifted something that was leaning against the wall.

The panel. The Nativity. Iago kept moving away with it, along the wall of the tunnel across from Storm.

Iago set the panel down. He stood back and held up the candle. Storm, locked in the monster’s grip, turned his head to look into the creeping glow.