The late-afternoon sun shed an orange glow on the Manhattan Museum of Art as dusk began to fall. Cheerful security guards ushered the last guests out of the vast museum complex while other workers shut the museum's huge glass doors for the day.
In the back of the museum, in the restoration studio, wiry Janosz Poha didn't notice the time.
He continued to work on the gigantic painting of Vigo, one of the cruelest dictators in the history of the Western world. He was disturbed momentarily by Rudy, one of the museum's security guards. Rudy was a third-generation New Yorker, an Irishman whose father and grandfather had been cops. He'd always loved art, so he managed to combine his two callings by becoming an "art cop."
Rudy, making his early-evening rounds, looked up as Janosz worked carefully on restoring the ugly paint ing. Rudy didn't exactly know art, but he knew what gave him the willies. That painting gave him the willies.
"Oh, hello, Mr. Poha." Rudy smiled. "You working late today?"
Poha attempted a carefree grin. It looked as if he had just backed into a live wire. "Huh? Oh, yes, Rudy. I'm working on a very important painting."
Rudy looked at the canvas. Spook-house stuff, if you asked him. Still, Poha was supposed to be a pretty bright young guy. "Just be sure to sign out when you leave," he said, turning his back on the portrait of the mighty warrior.
Janosz went back to his restoration work. High above him, the eyes of Vigo of Carpathia slowly flickered to life. Vigo stared down at the tiny mortal working far below his eyes. An evil grin twisted across his lips.
Janosz, unaware that he was being watched, once more raised his brush to the canvas. He screamed in terror as a powerful bolt of blood-red, crackling energy hit the brush full blast. The bolt of power shot through the brush and wormed its way through Janosz's body, forcing the confused artist to his knees.
Groggy from the sudden charge, Janosz gazed up at the visage of Vigo.
He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
The entire painting seemed to come alive.
Vigo slowly lowered his massive head and sneered at the cowering collection of flesh and blood trembling before him. "I am Vigo," he announced in a voice that resonated like thunder, "the Scourge of Carpathia, the Sorrow of Moldavia. I, Vigo, command you."
Janosz was mesmerized. "Command me, Lord," he whispered.
Vigo smiled at his newfound servant. "On a moun tain of skulls in a castle of pain, I sat on a throne of blood. Twenty thousand corpses swung from my walls and parapets, and the rivers ran with tears."
Janosz nodded dumbly. Yes, that sounded like Vigo's hometown, all right.
"By the power of the Book of Gombots," Vigo thundered, "what was will be, what is will be no more! Past and future, now and ever, my time is near. Now is the season of evil. Find me a child that I may live again!"
Two jagged streams of crimson energy emerged from Vigo's baleful eyes and swirled down toward hap less Janosz. Janosz tried to scream but could not. He tried to move but could not. The bolts of energy smashed into Janosz's eyes, sending the cowering man sinking farther down onto the floor.
His consciousness swam.
He found himself getting to his feet.
He stared at the painting of Vigo. It was quiet now. Janosz clenched his teeth. He felt new confidence. New power. He had been given a command.
He knew what to do.
He knew how to make Vigo happy.
He knew how to make Vigo powerful.
And if he was a very good servant, perhaps he, too, would share in Vigo's glory.
Janosz marched out of the restoration studio and through the darkened corridors of the museum.
He strode toward the rear exit of the building, past the security-guard station, and out the door, leaving a bewildered Rudy sitting at his security desk, pen in hand.
"Hey! Mr. Poha!"
Rudy watched the wiry artist disappear into the night.
Rudy shook his head sadly. Eggheads. "I knew he'd forget to sign out." He sighed.
In the darkness of Manhattan, Janosz walked calmly, his eyes ablaze with Vigo's power.
They shone a bright, bloody red.