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a knife in each hand. “I can hold up my end.” “Relax,” said the Romanov, rooting through the remains of his dinner in case he’d missed anything. “With all the guards and security we’ve set up here, we could hold off an entire army till they starved to death.” “Anyone else maybe,”
    said the Silvestri. “But this is the Deathstalker and the d’Ark woman. I’ve heard stories about them, of the things they did during the street fighting on Golgotha. Someone said they died and brought themselves back to life.”
    “Stories,” said Athos Kartakis. “There are always stories.” “In this case they might just be true,” said Valentine. “But not to worry, dear comrades. Let them come how they will. They’ll find nothing here but death.” He laughed softly at his little joke. The others didn’t look too appreciative of his humor, but then, they rarely did. Valentine’s sense of humor had changed and evolved along with his alchemical transformation, and wasn’t to everyone’s taste anymore. He sighed, and got to his feet, the signal that dinner was officially over. He dabbed daintily at his scarlet lips with a napkin and started toward the door. The three aristocrats made varying sounds of alarm despite themselves. Valentine took his time turning back to face them.
    “Yes, dear friends? Was there something else?”
    “The drug,” said the Kartakis stonily. “We need the drug.” “Of course,” said Valentine. “What was I thinking? It’s time for your daily dose, isn’t it? How very forgetful of me.”
    He strolled back to the table and took a small phial of pills from his pocket. The three men who had once been Lords and masters of their destiny looked at the phial and tried not to appear too desperate.
    Valentine was quite capable of dragging out his little game for ages if he felt like it. He could make them do anything, anything at all, at this time of the day, and they all knew it. The esper drug had originally been discovered by a small group of scientists looking for something else. To their surprise, they found they had created a drug that could give everyone who took it regularly a small but real gift for telepathy.
    The original Lord High Dram, the Widowmaker, had seized control of the drug and the scientists, and put it to his own use, but his plans, like his imagination, were somewhat limited. After his death Valentine took control of the drug and the single laboratory that produced it. There was of course a catch or two.
    First, the drug was highly addictive. Once you’d started taking it, you had to continue for the rest of your life, or die horribly. And second, a small percentage of the people who took it died immediately.
    Valentine had weighed the pros and cons, but not for long. It was only a drug, after all, and Valentine had never believed in letting a chemical get the better of him. The three ex-Lords had also taken the drug and survived. It had been the Wolfe’s condition for allowing them to join him in mass-producing the drug. A drug that could be used as a weapon to undermine and then control first the Parliament and then the rest of the civilized worlds. For whoever owned and controlled production of such an endlessly addictive drug would have complete and utter control over everyone who took it, for as long as they lived. And for those few who might try to hold out against it, it would be easy enough to slip them the drug unnoticed.
    Everyone has to eat and drink, and one dose was all it would take.
    Valentine had always believed the simplest plans were the best. So he handed out the precious pills, and the Silvestri and the Romanov and the Kartakis swallowed them down, and everyone was reminded of just who was in charge of things in the old Deathstalker Standing. Valentine had the grace not to smile triumphantly at them. They would have liked to kill him for the secret, and regain control of their lives, but they didn’t dare. They knew that if he died, they