Michael Morbius tested his restraints for the third time in as many minutes.
The blonde man sitting beside his hospital bed chuckled. It was an unpleasant sound. “You never give up, do you?”
“Surrender is the last refuge of the weak,” Morbius responded, turning to look at the man. Simon Stroud, formerly of the CIA, now…? “Why are you still here, Stroud? I am far too weak to escape.”
“I’ve heard that before, from people I trust more than you,” Stroud said, lighting a cigarette and pointedly ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall above his head. He sucked in a lungful then blew a plume towards Morbius. “You’re not getting away from us again.”
“Us?”
“Me. Myself. I.” Stroud shifted in his seat.
Morbius smiled, displaying a mouth full of razors. The heart monitor beside his bed beeped suddenly. “Stroud, you would strangle yourself if someone wasn’t holding the other end of your leash.”
“Funny you should mention leashes,” Stroud said, smiling, “cause that’s just what we’ve got in mind for you, buddy boy.”
“Again, the plural. Surely the CIA has grown tired of my pedestrian massacres by now. I’m hardly a threat to the safety of the free world,” Morbius said, licking his lips.
“Maybe not, but we know somebody who is.” Stroud flicked ash from his cigarette into a cup balanced on the arm of his chair. “Several somebodies, in fact, and my new bosses want them--ah--dealt out of the game, so to speak.”
“New bosses? Stroud--”
“Quiet, Morbius. Let me tell you what the Black Chamber has to offer you…”
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#2
JUL 09 |
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“Cages For Tigers”
Venice
Dracula…well, actually the man who had been Dracula…lay on the bed, the thunder of his heart horribly loud in his ears. Pain filled him as his bones ached, his belly gnawed on itself, even the hair on his scalp felt like wires threaded through his skin. The pain of life. He had forgotten what it felt like, the unceasing tide of little hurts that men dealt with every day. The thirst of centuries had blotted it all out for so long.
He clutched at his head, trying to crush the noise of his heart into silence, but it seemed to only grow louder and louder and LOUDER--
“My Lord?”
A thrill of atavistic fear coiled through Dracula’s now-pumping veins at the sibilant hiss emanating from behind the Prince of Venice’s golden mask.The vampire lord stood illuminated in the doorway of the bedroom, hands clasped in front of him.
“Go away! I requested not to be disturbed!” Dracula snarled, or tried to. His voice was neither commanding, nor strong to his ears. Instead it was weak. Wretched. The voice of a mouse in a room full of cats. A surge of hate boiled through him and Dracula stood, forcing himself upright.
The Prince inclined his head. “I am sorry, my Lord, but--” Red eyes gleamed behind the mask. Dracula met them, forcing himself to stand firm. “There is…ah…talk.”
“About?” Dracula asked, already knowing the answer. Sweat beaded on his skin for the first time in years as blood flowed through his veins. They would be able to taste him on the air. They would know. Every vampire in this palace would know that Dracula, Lord of the Vampires, was a vampire no more. And then his fate was sealed.
“You collapsed so suddenly, and took your leave so quickly, before anyone could inquire as to your health, my Lord.” The Prince spread his hands, the perfect picture of the helpless host, worried for his guest. Dracula would have laughed, had the situation been different.
“A momentary illness. It has passed.” It was an obvious lie but he needed time. Time to discover the origins of his affliction. Time to--
“I think not.”
Swift as a snake, the Prince’s hand darted out, gloved fingers wrapping around Dracula’s throat. Dracula was hoisted into the air even as he clawed at the Prince’s arm, but he lacked the strength to break his grip.
“Ah. So It is true,” the Prince said. “How…fortuitous.”
The Prince flung Dracula backwards and the former vampire’s spine connected with the bedpost, breaking it. He collapsed to the floor in a cloud of shattered wood, face screwed up in a grimace of pain. “Y-you dare?” Dracula spat, struggling to stand, but failing.
The Prince laughed. “Of course.”
“Yes. I suppose you do,” Dracula said, sitting up through the agonizing pain. He glared at the Prince. “And now?”
“Do not worry, oh glorious Lord and Master, I do not intend to kill you, despite your--ah--current predicament.” The Prince studied Dracula for a moment. Then, “After all, you’ll be ever so much useful alive--ah--as it were.” The Prince clapped his hands together. “Your name alone is worth the trouble of cleaning up after you all these centuries.”
“My name?” Dracula wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and looked up at the Prince. Understanding blossomed in his eyes. “Ah. You intend to assume my place.” Dracula chuckled.
“I have never been an enemy of opportunity,” the Prince said. “Eventually, some twit will assume your role as Lord of the Vampires, nature so abhors a vacuum, but when that happens, I will be ready.”
“To destroy them?”
“To do what is necessary to protect all that I have built,” the Prince said, touching his mask. “But until that time, you will be my guest. And I will, as ever, be your loyal retainer, passing on your commands to the Nations of the Night.” The Prince spread his hands and inclined his head.
“I have been prisoner many times in my life,” Dracula said, slowly. He clambered to his feet, his cloak pooling around him. “I swore that I would never again tolerate captivity, regardless of the circumstances.”
“You have little choice, I’m afraid.”
“Dracula always has a choice, little Prince,” Dracula said, pulling his cloak tight about himself. “But I lack the strength to defy you.” He bared his teeth. “But only for now.”
“I always wondered whether you were as boastful in life as you were in undeath, my liege.” The Prince turned. “Dinner--your first in a quite a while, one presumes--will be in an hour. I would stay in these apartments, were I you. Your reduced circumstances are only a rumor at the moment, but were you to be caught, I assure you that you would not last out the minute.”
Dracula frowned and the Prince laughed as the door swung shut behind him. Dracula stood, silently watching the door. Then, with a curl of his lip, he threw back the edge of his cloak, revealing the long shaft of wood, broken from the bed by his earlier impact, clutched in his hand. He brought it up to his face and, for the first time in several hours, Dracula smiled.
Transia
An ancient monastery, now considerably more crumbled than it had been previously, with smoke and flames curling around the crown of the upper tier of the stone structure as the modern alarm systems screeched warnings that had come too late to the inhabitants.
“Are thy memories so short, maggots, that thou hast forgotten Modred the Mystic?” the silver-haired madman asked, standing wrapped in an emerald cloak, the wall crumbling around him after being shattered by his explosive entrance. “Surely, it can’t have been so long since last we spoke to each other, DeGuzman,” Modred continued, gathering his robe around him and squatting in front of Randolph DeGuzman, the Lord Mask of the Council of Masks, the reigning body of the Darkholders.
DeGuzman had been sent sprawling by Modred’s arrival, as had the rest of the Council, and he stared up at Modred, horror and anger mingling in his soul. “You--”
“Aye. Or, rather, I.” Modred bared his teeth in a smile. “Where is it, DeGuzman? Where is that infernal tome?”
“We don’t--”
“Hah!. Lie the first,” Modred said, gesturing. DeGuzman’s fingers cramped and he reflexively released the page of the Darkhold that he’d been clutching; the page he had, only moments ago, used. The page undulated on the air and fell limply into Modred’s palm. “Is this a page I see before me?”
“Yes. But only a page. The Book of Sins is lost and has been since before we met.” DeGuzman forced himself to remain calm. “We were in the process of rectifying that, however, when you interrupted.”
“Ah. Thou might prove useful then,” Modred said, standing. He gestured again, fingers crooking, and DeGuzman felt himself drawn into the air. Pain splashed up and down his spine and he screamed despite himself. Modred drew him close and the pain faded. “Elaborate. How, worm?”
The spear was old. Wallachian, with a jagged, wedge shaped blade. There were dozens just like it mounted along the walls. It tore through Modred’s sternum and gashed DeGuzman’s throat. DeGuzman fell as Modred whirled, his eyes alight with a hell-glow. Mystical energy surged from his fingers and the robed Darkholder who’d wielded the spear screamed and dissipated into a cloud of simmering ashes.
Modred pulled the spear free and drove it into the floor, pinning DeGuzman in place by the hem of his robe. The bloody hole in Modred’s chest squirmed shut, maggots of flesh dropping to the floor and crawling away.
“Fools. I only desired the book. Now, I desire something a good deal more wet,” Modred said. “I should have done this ages ago.”
Several of the other member of the Council were on their feet now and were screaming for the guards. Assault rifles chattered as robed acolytes burst into the tower room. Modred ignored the wasps of lead that plucked at his flesh and gestured imperiously. A Darkholder screamed as he was abruptly turned inside out, his meat sloughing away from the bone. Skeleton and skin did not fall to the floor, but instead lunged for former companions, animated by Modred’s will.
Stone too became filled with life and a Council member howled as the wall wrapped a tongue of masonry around his middle and dragged him into its maw. Several of the other Council members, seeing this, decided to fight fire with fire. Spells boiled from desperately gesticulating fingers, splashing against Modred’s lazily erected shield.
“Fie,” Modred said. A would-be sorcerer screamed as his own magic turned back on him and devoured him like a candle eaten hollow by flame.
DeGuzman jerked frantically at the spear, his fingers full of splinters as he hauled on it, trying to free himself. Finally, with a groan, the spear popped loose and DeGuzman scrambled to his feet. Modred was occupied with his slaughter. If there was a time to go, this was certainly it. But he couldn’t leave without the page…
Desperation guided his hand. Hefting the spear, he threw it. It struck Modred’s wrist awkwardly, exploding as it came in contact with the raw spell-stuff seeping out of the mystic’s person. Modred’s hand opened instinctively, releasing the page of the Darkhold. DeGuzman dove forward, snatching it up.
“No! A curse on you!” Modred howled.
DeGuzman sprinted past, head down. Even as Modred reached for him, DeGuzman hurled himself through the hole in the tower wall and out into the cool Transian night. He plummeted dowwards, Modred’s bellow of frustration following him down, down and into the trees below the monastery. DeGuzman hit one branch, then another, then a third and then everything went dark…
Somewhere
Blade awoke, his head aching. He sat up and gave a groan as pain tugged at him. A hooded and robed figure dabbed at his face with a wet rag. Blade grabbed its hand and twisted. The figure yelped and jerked backwards. The hood fell away and the face of a young boy was revealed. Without a word the boy scrambled away, cradling his hand; Blade made no move to stop him.
“Ah. You are awake.” The voice was heavily accented. The speaker was a gaunt man, clad in a monk’s habit with eyes like glacial ice peered out from under a narrow brow.
Blade said nothing, turning and rubbing the back of his head. He was in a square room, little more than a cell, really, and the only light was from a series of candles placed in nooks and crannies in the stone walls. There was a door set into one wall, a big wooden thing with an iron pull-ring. The boy slid out of the room through it, pulling it shut behind him. The man stayed where he was, arms folded into his sleeves.
“I have you to thank for being unconscious in the first place?” Blade asked. He swung his legs off of the narrow cot he’d been laying on and stretched. He let his gaze roam. There was a heavy smell on the air. Incense?
“An unfortunate accident,” the other man murmured. “Friendly fire, if you will.”
“Varney?”
“If you are referring to the vampire, it is quite dead, I assure you.”
Blade snorted. “I’ve heard that before. Where’s his body?”
“Burned.”
“Yeah. Ok, that should do it,” Blade said after a moment’s hesitation. “I spent a month tracking him…”
“We spent four. If you would follow me--”
“Yeah.” Blade stood then lunged forward, one arm locking around the other man’s throat. He punched the man in the kidney and yanked him back, away from the door. “Talk now, or never again. Your choice.”
“This-is-not-” the man gasped. “Not-necessary.”
“Really? Delightful. Talk.”
“You-you are safe here-”
“Ain’t safe nowheres. Speaking of that, though, where is here?”
“R-Rome.”
“Well shit.” Blade released his captive. “That’s a new one.”
Rubbing his throat, the man glared at him. “There was no call for that.”
“Maybe not,” Blade said. He crossed his arms. “Who are you?”
“I? I am Inigio Vinchenze.” The man inclined his head. “And I am a brother of this most holy order into whose home you have been invited, Eric Brooks.”
“Yeah? And what order would that be?”
“The Montesi Order, of course,” Vinchenze said, seemingly relishing the look on Blade’s face. He opened the door to the cell and gestured for Blade to step past him. “Follow me, Brother, and be welcomed.”
Blade hesitated, then stepped through the door…
To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Who are the Black Chamber, and what are their plans for Morbius? Can Dracula escape from his former slaves, or will he fall to their fangs? What do the Montesi Order want with Blade, and, for that matter, who are they? Be here in thirty for ‘HUNTING HOUNDS’!
Previous Issue | Next Issue
Dracula…well, actually the man who had been Dracula…lay on the bed, the thunder of his heart horribly loud in his ears. Pain filled him as his bones ached, his belly gnawed on itself, even the hair on his scalp felt like wires threaded through his skin. The pain of life. He had forgotten what it felt like, the unceasing tide of little hurts that men dealt with every day. The thirst of centuries had blotted it all out for so long.
He clutched at his head, trying to crush the noise of his heart into silence, but it seemed to only grow louder and louder and LOUDER--
“My Lord?”
A thrill of atavistic fear coiled through Dracula’s now-pumping veins at the sibilant hiss emanating from behind the Prince of Venice’s golden mask.The vampire lord stood illuminated in the doorway of the bedroom, hands clasped in front of him.
“Go away! I requested not to be disturbed!” Dracula snarled, or tried to. His voice was neither commanding, nor strong to his ears. Instead it was weak. Wretched. The voice of a mouse in a room full of cats. A surge of hate boiled through him and Dracula stood, forcing himself upright.
The Prince inclined his head. “I am sorry, my Lord, but--” Red eyes gleamed behind the mask. Dracula met them, forcing himself to stand firm. “There is…ah…talk.”
“About?” Dracula asked, already knowing the answer. Sweat beaded on his skin for the first time in years as blood flowed through his veins. They would be able to taste him on the air. They would know. Every vampire in this palace would know that Dracula, Lord of the Vampires, was a vampire no more. And then his fate was sealed.
“You collapsed so suddenly, and took your leave so quickly, before anyone could inquire as to your health, my Lord.” The Prince spread his hands, the perfect picture of the helpless host, worried for his guest. Dracula would have laughed, had the situation been different.
“A momentary illness. It has passed.” It was an obvious lie but he needed time. Time to discover the origins of his affliction. Time to--
“I think not.”
Swift as a snake, the Prince’s hand darted out, gloved fingers wrapping around Dracula’s throat. Dracula was hoisted into the air even as he clawed at the Prince’s arm, but he lacked the strength to break his grip.
“Ah. So It is true,” the Prince said. “How…fortuitous.”
The Prince flung Dracula backwards and the former vampire’s spine connected with the bedpost, breaking it. He collapsed to the floor in a cloud of shattered wood, face screwed up in a grimace of pain. “Y-you dare?” Dracula spat, struggling to stand, but failing.
The Prince laughed. “Of course.”
“Yes. I suppose you do,” Dracula said, sitting up through the agonizing pain. He glared at the Prince. “And now?”
“Do not worry, oh glorious Lord and Master, I do not intend to kill you, despite your--ah--current predicament.” The Prince studied Dracula for a moment. Then, “After all, you’ll be ever so much useful alive--ah--as it were.” The Prince clapped his hands together. “Your name alone is worth the trouble of cleaning up after you all these centuries.”
“My name?” Dracula wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and looked up at the Prince. Understanding blossomed in his eyes. “Ah. You intend to assume my place.” Dracula chuckled.
“I have never been an enemy of opportunity,” the Prince said. “Eventually, some twit will assume your role as Lord of the Vampires, nature so abhors a vacuum, but when that happens, I will be ready.”
“To destroy them?”
“To do what is necessary to protect all that I have built,” the Prince said, touching his mask. “But until that time, you will be my guest. And I will, as ever, be your loyal retainer, passing on your commands to the Nations of the Night.” The Prince spread his hands and inclined his head.
“I have been prisoner many times in my life,” Dracula said, slowly. He clambered to his feet, his cloak pooling around him. “I swore that I would never again tolerate captivity, regardless of the circumstances.”
“You have little choice, I’m afraid.”
“Dracula always has a choice, little Prince,” Dracula said, pulling his cloak tight about himself. “But I lack the strength to defy you.” He bared his teeth. “But only for now.”
“I always wondered whether you were as boastful in life as you were in undeath, my liege.” The Prince turned. “Dinner--your first in a quite a while, one presumes--will be in an hour. I would stay in these apartments, were I you. Your reduced circumstances are only a rumor at the moment, but were you to be caught, I assure you that you would not last out the minute.”
Dracula frowned and the Prince laughed as the door swung shut behind him. Dracula stood, silently watching the door. Then, with a curl of his lip, he threw back the edge of his cloak, revealing the long shaft of wood, broken from the bed by his earlier impact, clutched in his hand. He brought it up to his face and, for the first time in several hours, Dracula smiled.
Transia
An ancient monastery, now considerably more crumbled than it had been previously, with smoke and flames curling around the crown of the upper tier of the stone structure as the modern alarm systems screeched warnings that had come too late to the inhabitants.
“Are thy memories so short, maggots, that thou hast forgotten Modred the Mystic?” the silver-haired madman asked, standing wrapped in an emerald cloak, the wall crumbling around him after being shattered by his explosive entrance. “Surely, it can’t have been so long since last we spoke to each other, DeGuzman,” Modred continued, gathering his robe around him and squatting in front of Randolph DeGuzman, the Lord Mask of the Council of Masks, the reigning body of the Darkholders.
DeGuzman had been sent sprawling by Modred’s arrival, as had the rest of the Council, and he stared up at Modred, horror and anger mingling in his soul. “You--”
“Aye. Or, rather, I.” Modred bared his teeth in a smile. “Where is it, DeGuzman? Where is that infernal tome?”
“We don’t--”
“Hah!. Lie the first,” Modred said, gesturing. DeGuzman’s fingers cramped and he reflexively released the page of the Darkhold that he’d been clutching; the page he had, only moments ago, used. The page undulated on the air and fell limply into Modred’s palm. “Is this a page I see before me?”
“Yes. But only a page. The Book of Sins is lost and has been since before we met.” DeGuzman forced himself to remain calm. “We were in the process of rectifying that, however, when you interrupted.”
“Ah. Thou might prove useful then,” Modred said, standing. He gestured again, fingers crooking, and DeGuzman felt himself drawn into the air. Pain splashed up and down his spine and he screamed despite himself. Modred drew him close and the pain faded. “Elaborate. How, worm?”
The spear was old. Wallachian, with a jagged, wedge shaped blade. There were dozens just like it mounted along the walls. It tore through Modred’s sternum and gashed DeGuzman’s throat. DeGuzman fell as Modred whirled, his eyes alight with a hell-glow. Mystical energy surged from his fingers and the robed Darkholder who’d wielded the spear screamed and dissipated into a cloud of simmering ashes.
Modred pulled the spear free and drove it into the floor, pinning DeGuzman in place by the hem of his robe. The bloody hole in Modred’s chest squirmed shut, maggots of flesh dropping to the floor and crawling away.
“Fools. I only desired the book. Now, I desire something a good deal more wet,” Modred said. “I should have done this ages ago.”
Several of the other member of the Council were on their feet now and were screaming for the guards. Assault rifles chattered as robed acolytes burst into the tower room. Modred ignored the wasps of lead that plucked at his flesh and gestured imperiously. A Darkholder screamed as he was abruptly turned inside out, his meat sloughing away from the bone. Skeleton and skin did not fall to the floor, but instead lunged for former companions, animated by Modred’s will.
Stone too became filled with life and a Council member howled as the wall wrapped a tongue of masonry around his middle and dragged him into its maw. Several of the other Council members, seeing this, decided to fight fire with fire. Spells boiled from desperately gesticulating fingers, splashing against Modred’s lazily erected shield.
“Fie,” Modred said. A would-be sorcerer screamed as his own magic turned back on him and devoured him like a candle eaten hollow by flame.
DeGuzman jerked frantically at the spear, his fingers full of splinters as he hauled on it, trying to free himself. Finally, with a groan, the spear popped loose and DeGuzman scrambled to his feet. Modred was occupied with his slaughter. If there was a time to go, this was certainly it. But he couldn’t leave without the page…
Desperation guided his hand. Hefting the spear, he threw it. It struck Modred’s wrist awkwardly, exploding as it came in contact with the raw spell-stuff seeping out of the mystic’s person. Modred’s hand opened instinctively, releasing the page of the Darkhold. DeGuzman dove forward, snatching it up.
“No! A curse on you!” Modred howled.
DeGuzman sprinted past, head down. Even as Modred reached for him, DeGuzman hurled himself through the hole in the tower wall and out into the cool Transian night. He plummeted dowwards, Modred’s bellow of frustration following him down, down and into the trees below the monastery. DeGuzman hit one branch, then another, then a third and then everything went dark…
Somewhere
Blade awoke, his head aching. He sat up and gave a groan as pain tugged at him. A hooded and robed figure dabbed at his face with a wet rag. Blade grabbed its hand and twisted. The figure yelped and jerked backwards. The hood fell away and the face of a young boy was revealed. Without a word the boy scrambled away, cradling his hand; Blade made no move to stop him.
“Ah. You are awake.” The voice was heavily accented. The speaker was a gaunt man, clad in a monk’s habit with eyes like glacial ice peered out from under a narrow brow.
Blade said nothing, turning and rubbing the back of his head. He was in a square room, little more than a cell, really, and the only light was from a series of candles placed in nooks and crannies in the stone walls. There was a door set into one wall, a big wooden thing with an iron pull-ring. The boy slid out of the room through it, pulling it shut behind him. The man stayed where he was, arms folded into his sleeves.
“I have you to thank for being unconscious in the first place?” Blade asked. He swung his legs off of the narrow cot he’d been laying on and stretched. He let his gaze roam. There was a heavy smell on the air. Incense?
“An unfortunate accident,” the other man murmured. “Friendly fire, if you will.”
“Varney?”
“If you are referring to the vampire, it is quite dead, I assure you.”
Blade snorted. “I’ve heard that before. Where’s his body?”
“Burned.”
“Yeah. Ok, that should do it,” Blade said after a moment’s hesitation. “I spent a month tracking him…”
“We spent four. If you would follow me--”
“Yeah.” Blade stood then lunged forward, one arm locking around the other man’s throat. He punched the man in the kidney and yanked him back, away from the door. “Talk now, or never again. Your choice.”
“This-is-not-” the man gasped. “Not-necessary.”
“Really? Delightful. Talk.”
“You-you are safe here-”
“Ain’t safe nowheres. Speaking of that, though, where is here?”
“R-Rome.”
“Well shit.” Blade released his captive. “That’s a new one.”
Rubbing his throat, the man glared at him. “There was no call for that.”
“Maybe not,” Blade said. He crossed his arms. “Who are you?”
“I? I am Inigio Vinchenze.” The man inclined his head. “And I am a brother of this most holy order into whose home you have been invited, Eric Brooks.”
“Yeah? And what order would that be?”
“The Montesi Order, of course,” Vinchenze said, seemingly relishing the look on Blade’s face. He opened the door to the cell and gestured for Blade to step past him. “Follow me, Brother, and be welcomed.”
Blade hesitated, then stepped through the door…
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Who are the Black Chamber, and what are their plans for Morbius? Can Dracula escape from his former slaves, or will he fall to their fangs? What do the Montesi Order want with Blade, and, for that matter, who are they? Be here in thirty for ‘HUNTING HOUNDS’!
Previous Issue | Next Issue