Simon Stroud hated Michael Morbius. He hated him with every fiber of his being and few others besides. He hated Morbius’ face, his voice, his personality. He hated Morbius for what he was, what he had done, and what he would probably do in the future. What he hated the most, however, was that he was the one who was going to free him, this time. Stroud talked as he worked, unfastening Morbius’ restraints.
“Did you ever wonder why the CIA was after you, Doctor?”
“I-” Morbius shook his head. “No. No, I never did.” He flexed his hand as Stroud chuckled.
“Well, I did, and I went looking for the reason, when I wasn’t after you. And I found the Black Chamber or, rather, the Black Chamber found me.” Stroud licked his lips and stepped back from the bed. He drew a silenced pistol from under his coat. “Get up. We need to go. I’ve been stalling Interpol, waiting for you to recover, but they’re planning to take you into custody today. Can’t have that, can we?”
“No?”
“Have you been listening?” Stroud said, motioning towards the door with the gun. “There’s a fire exit at the end of the hall. I’ve disabled the alarm. We’ll head down that way.”
“And why, pray tell, should I go anywhere with you, Stroud?” Morbius said, slamming his elbow into Stroud’s throat and driving him backwards against the wall. Morbius dug his claws into the man’s belly, hard enough to make an impression, but not hard enough to penetrate. “Hmmm?”
“You-ahk-really weren’t listening, hunh?” Stroud gagged. He pressed the pistol to Morbius’ temple. “The Black Chamber wants you, Doctor. For a very special mission,” he continued.
Morbius paused. Then, slowly, he let Stroud down. “Very well. Let’s go.”
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#3
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Dracula waited. The door opened and a trio of his former brides-in-darkness slunk in, red eyes gleaming. They stank of musk, rot and hunger.
He had known they would come. It was only a matter of time.
“Draaaaacula,” one purred.
“Lord Draaaacula,” another cooed.
“Why do you recoil, Draaacula?” the third breathed. She stretched her pale arms up through her web of dark hair, causing the bones and gilded bells threaded through it to clatter together. “Are we not beautiful?”
“You are shadows and rags,” Dracula said, standing in front of the bed. His cloak hung over him, leaving only his head uncovered. “Nothing more than screeching stomachs.”
“If we screech, it is because you taught us how,” the first said, her crimson tresses hiding her face as she spun around her former master, running her fingers across his shoulders.
“Since you seem to have forgotten, would you like us to teach you now?” the second said, crawling across the floor, her body contorted like a panther’s. “We have so longed to teach you things, Draaacula.”
“We will love you as you never loved,” the third said, swaying before him, her body undulating like smoke. “We will teach you to love us.”
“I have loved, and I will love again. But not you and not now,” Dracula said, smiling. As one, they screamed, jaws gaping like those of serpents preparing to strike.
Dracula lunged, his cape flaring around him. The improvised stake he held punctured the flesh between the dark-headed vampiress’ breasts and she wailed as he drove her to the floor in a deluge of tinkling bells and clattering bones. He bore down on the stake and twisted it, ripping through her shriveled heart. The other two leapt at him, but Dracula dove aside and rolled to his feet.
He reached beneath the bed and pulled two more shattered stakes of wood out, hefting them.
“Come, hell-hags. Come, stirges. Embrace your husband one last time in a dance of death!” Dracula snarled.
The vampires darted towards him, claws outstretched. Dracula grunted as claws slashed across his side even as he whirled out of the way, driving a stake through the vampiress’ back as she swept past. The third landed on his shoulders and brought him down.
Her jaws swung open, cracking as they elongated, becoming a snout. Dracula, third stake out of reach, grabbed her jaws, holding them away from his throat.
The door slammed open. The wolf-woman jerked backwards as the Prince of Venice strode in, his eyes burning like halogen lamps behind his golden mask.
“You-How dare you!” he shrieked. Crimson robes flapping, he grabbed the vampiress by the throat and hauled her into the air. “I need him in one piece!” He hurled her away, towards the suite’s single window, overlooking the canal. The tinted glass shattered and the vampiress screamed as she flew out into the sunlight, burning and dissolving even as she tumbled towards the turgid water below.
Dracula laughed. The Prince looked down at him, head cocked. “What are you-”
“I told you, oh delicate prince, that Dracula is no man’s prisoner.” Dracula rose to his feet, bleeding. He held up the final stake, recovered even as the Prince had dealt with Dracula’s former bride. “And now, you will see proof.”
“What are you going to do with that, my Lord?” The Prince’s voice was a sibilant hiss. He edged towards Dracula, limbs loose. “Surely you do not think to abandon my hospitality so soon?”
“I have overstayed my welcome,” Dracula said, stepping back, towards the window.
“You won’t survive the fall.”
“I will survive. And return to conquer anew. It is what Dracula does.” Dracula hurled the stake like a javelin. The Prince howled as it struck him, sending him staggering back. Dracula turned and launched himself out the window, into the sunlight.
Into freedom.
Transia
“Fools. Blind, damned fools,” Modred the Mystic said, as he sat at the head of the table, head resting in one hand as he gestured with the other. The remaining members of the inner circle of the Council of Masks floated above the table, bound in ghostly chains of blue flame.
“All you had to do was give me the book.”
No one answered. They were, for the most part, unable to answer. Modred sighed and flicked his fingers, releasing them.
Only one tried to get to his feet. His skin had boiled off the bone in places, and he had the awkward gait of the newly dead. All of them would be like that, Modred knew. While he could not give new life to the dead, he was more than capable of binding a fleeing soul to its ruined husk.
“Speak, ape,” Modred said.
“M-muh-mercy,” the thing croaked.
Modred threw back his head and laughed. “Mercy? For the catamites of the N’Garai? Ha!” He swung his legs up onto the table and leaned back. “No. No mercy. Not until I have what I want.”
“What-what-what-” the creature said, stumbling against the table. Ropy loops of glistening intestine flopped from its belly, tangling around its legs. Modred shoved it away with a kick.
“Absolution. Oblivion.” Modred closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Bodies shuffled and rose, held to life by his daemonic will. The Council of Masks would serve him now, as feverently as they had served Chthon.
“Absolution,” he said again, more quietly. His soul spread like a puddle of oily water, seeping into the stone and moving throughout the tower. Drudges went about their work, unaware or uncaring of the battle that had only so recently ended. Slaves of the Darkholders languished in cells, waiting for their turn at the sacrificial altar.
And as for the cultists themselves, the various and sundry minor masks who made up the dogsbodies of the Cult, were searching the forest that surrounded the tower. Searching for the body of the Reigning Mask, DeGuzman. And, of course, the page of the Darkhold he had clutched when he went spinning from the tower.
Modred reclined, brooding. He looked at one of the dead men. “Come, worm, and tell me what you know of the page DeGuzman held. What scheme were you concocting?”
Slowly, haltingly, the dead man began to speak. And Modred listened, and then, began to laugh.
Elsewhere, DeGuzman shivered.
The Darkholder had survived his fall mostly unharmed, and now staggered through the dark forest of Transia. Mount Wundagore loomed on the horizon, blotting out the moon. DeGuzman could feel the pull of Chthon’s black brain through the wrinkled vellum of the page he clutched. It demanded things of him. Things he could not yet give it.
How had it all gone so wrong, so quickly?
It had been a simple plan. Deliciously simple. And now-
Breathing heavily, he leaned against a tree. His legs and back hurt, but he could ignore the pain for a while longer. Long enough to reach safety-
A branch cracked. DeGuzman whirled.
The woman was old, a hag, in the vernacular. She smiled and gestured with the old M-1 Garand she carried. “Been a long time since you come to see old Magda, King Mask,” she said.
“It has been long since I needed to,” DeGuzman said. “I need your help, old witch. The sanctum has been breached-”
“The white-haired devil has returned, e-heh,” Magda said, flashing a toothless grin. “As I foretold.”
“Yes,” DeGuzman said harshly. “Even as you said. And he will find me unless-”
“Come, come, follow me, King Mask. Follow Magda. She will see to your safety.” She turned, waving the rifle.
DeGuzman pulled his robes close as he followed the bent form of the old woman deeper into the forest. He could hear the faint sounds of someone-something-keeping pace with them as they moved. His skin crawled.
Magda’s hut was a horror even by the backwater standards of Transia. It was built up against a sloping cairn of thick rocks, and gave off a foul odor.
Something chirped. DeGuzman turned as something lightly touched his hair. He looked up into a face out of a nightmare. It dangled from the trees, all ropy tendrils and greasy hair. Needle teeth glinted beneath a quivering nose. It had all the worst physical traits of an octopus and a bat. DeGuzman stumbled away from it. A second creature bobbed into view on the roof of the hut, making a series of high-pitched chirps.
Magda opened her arms. “Come to mother, my babies. My lovely children.”
DeGuzman watched in sickened fascination as the things clustered around the hag, chirping and touching her gently. She saw the look on his face and laughed.
“They grow big, yes? So big since last you saw them, King Mask. Since you helped Magda give birth to her precious babies…”
“Yes,” DeGuzman said, fighting to hide the loathing the creatures inspired. He held out his hands, and the children of the N’Garai came to him eagerly.
Rome
The plane was being fueled in preparation for take off. It was a private affair, with the symbol of the Vatican displayed prominently.
Blade settled back in his seat and stared out the window through his sunglasses.
“Montesi,” he said. He turned to face the man sitting across from him. “Any relation?”
“Only in spirit,” the man in the black robe of a priest said. “He laid down the foundations upon which our Order has been built. He was canonized, you know.”
“Oh? Victoria will love that,” Blade said, his teeth flashing in a quick grin. The monk waved a hand in obvious irritation.
“Victoria Montesi is no concern of ours,” he said. “She has made her feelings known.”
“I bet she did. She was never shy about saying what was on her mind.” Blade said, turning away. Then, “So, Vinchenze. Mind telling me where we’re heading?”
“Venice.”
“Why?”
“Dracula.”
“Oh.” Blade looked at the priest. “Hunh.”
Vinchenze smiled. It was an unpleasant expression. “You sound…perturbed, Mr. Brooks.”
“Call me Blade.”
“As you wish.” Vinchenze settled back in his seat, crossing his legs. “Does the thought of the King Abomination fill you with such dread?”
“Yes,” Blade said, without hesitation. He leaned forward, draping his hands over his knees. “Big Daddy Fangs ain’t no joke, Vinchenze. He’s not a normal vamp.”
“We’re well aware of that,” the priest said. “Why do you think we sought you out?”
“So I’m-what? A consultant?”
“If you like.” The priest waved a hand. “Personally, I was planning to offer you a place in our Order-” Blade laughed. Vinchenze frowned. “You find something funny in that, Mr. Brooks?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” Blade said. “Considering the probable state of my soul, and all.”
“Absolution cleans even the most persistent sins.”
“Shout it out, hunh?” Blade smiled. “Consultant suits me.”
“As you wish.”
“So, Dracula.”
“Yes,” Vinchenze said, clapping his hands. “He is amassing an army-”
“He always does that,” Blade interrupted. “Always. First thing.”
Vinchenze grimaced. “I bow to your experience. As I was saying, he has an army. The oldest vampires in Europe bow to him, pledging unholy fealty-”
“That’s new.” Blade interlaced his fingers behind his head and crossed his legs. “Anyone bucking the trend?”
“A few. The ones who have always resisted Dracula’s will. Orlock. Ruthven, in Greece. Lianda-”
“Heard that name before,” Blade said, frowning.
Vinchenze sniffed. “Yes. The Mother of Abominations. The Lust-Bride of Margali Szardos.” He waved a hand. “Of little consequence. Dracula is the threat we must eliminate if Mankind is to see its full allotment of years.” Vinchenze pointed at Blade. “And that is where you come in.”
“Yeah. I got that.” Blade cocked his head. “But why now?”
“Why?” Vinchenze looked taken aback.
Blade grinned. “Yeah. Why now? Why, after all this damn time, do you want to take him down now?” Blade looked at Vinchenze. “He’s never been a very high priority before, or were you boys running around behind the scenes when I was with Quincy Harker’s crew?” Vinchenze sat back, silent. Blade grunted. Then, “Yeah. Yeah I always thought we got off too easy. Too much went our way, right up until the end.”
“Harker died, as I recall. As did the woman, Van Helsing.” Vinchenze stared out the window.
Blade laughed again and slapped his leg. “Yeah, but all of us should have died, by rights. Especially when Drac got his hands on the-” Blade stopped. His smile faded. “Hunh.”
Vinchenze was looking at him. Blade shook a finger at him. “Is that it, Vinchenze? Dracula got his hands on that book again?”
Vinchenze spread his hands and smiled gently. “Who can say for sure, Mr. Brooks? Only God knows, in the end.”
Blade closed his mouth. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were contemplative.
Venice
The woman was long and tall and dark. She was sex wrapped in mystery and she moved through the night like a warm breeze.
She had arrived in Venice a week earlier, responding to a pull that wasn’t entirely either physical or spiritual. She had not answered the call that echoed in her feline skull, instead merely watching.
Venice was alive with the dead, and Lilith, the Daughter of Dracula, was curious as to why this would be so. It had something to do with her father, of course. In the end, it always did.
The call had been in his voice. Demanding, arrogant and vicious. She was one of the few who could ignore the call of the Lord of the Vampires without consequence, but, as it always did, it aroused in her a genuine curiosity.
Somewhere, a church bell tolled, and Lilith leapt into the air, gliding upwards. Her fingers caressed stone and then she was nestled among a bounty of gargoyles, her arms draped across a broad skull. Pressed to the cold rock, she stretched and waited. Watching.
Something was different tonight. Something was-
Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the vampires prowling the streets. Dozens of them. Not the articulate predators that sashayed through the lit tourist areas, but the dregs. The gray-faced rat-fanged backwood hordes her father used as chattel.
She tapped her fingers against the gargoyle’s skull as she watched. Dozens became doubled. Tripled. It seemed like every vampire west of the Balkans was prowling the streets of Venice.
Odd, that.
“What are you up to, father-dear?” Lilith murmured. “And what can I do to muck things up…”
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Morbius meets the representatives of the Black Chamber, but is it a meeting he’ll survive? And what do Werewolf by Night and the Frankenstein’s Monster have to do with things? Dracula thinks he’s safe from his former followers, but his prodigal daughter Lilith may have something to say on that score! Blade lives up to his name as the Montesi Order clash with the Prince of Venice! And, Modred begins the first phase of his plan—locating the woman named Victoria Montesi!
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