The church was old and run down with pigeons nested in the rafters, their soft coos drifting down like dust. Michael Morbius prowled through the pews, his senses stretched.
Some few feet behind him, Simon Stroud, ex-CIA operative, followed with the edge of his coat thrown back, one hand on the pistol holstered on his hip. He came to a halt as Morbius bounded up to perch on the edge of a pew, hands dangling, claws scraping the wood. Morbius turned, fixing his red-eyed gaze on Stroud.
“Well, Stroud? Where are they?”
“They’re here,” Stroud said. “Somewhere.”
“If they are not-”
“You’ll what? Scarper? Run like a rat?” Stroud said, sneering. “You’re good at that, aren’t you?”
“Mind your tongue, Stroud,” Morbius hissed, eyes blazing. “I have not fed this evening, and-”
“Well, that is easily rectified, I think,” a man’s voice said. The accent was American. Morbius twisted as a tall shape stepped out of the gloom, carrying a limp, sheet wrapped form in its arms. The shape revealed itself to be a muscular, poker-faced man of indeterminate years. Scars cut through the crags of his face and his eyes shone dully. He dropped the form he carried and the sheet unwound, revealing the nude form of a young woman. Morbius’ eyes burned with hunger, but he didn’t move.
“There you are, Dr. Morbius. On the hoof, as it were.” It wasn’t the tall man who had spoken. A smaller man, doughy, with an egg-shaped head, stepped onto the podium and leaned forward over the altar, hands clasped together. “She won’t be missed, trust me.”
“Trust you? I don’t even know you,” Morbius said, hopping off of the pew. “Perhaps introductions are in order.”
“Step back,” the big man rumbled, stepping forward.
“Easy, Rudolph,” the other man said. “Dr. Morbius is simply being polite; a little small talk before dining. You can call me Mr. Diogenes, Dr. Morbius. I represent the Black Chamber.”
“And what does the-ah-Black Chamber want with me?” Morbius said, his eyes flicking to the unconscious girl then back again.
“Simplicity itself, Doctor,” Mr. Diogenes said. “We want you to do what you were intending to do in the first place…we want you to acquire to Book of Sins.” He smiled. “The United States government will thank you.”
|
#4
DEC 09 |
 |
“Chamber of Chills”
The night hung heavy over Venice, but the city of canals did not notice at all. Revelers crowded the streets, enjoying the madness of Carnival and, among them, the dead threaded, searching. At a quiet spot, a pale hand ruptured the dark waters of the canal. Long fingers grabbed at the brick that bound the water and a lean shape pulled itself ashore.
Dracula looked up, his face tight with weariness. He forced himself to his feet with a pained grunt. The fall into the river had hurt him more than he’d thought possible. Yet, he had survived, and he would continue to survive until he had learned what had happened to him. What magic had stolen his immortality—his power—from him on the eve of his greatest triumph.
Dracula stumbled away from the water, hoping that his memory had not been stolen as well. The building above him was one of many, ancient and sagging. Sinking into the canal that ran beneath it, he forced the door open and slid inside, head bowed, tread weary. He moved through the dark house slowly until he came to the stairs. He rounded them and scraped cobwebs away from the pantry door. With a hiss of triumph, he ripped the door open and fell onto all fours, jerking at the floor boards within the tiny space.
After a few moments, he succeeded in tearing them loose, revealing a narrow set of stone steps leading down into the darkness beneath the house. Dracula stepped into the pantry, pulling the tiny door shut behind him. Then, trusting to memory to guide him, he began to descend.
In times past, he would simply have become a mist and flowed through one of the apertures along the canal or through the cracks in the floor. He pulled his dripping cloak tighter about himself as he was forced to walk. Beneath the house was a stone grotto, crafted from brick and clay. It wasn’t very large, but it was well hidden…the perfect place from which to plan his next move.
He went to the coffin in the center of the space and opened it.
“Hello, Father,” Lilith said, smiling up at him. Dracula stumbled back, an oath on his lips, as his daughter sprang from the casket, her fangs bared, her clawed fingers digging for his heart!
Transia
DeGuzman crouched in the filthy hovel, a silvery sphere balanced on his knees. He looked at the old woman who hovered over his shoulder, petting the head of the horrible thing that crouched beside her.
“You’re sure that your hedge-magics can shield us?” he said.
Magda, the crone, cackled. “Ee, the white-haired devil won’t find us, not easily, King Mask,” she said, stroking the chin of the creature, one of her abominable children, that bobbed beside her, balancing itself on constantly coiling tentacles. The thing was a hideous amalgamation of bat, toad, octopus and rat; its twin had been born years before, just after DeGuzman had taken the ruling mask of the Darkholders for himself.
Magda had been one of those rarities…a willing sacrifice. Mad as two rabbits in a burning hutch and hungry for the joys of pain besides.
He restrained a shudder, brushing aside the memories of that unholy night and turned back to the sphere—a shew stone-on his knees. He ran his hands over it, tracing the grooves in its surface, trying to inflame its long-dormant power.
The shew stone had the power to show its wielder what he most desired to see and what DeGuzman most desired, at that moment, was to see how Dracula was faring. Without the Council of Masks to help him, to protect him in his weakened state, DeGuzman was afraid that the Count had certainly fallen prey to his enemies. And that would simply not do. Not yet.
Not before he had reclaimed that which belonged to the Darkholders. To DeGuzman.
The stone abruptly flared beneath his touch. Behind him, the demon-thing chittered in agitation. Magda pulled it close, cooing quietly. DeGuzman ignored them, instead concentrating on the shimmering images forming within the stone.
Dracula.
Still alive, then. Good. DeGuzman cursed as the image became clearer. There were pale hands at Dracula’s throat. Claws digging into his flesh. “Damnation,” he muttered. “There must be something—”
He grimaced. He could do something. But it was risky. If Modred sensed it—
“No,” he said. “There is no other way. Dracula must live!” He grasped the stone tightly and began to murmur under his breath, crafting an intricate layer of subtle magics, using the image before him as their focus.
Several miles away, high at the top of a tumble-down stone tower, dead white eyes flashed open, and their owner frowned.
Modred, sometimes called the Mystic, stood, shoving aside the zombified husk of one of the few female members of the Council of Masks, the former ruling body of the Darkholders.
“Away, slattern,” he hissed. Bone white hair hung lankly, spilling down his narrow shoulders. His ax-blade nose twitched. “There are magics being conducted nearby. I can smell their stink.”
“No magic…no magic…” the other Darkholders, corpses all, bound to unholy life by Modred’s dark will, moaned.
“Ha,” Modred said, sneering. He grabbed the nearest cadaver by its ruined throat and hefted it aloft. “You lie. Perhaps I left you too much free will. Still, if DeGuzman is risking such, then-hhn.” Modred dropped the struggling zombie and rubbed his chin. “Your scheme—his scheme—is beginning to unravel already. Ha! Fine then, fine. Let the dog think his slinking spellcraft has gone as yet unnoticed, so that he might continue his plot.”
Modred swept his hood up over his head and stalked from the council chambers. Some few functionaries of the cult had been informed that there was a new King Mask, and these cringed as Modred stalked towards them. He had summoned them an hour before, but had, as yet, not deigned to inform them of his reason.
Modred did not mince words. He held up his palm and a bubble of energy shimmered to life a few inches above it. It flowed, grew and resolved itself into the image of a woman. Beautiful, dark haired, olive-skinned. One of the Masks gasped.
Modred smiled. “Yes. You recognize her then…”
“Arkady,” the Mask said. Behind his mask, his eyes were dull. Dead. Modred’s smile grew. Arkady was one of the few not frightened of him, not because he lacked sense, but because he lacked soul. The boy felt nothing. “Montesi.”
“Yesss.” Modred closed his hand, dispelling the image. “You will find her. Bring her to me. Unharmed.”
“How?” Arkady said. Modred gestured towards one of the others.
“You. Come here.”
The man stepped forward hesitantly. Modred lashed out, almost gently, his fingers puncturing the man’s chest. Ignoring the scream of shock and pain that elicited, Modred twisted his wrist, shucking the man from his skin as easily as a diner might empty a shrimp from its shell. The body staggered back three steps, its screams abruptly ending with a wet gurgle. Modred caught it with his eyes. The body stiffened and did not fall over.
Tossing the man’s skin aside, Modred snapped his fingers. Another of the Masks stepped forward, holding out a wrapped bundle.
“Excellent.” Modred ripped open the bundle with bloody fingers, revealing the freshly skinned hide of a mongrel dog. He tossed the ragged hide over the body, pulling it tight and strapping it in place with a number of leather belts and rusty buckles.
Stepping back, he clapped his hands together and the body flopped down into an ugly crouch. A snarl rippled from its lipless mouth and its eyes burned yellow. Modred looked at Arkady.
“That’s how.”
Venice
Blade stepped into the alleyway and the vampire fell into a crouch, hissing. It had the dull graying skin and malformed skull of one of the old, damned, dead.
Blade smiled. “Well. Ain’t you a pretty one?”
The vampire shrieked and lunged. Blade stepped aside, his coat swirling up, wrapping around the creature’s head, even as he thrust the sword he was carrying down through its spine and into the street below.
He stepped back, leaving the sword where it was. The vampire writhed, pinned in place. Blade put a boot on the back of its neck and it went still. “You can come out now, boys.”
Cardinal Rodrigo Vinchenze stepped into the alleyway, his black robes swishing. Hands clasped behind his back, he frowned down at the vampire. It hissed at him.
“Disgusting creature.” Behind him, a number of other priests gathered, though these wore silver cuirasses over their robes and armor on their arms and necks. Some carried crossbows and others cradled automatic rifles, and all had swords belted at their waists. The group had passed unnoticed in the merriment and chaos of the carnival.
“Yeah, but, it can tell us what we need to know.” Blade squatted. He grabbed a handful of the vampire’s greasy hair and wrenched its head up to face him. “Namely, why are there so many vamps wandering around the streets?”
The vampire spat at him and rattled off a string of curses in some ancient Balkan tongue. Blade drove its head down into the cobbles abruptly, shattering its nose and busting loose one of its fangs. He pulled its head back up.
“Talk, or I leave you here for the rats and the sun.”
“I-know-nossing!” it said.
Blade grabbed its jaw and leaned close. “You may think you know ‘nossing’, but I bet you know plenty, leech. Why are there so many of you out and about?” Blade grabbed the hilt of his sword and shook it slightly, eliciting a shriek from the vampire.
“It-we-we hunt for Dracula!”
“The monster! He sends his fiends to find his prey for him!” Vinchenze spat. Blade shook his head.
“I don’t think that’s what he meant…” Blade began. Hissing laughter filled the air. Blade looked up, casually jerking his sword up through the captured vampire’s heart, reducing it to bone and ash. “Damn it.”
Spidery shapes clung to the walls of the alleyway, red eyes glaring down at the soldiers of the Montesi Order. Blade stood slowly. “Get your men back, Vinchenze, into the open street.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to do what you’re paying me to do.” Blade spun his blade and stepped deeper into the alleyway. Spinning suddenly, he sank down into a crouch, drawing a pistol from the holster on his hip as he did so. He fired rapidly, catching the vampires closest to the Montesi brethren with a flurry of shots. The silver core, wooden tipped bullets tore through the spitting demons like acid through paper.
Blade whirled back, firing as he turned. The vampires lunged at him as one, more than a dozen of them, falling like a foul rain. Blade danced among them, his sword flashing like silver lightning. Vampires screamed and shrieked, burning as they tumbled past.
It wasn’t a trap, he knew that; more of a happy accident most likely, but that still didn’t explain their numbers. He spun, twisted and bounced off the wall, driving his blade into the last of the creatures in the alleyway. He split its skull and watched it topple, turning to crisped bones even as it struck the ground.
He looked up. Several of the creatures were fleeing, turning to bats or rats and vanishing across the rooftops. He shook the ash and rot off of his sword and sheathed it. He stepped out of the alleyway. The Montesi brethren were waiting, having formed themselves into a small phalanx, Vinchenze in the middle, his hands still behind his back. He smiled as he saw Blade.
“You are as impressive as they say, Blade.”
Blade smiled. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, padre.”
Budapest
Morbius was laughing. He laughed until he wheezed, head thrown back, fangs bared.
Mr. Diogenes laughed with him. “I’m glad you find this amusing, Dr. Morbius, but I am being serious.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain of that. Why else send Stroud to collect me?” Morbius said. He looked down at the girl and nudged her with a foot. “Who was she?”
“An escort, or so Rudolph says,” Diogenes said, gesturing to his associate. “Feel free to feast, Doctor. We can wait.”
“Hey now-” Stroud began, stepping forward.
Morbius turned slightly and, his eyes on Stroud, he sank to his haunches and wrapped his thin fingers around the girl’s throat. Hauling her up, he reared back and then struck, sinking his fangs into her throat. Her eyes sprang open and she tried to scream, but Morbius’ other hand wrapped around her mouth, silencing her.
“You sonnuva-” Stroud stepped forward, lashing out with a foot. Morbius shifted aside, almost without seeming to move. The girl fell, unconscious, and he had Stroud’s foot in one hand. With a hiss, he shoved him backwards. Stroud went ass over elbows, striking a pew and hitting the floor.
Morbius bounded up and dove onto Stroud, eyes fever-bright. “At last! You have hounded me for years, Stroud! Ruining any chance I may have had to cure myself!” Morbius shoved Stroud down and bared his bloody fangs. “Now…now you get the end you so richly deservACK!”
He reeled back, clutching at his neck. Something slipped through his fingers and burrowed determinedly under his skin. He screamed as he felt metal strike the bone of his spine. He whirled, snarling. Rudolph lowered a strange looking pistol. “What—?!”
“Insurance, Dr. Morbius.” Mr. Diogenes examined his fingers and buffed his nails on his coat. “Normally, that bullet would have contained an explosive protein. Nano-bombs, to the layman. However, considering the numerous physiological changes you’ve undergone since your initial transformation, we had our doubts as to the effect of such tactics. So, instead, we’ve installed a number of miniature solar energy generators into your spinal column. We can, quite literally, fry you from inside out.”
“Why?” Morbius rasped. Diogenes leaned forward.
“As I said…insurance. We don’t want you getting any funny ideas, Dr. Morbius. We don’t want you going off half-cocked.”
“What do you want?”
“Even as I said earlier. The Darkhold. The Book of Sins. The Shiatra Book of the Damned. All those other spiffy names.”
“Ha, you’ll have trouble there. The book is scattered to the four winds.”
“Yes. Which is why we have more than one agent in play, Dr. Morbius. You are merely the latest of the Black Chamber’s—ah—acquisitions.” Diogenes gestured and a holographic image sprang up over his outstretched palm. A familiar face coalesced out of a buzz of green pixels. Morbius grunted.
“Russell.”
“Indeed. Mr. Jack Russell. A werewolf. THE werewolf, currently. Unique, much as yourself. And he, like yourself, is a volunteer.” Diogenes tapped the back of his neck. “Vibranium spheres containing liquid silver implanted the length of his spine.”
“You-” Morbius snarled. Rudolph grunted warningly. Diogenes smiled.
“Insurance, Doctor. Just insurance, I assure you. We haven’t harmed him, and, if all goes well, we won’t. Mr. Russell is following up leads on a lost page in the United Kingdom. We have another agent…” The holographic image changed, becoming a long, inhuman face covered in scars. Morbius blinked. He had only encountered the creature known as the Monster of Frankenstein once, but it was not an incident he was soon to forget. Diogenes continued, “…in the Balkans, closing in on a second page.”
“And that’s what you want from me? A third page?” Morbius said, lifting his chin. Diogenes chuckled.
“Even better, Doctor. We want you to go to the north of France. There is a village there, Doctor, where men and women sometimes go on two feet, sometimes four. And there is a woman there, a woman who has an inexplicable connection to the Darkhold. She can sense it, you see. And you, Dr. Morbius, are going to collect her for us.” Diogenes gestured. “She’ll make things ever so much easier, don’t you agree?”
“Her name?” Morbius said, rubbing the back of his neck. Diogenes smiled.
“Oh, you’re going to love this. Her name is Montesi. Victoria Montesi.”
Beneath the canals of Venice
Dracula stumbled back, Lilith’s claws at his throat. Though his vampire strength was gone, Dracula reacted with a warrior’s instincts. He slammed his fists into Lilith’s arms, breaking her hold and forcing her backwards.
“What are you doing here, witch?” he said, stepping back quickly, scanning for something to use as a weapon. Lilith wasn’t like other vampires. A stake through the heart wasn’t going to be enough.
“The question is, father dear, what are you doing here? Why are you running, father? Why are the hounds of the worm loose in Venice tonight? Are they after your blood?” She slunk forward, eyes glinting with mirth. She tilted her head, sniffing.
Dracula hissed, crouching. Lilith blinked. Her smile grew. “Oh. Oh my. Oh, this is truly wonderful, father. I can hear your diseased heart beating in your chest!” She laughed, clapping her hands together in obvious joy. “Oh, this is too perfect!”
“Silence!” Dracula snarled, only barely restraining himself from charging forward.
“Why? What are you going to do about it?” Lilith crowed, spinning around. “At last, after all these years, I have you right where I want you, father. You are utterly at my mercy.” She cocked her head and tapped her lip. “Now, what am I going to do with you?”
“You will—” Dracula began, then was forced to stumble back as a sickly radiance filled the room, growing in the glowing shape of a hooded man.
“Dracula,” the entity said. Lilith, eyes narrowed, leapt towards the shape, claws extended. It didn’t move, but some force swatted her backwards, sending her crashing into Dracula’s coffin. Dracula gazed thoughtfully at the limp form of his daughter, then looked up at the entity.
“I am to assume that you know something of my current condition? Or are perhaps responsible?”
“Very good, Dracula.” The entity flipped back its hood, revealing the haggard features of DeGuzman. “My name is DeGuzman and I am King Mask of the Darkholders. And you, Dracula, will serve me…”
To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Blade and the Montesi Order’s search for Dracula leads them to his daughter instead! Caught between Lilith and the Prince of Venice, can even Blade survive? And Dracula makes his escape, but has he merely traded the frying pan for the fire? The Darkholders are on Victoria Montesi’s trail, but will Morbius get there first? And in Transia, the Monster of Frankenstein battles the Spawn of the N’Garai! Be here in thirty for ‘WHERE MONSTERS DWELL!’
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Dracula looked up, his face tight with weariness. He forced himself to his feet with a pained grunt. The fall into the river had hurt him more than he’d thought possible. Yet, he had survived, and he would continue to survive until he had learned what had happened to him. What magic had stolen his immortality—his power—from him on the eve of his greatest triumph.
Dracula stumbled away from the water, hoping that his memory had not been stolen as well. The building above him was one of many, ancient and sagging. Sinking into the canal that ran beneath it, he forced the door open and slid inside, head bowed, tread weary. He moved through the dark house slowly until he came to the stairs. He rounded them and scraped cobwebs away from the pantry door. With a hiss of triumph, he ripped the door open and fell onto all fours, jerking at the floor boards within the tiny space.
After a few moments, he succeeded in tearing them loose, revealing a narrow set of stone steps leading down into the darkness beneath the house. Dracula stepped into the pantry, pulling the tiny door shut behind him. Then, trusting to memory to guide him, he began to descend.
In times past, he would simply have become a mist and flowed through one of the apertures along the canal or through the cracks in the floor. He pulled his dripping cloak tighter about himself as he was forced to walk. Beneath the house was a stone grotto, crafted from brick and clay. It wasn’t very large, but it was well hidden…the perfect place from which to plan his next move.
He went to the coffin in the center of the space and opened it.
“Hello, Father,” Lilith said, smiling up at him. Dracula stumbled back, an oath on his lips, as his daughter sprang from the casket, her fangs bared, her clawed fingers digging for his heart!
Transia
DeGuzman crouched in the filthy hovel, a silvery sphere balanced on his knees. He looked at the old woman who hovered over his shoulder, petting the head of the horrible thing that crouched beside her.
“You’re sure that your hedge-magics can shield us?” he said.
Magda, the crone, cackled. “Ee, the white-haired devil won’t find us, not easily, King Mask,” she said, stroking the chin of the creature, one of her abominable children, that bobbed beside her, balancing itself on constantly coiling tentacles. The thing was a hideous amalgamation of bat, toad, octopus and rat; its twin had been born years before, just after DeGuzman had taken the ruling mask of the Darkholders for himself.
Magda had been one of those rarities…a willing sacrifice. Mad as two rabbits in a burning hutch and hungry for the joys of pain besides.
He restrained a shudder, brushing aside the memories of that unholy night and turned back to the sphere—a shew stone-on his knees. He ran his hands over it, tracing the grooves in its surface, trying to inflame its long-dormant power.
The shew stone had the power to show its wielder what he most desired to see and what DeGuzman most desired, at that moment, was to see how Dracula was faring. Without the Council of Masks to help him, to protect him in his weakened state, DeGuzman was afraid that the Count had certainly fallen prey to his enemies. And that would simply not do. Not yet.
Not before he had reclaimed that which belonged to the Darkholders. To DeGuzman.
The stone abruptly flared beneath his touch. Behind him, the demon-thing chittered in agitation. Magda pulled it close, cooing quietly. DeGuzman ignored them, instead concentrating on the shimmering images forming within the stone.
Dracula.
Still alive, then. Good. DeGuzman cursed as the image became clearer. There were pale hands at Dracula’s throat. Claws digging into his flesh. “Damnation,” he muttered. “There must be something—”
He grimaced. He could do something. But it was risky. If Modred sensed it—
“No,” he said. “There is no other way. Dracula must live!” He grasped the stone tightly and began to murmur under his breath, crafting an intricate layer of subtle magics, using the image before him as their focus.
Several miles away, high at the top of a tumble-down stone tower, dead white eyes flashed open, and their owner frowned.
Modred, sometimes called the Mystic, stood, shoving aside the zombified husk of one of the few female members of the Council of Masks, the former ruling body of the Darkholders.
“Away, slattern,” he hissed. Bone white hair hung lankly, spilling down his narrow shoulders. His ax-blade nose twitched. “There are magics being conducted nearby. I can smell their stink.”
“No magic…no magic…” the other Darkholders, corpses all, bound to unholy life by Modred’s dark will, moaned.
“Ha,” Modred said, sneering. He grabbed the nearest cadaver by its ruined throat and hefted it aloft. “You lie. Perhaps I left you too much free will. Still, if DeGuzman is risking such, then-hhn.” Modred dropped the struggling zombie and rubbed his chin. “Your scheme—his scheme—is beginning to unravel already. Ha! Fine then, fine. Let the dog think his slinking spellcraft has gone as yet unnoticed, so that he might continue his plot.”
Modred swept his hood up over his head and stalked from the council chambers. Some few functionaries of the cult had been informed that there was a new King Mask, and these cringed as Modred stalked towards them. He had summoned them an hour before, but had, as yet, not deigned to inform them of his reason.
Modred did not mince words. He held up his palm and a bubble of energy shimmered to life a few inches above it. It flowed, grew and resolved itself into the image of a woman. Beautiful, dark haired, olive-skinned. One of the Masks gasped.
Modred smiled. “Yes. You recognize her then…”
“Arkady,” the Mask said. Behind his mask, his eyes were dull. Dead. Modred’s smile grew. Arkady was one of the few not frightened of him, not because he lacked sense, but because he lacked soul. The boy felt nothing. “Montesi.”
“Yesss.” Modred closed his hand, dispelling the image. “You will find her. Bring her to me. Unharmed.”
“How?” Arkady said. Modred gestured towards one of the others.
“You. Come here.”
The man stepped forward hesitantly. Modred lashed out, almost gently, his fingers puncturing the man’s chest. Ignoring the scream of shock and pain that elicited, Modred twisted his wrist, shucking the man from his skin as easily as a diner might empty a shrimp from its shell. The body staggered back three steps, its screams abruptly ending with a wet gurgle. Modred caught it with his eyes. The body stiffened and did not fall over.
Tossing the man’s skin aside, Modred snapped his fingers. Another of the Masks stepped forward, holding out a wrapped bundle.
“Excellent.” Modred ripped open the bundle with bloody fingers, revealing the freshly skinned hide of a mongrel dog. He tossed the ragged hide over the body, pulling it tight and strapping it in place with a number of leather belts and rusty buckles.
Stepping back, he clapped his hands together and the body flopped down into an ugly crouch. A snarl rippled from its lipless mouth and its eyes burned yellow. Modred looked at Arkady.
“That’s how.”
Venice
Blade stepped into the alleyway and the vampire fell into a crouch, hissing. It had the dull graying skin and malformed skull of one of the old, damned, dead.
Blade smiled. “Well. Ain’t you a pretty one?”
The vampire shrieked and lunged. Blade stepped aside, his coat swirling up, wrapping around the creature’s head, even as he thrust the sword he was carrying down through its spine and into the street below.
He stepped back, leaving the sword where it was. The vampire writhed, pinned in place. Blade put a boot on the back of its neck and it went still. “You can come out now, boys.”
Cardinal Rodrigo Vinchenze stepped into the alleyway, his black robes swishing. Hands clasped behind his back, he frowned down at the vampire. It hissed at him.
“Disgusting creature.” Behind him, a number of other priests gathered, though these wore silver cuirasses over their robes and armor on their arms and necks. Some carried crossbows and others cradled automatic rifles, and all had swords belted at their waists. The group had passed unnoticed in the merriment and chaos of the carnival.
“Yeah, but, it can tell us what we need to know.” Blade squatted. He grabbed a handful of the vampire’s greasy hair and wrenched its head up to face him. “Namely, why are there so many vamps wandering around the streets?”
The vampire spat at him and rattled off a string of curses in some ancient Balkan tongue. Blade drove its head down into the cobbles abruptly, shattering its nose and busting loose one of its fangs. He pulled its head back up.
“Talk, or I leave you here for the rats and the sun.”
“I-know-nossing!” it said.
Blade grabbed its jaw and leaned close. “You may think you know ‘nossing’, but I bet you know plenty, leech. Why are there so many of you out and about?” Blade grabbed the hilt of his sword and shook it slightly, eliciting a shriek from the vampire.
“It-we-we hunt for Dracula!”
“The monster! He sends his fiends to find his prey for him!” Vinchenze spat. Blade shook his head.
“I don’t think that’s what he meant…” Blade began. Hissing laughter filled the air. Blade looked up, casually jerking his sword up through the captured vampire’s heart, reducing it to bone and ash. “Damn it.”
Spidery shapes clung to the walls of the alleyway, red eyes glaring down at the soldiers of the Montesi Order. Blade stood slowly. “Get your men back, Vinchenze, into the open street.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to do what you’re paying me to do.” Blade spun his blade and stepped deeper into the alleyway. Spinning suddenly, he sank down into a crouch, drawing a pistol from the holster on his hip as he did so. He fired rapidly, catching the vampires closest to the Montesi brethren with a flurry of shots. The silver core, wooden tipped bullets tore through the spitting demons like acid through paper.
Blade whirled back, firing as he turned. The vampires lunged at him as one, more than a dozen of them, falling like a foul rain. Blade danced among them, his sword flashing like silver lightning. Vampires screamed and shrieked, burning as they tumbled past.
It wasn’t a trap, he knew that; more of a happy accident most likely, but that still didn’t explain their numbers. He spun, twisted and bounced off the wall, driving his blade into the last of the creatures in the alleyway. He split its skull and watched it topple, turning to crisped bones even as it struck the ground.
He looked up. Several of the creatures were fleeing, turning to bats or rats and vanishing across the rooftops. He shook the ash and rot off of his sword and sheathed it. He stepped out of the alleyway. The Montesi brethren were waiting, having formed themselves into a small phalanx, Vinchenze in the middle, his hands still behind his back. He smiled as he saw Blade.
“You are as impressive as they say, Blade.”
Blade smiled. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, padre.”
Budapest
Morbius was laughing. He laughed until he wheezed, head thrown back, fangs bared.
Mr. Diogenes laughed with him. “I’m glad you find this amusing, Dr. Morbius, but I am being serious.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain of that. Why else send Stroud to collect me?” Morbius said. He looked down at the girl and nudged her with a foot. “Who was she?”
“An escort, or so Rudolph says,” Diogenes said, gesturing to his associate. “Feel free to feast, Doctor. We can wait.”
“Hey now-” Stroud began, stepping forward.
Morbius turned slightly and, his eyes on Stroud, he sank to his haunches and wrapped his thin fingers around the girl’s throat. Hauling her up, he reared back and then struck, sinking his fangs into her throat. Her eyes sprang open and she tried to scream, but Morbius’ other hand wrapped around her mouth, silencing her.
“You sonnuva-” Stroud stepped forward, lashing out with a foot. Morbius shifted aside, almost without seeming to move. The girl fell, unconscious, and he had Stroud’s foot in one hand. With a hiss, he shoved him backwards. Stroud went ass over elbows, striking a pew and hitting the floor.
Morbius bounded up and dove onto Stroud, eyes fever-bright. “At last! You have hounded me for years, Stroud! Ruining any chance I may have had to cure myself!” Morbius shoved Stroud down and bared his bloody fangs. “Now…now you get the end you so richly deservACK!”
He reeled back, clutching at his neck. Something slipped through his fingers and burrowed determinedly under his skin. He screamed as he felt metal strike the bone of his spine. He whirled, snarling. Rudolph lowered a strange looking pistol. “What—?!”
“Insurance, Dr. Morbius.” Mr. Diogenes examined his fingers and buffed his nails on his coat. “Normally, that bullet would have contained an explosive protein. Nano-bombs, to the layman. However, considering the numerous physiological changes you’ve undergone since your initial transformation, we had our doubts as to the effect of such tactics. So, instead, we’ve installed a number of miniature solar energy generators into your spinal column. We can, quite literally, fry you from inside out.”
“Why?” Morbius rasped. Diogenes leaned forward.
“As I said…insurance. We don’t want you getting any funny ideas, Dr. Morbius. We don’t want you going off half-cocked.”
“What do you want?”
“Even as I said earlier. The Darkhold. The Book of Sins. The Shiatra Book of the Damned. All those other spiffy names.”
“Ha, you’ll have trouble there. The book is scattered to the four winds.”
“Yes. Which is why we have more than one agent in play, Dr. Morbius. You are merely the latest of the Black Chamber’s—ah—acquisitions.” Diogenes gestured and a holographic image sprang up over his outstretched palm. A familiar face coalesced out of a buzz of green pixels. Morbius grunted.
“Russell.”
“Indeed. Mr. Jack Russell. A werewolf. THE werewolf, currently. Unique, much as yourself. And he, like yourself, is a volunteer.” Diogenes tapped the back of his neck. “Vibranium spheres containing liquid silver implanted the length of his spine.”
“You-” Morbius snarled. Rudolph grunted warningly. Diogenes smiled.
“Insurance, Doctor. Just insurance, I assure you. We haven’t harmed him, and, if all goes well, we won’t. Mr. Russell is following up leads on a lost page in the United Kingdom. We have another agent…” The holographic image changed, becoming a long, inhuman face covered in scars. Morbius blinked. He had only encountered the creature known as the Monster of Frankenstein once, but it was not an incident he was soon to forget. Diogenes continued, “…in the Balkans, closing in on a second page.”
“And that’s what you want from me? A third page?” Morbius said, lifting his chin. Diogenes chuckled.
“Even better, Doctor. We want you to go to the north of France. There is a village there, Doctor, where men and women sometimes go on two feet, sometimes four. And there is a woman there, a woman who has an inexplicable connection to the Darkhold. She can sense it, you see. And you, Dr. Morbius, are going to collect her for us.” Diogenes gestured. “She’ll make things ever so much easier, don’t you agree?”
“Her name?” Morbius said, rubbing the back of his neck. Diogenes smiled.
“Oh, you’re going to love this. Her name is Montesi. Victoria Montesi.”
Beneath the canals of Venice
Dracula stumbled back, Lilith’s claws at his throat. Though his vampire strength was gone, Dracula reacted with a warrior’s instincts. He slammed his fists into Lilith’s arms, breaking her hold and forcing her backwards.
“What are you doing here, witch?” he said, stepping back quickly, scanning for something to use as a weapon. Lilith wasn’t like other vampires. A stake through the heart wasn’t going to be enough.
“The question is, father dear, what are you doing here? Why are you running, father? Why are the hounds of the worm loose in Venice tonight? Are they after your blood?” She slunk forward, eyes glinting with mirth. She tilted her head, sniffing.
Dracula hissed, crouching. Lilith blinked. Her smile grew. “Oh. Oh my. Oh, this is truly wonderful, father. I can hear your diseased heart beating in your chest!” She laughed, clapping her hands together in obvious joy. “Oh, this is too perfect!”
“Silence!” Dracula snarled, only barely restraining himself from charging forward.
“Why? What are you going to do about it?” Lilith crowed, spinning around. “At last, after all these years, I have you right where I want you, father. You are utterly at my mercy.” She cocked her head and tapped her lip. “Now, what am I going to do with you?”
“You will—” Dracula began, then was forced to stumble back as a sickly radiance filled the room, growing in the glowing shape of a hooded man.
“Dracula,” the entity said. Lilith, eyes narrowed, leapt towards the shape, claws extended. It didn’t move, but some force swatted her backwards, sending her crashing into Dracula’s coffin. Dracula gazed thoughtfully at the limp form of his daughter, then looked up at the entity.
“I am to assume that you know something of my current condition? Or are perhaps responsible?”
“Very good, Dracula.” The entity flipped back its hood, revealing the haggard features of DeGuzman. “My name is DeGuzman and I am King Mask of the Darkholders. And you, Dracula, will serve me…”
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Blade and the Montesi Order’s search for Dracula leads them to his daughter instead! Caught between Lilith and the Prince of Venice, can even Blade survive? And Dracula makes his escape, but has he merely traded the frying pan for the fire? The Darkholders are on Victoria Montesi’s trail, but will Morbius get there first? And in Transia, the Monster of Frankenstein battles the Spawn of the N’Garai! Be here in thirty for ‘WHERE MONSTERS DWELL!’
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