He had been born of lightning. Now, as it crackled and snarled overhead, the spawn of Frankenstein could not help but feel a surge of sympathetic adrenalin.
Tall and marble-skinned, the creature reached up, digging iron fingers into the ancient stonework. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up the length of the tower, his blood-shot eyes locked on the upper reaches of the edifice.
Thunder rumbled and the monster kept moving, thinking grim, black thoughts. Despite his savage appearance, he was no simple-minded brute. Indeed, if he had been, he would, perhaps, not be here at this moment.
The Black Chamber had no use for brutes, but they did have a use for something like him. Or so the smiling little man - Mr. Diogenes - had said, even as he explained what the wages of failure would be. The monster could feel the modified EMP generators installed the length of his spine flex and spin as the ambient electricity in the air seeped into his pores. If he rebelled, the generators would disperse the electricity in his cells, rendering him, if not dead, then the next closest thing to it.
He bared his yellow teeth in a silent growl. Was this his lot? The eternal slave of an unending procession of masters? If only—
No. No point dwelling on impossibilities. All he could do was what he must.
He had lived in Transia for some months before Mr. Diogenes had ‘recruited’ him. It was, for the most part, a quiet country. But it had its cancers, this place being one of them. He twisted, glaring at the distant shape of Mount Wundagore. This whole area set his hackles up. He had faced a great number of extra-normal threats in his time: Gods, demons, ghosts and machines. But this place…bah.
He stopped climbing and stared through a filthy window at the room beyond. Torches flickered on the walls above one man dressed in dark robes and wearing a hideous mask. The monster tapped on the window, then pressed himself flat, away from it.
The window swung open as the curious guard looked out into the dark night. The monster lunged, bringing his large palm down on the man’s skull, crushing it and sending his body spiraling away, down into the darkness of the forest below. He watched the body fall, then clambered awkwardly through the window.
In Budapest, something had been stolen from someone…a page from a book written by a devil, stolen from a demon. And the monster of Frankenstein had been sent to reclaim it for his new masters.
|
#5
FEB 10 |
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“Where Monsters Dwell”
Venice
Blade sat on his haunches, leaning against his sword, eyes narrowed. The house opposite slumped, nearly falling into the canal.
“How can you tell?” Cardinal Vinchenze murmured, hands folded inside his robes. Blade didn’t turn.
“The nose knows,” he said, tapping the extremity in question. “Big Daddy Fangs smells like nothing you’ve ever known, if you’ve got the range.”
“All vampires smell—”
“Not like this. Difference between a trash can and a garbage dump. But…” Blade hesitated. Vinchenze put a hand on his shoulder.
“But what, Mr. Brooks?”
Blade shifted slightly, dislodging the cardinal’s hand. “The smell is old. I ain’t getting the whiff of that old black magic like I usually do. Something is up.” He rose to his feet and idly spun his sword. “Something big. If what that leech said was right—”
“They lie, Mr. Brooks. They lie with every breath,” Vinchenze said, softly.
Blade looked at him. “Call me Blade.”
Sheathing his sword, he trotted across the narrow street, towards the house. Carnival was still going on and drunken revelers stumbled through the streets, despite the pink rays of the dawn spreading over the rooftops. The vampires, on the other hand, had retreated, for the moment.
The cannon fodder, at least.
Blade grimaced. That was all he had seen last night, hungry ghosts with more appetite than brains. Vinchenze’s little group -- the so-called Montesi Order -- had killed a few, and were champing at the bit for some real action.
Blade looked up at the house and pulled down his sunglasses, eyeing the way it seemed half-sunk into the street. Old, probably pre-War. In disrepair. A firetrap, basically.
Perfect, really. Blade sniffed. Dracula’s scent lingered here; it had seeped into the wood and the brick like bloodstink in a slaughterhouse. But it was old. That familiar nastiness wasn’t here.
“Hunh.” Blade looked down. His nostrils flared. It was a little skill, but useful. He’d always had a nose for the darkness, and it came in handy sometimes. He turned slightly, and beckoned to Vinchenze.
“What is it?”
“Vampires.”
“Dracula?”
“No. Scent’s similar, but not quite.” Blade shook his head. “They’re moving though. We might have some competition.”
“Whether they serve Dracula or no, they will perish in cleansing fire. Pellgrini!” Vinchenze snapped. One of the masked Montesi brethren clanked forward, his robes rustling against his archaic armor. He raised a square-headed personal battering ram and swung it back.
Blade tensed as the ram struck the ancient door, reducing it to a cloud of splinters. Then, he was moving, sweeping his pistols from their holsters and diving through the doorway.
In the air, racing the sun
“Who are they, Stroud?” Michael Morbius hissed, squatting behind the seats of the private plane, his pale form hidden from the sun by a thick tarp.
Simon Stroud, formerly of the CIA, now of the Black Chamber, tapped an instrument panel. “Who’s they, blood-sucker?”
“Your new masters.”
“I don’t have masters, Morbius. I got employers,” Stroud said. “I’m not like you.”
“Ha!” Morbius croaked. “We’re more alike than either of us cares to think, you buffoon.” He shifted, grunting as a beam of light grazed his bare forearm. “But please, for courtesy’s sake, if nothing else, answer my question.”
Stroud was silent for a minute. Then, reluctantly, “They started out as a War-time cryptography unit. That’s skuttlebutt anyway. Cracking codes for the Allies. Then, one day, they got a code that wasn’t made by anyone on Earth. And they cracked that one too.”
He fell quiet. Morbius shifted. “And?”
“That’s it. They cracked that last code and they’ve been scrambling to act on what they learned ever since,” Stroud said. “All this occult crap plays into it.”
“And the Darkhold?” Morbius said.
“Who knows? Not me,” Stroud said. He glanced at Morbius. “And I don’t care either. Bad enough I got to let you live.”
“Let me live? Ha!” Morbius gave a snort. “You have a high opinion of yourself, Stroud.”
“Shut up. We’re an hour out. The Chamber has a private airfield. Once night falls—”
“Yes, yes,” Morbius said, waving a hand. His eyes gleamed under the tarp. “I will find Victoria Montesi. But I will not harm her!”
“Since when have you been squeamish?” Stroud said, sounding amused.
Morbius growled. “Montesi is-was-a friend. Or as close to one as someone like myself gets.”
“Huhn.” Stroud fell silent. Then, “They only want you to bring her back to the airfield. Mr. Diogenes will meet us there, when I let them know you got the job done.”
“You are accompanying me?” Morbius said.
“As if I’d let you out of my sight! I don’t know about the other freaks, but I know you. I know what you’re capable of, and I know that no fancy tricks are going to keep you leashed for long,” Stroud said. He patted the pistol holstered under his left arm. “And when you finally slip your leash…”
Morbius shrugged off the tarp and wrapped a clawed hand around the back of Shroud’s skull. He leaned close to his old antagonist. “You’ll do what?” he said, squeezing gently for emphasis. They both knew he could crush Stroud’s skull as easily as a man might crush an egg.
Stroud didn’t reply. Instead he pulled back on the plane’s control lever with a savage jerk, sending the private plane into a steep upwards curve.
Sunlight poured in through the windows and the smell of sizzling flesh filled the cockpit. Morbius snarled in pain. “Stroud, if you don’t get us out of here, I’ll—!”
“Die in a fiery crash? Or maybe burn up in the sun?” Stroud said, the pain of Morbius’ grip causing his features to tighten. “Your choice, freak. I’m real willing to die if it means taking you with me.”
The tableau held for a minute. Two. Then Morbius released him and slunk back, hauling his tarp up around himself. Stroud put the plane back on course. Neither one said anything to the other until they landed.
Somewhere in Northern France
The town, such as it was, had no name. It was on no map and no one, save those who lived there, even knew it existed.
As such, it was the perfect place to hide.
Victoria Montesi sat in her tiny garden, watching the birds flit through the branches of the great tree that occupied it. Eyes closed, she listened to the world around her, as she had every morning since—
Her mind shied away from the thought, and her arms reflexively tightened around her flat belly.
“You’re thinking about it again,” someone said.
Victoria’s eyes opened and she looked up at the lean, odd woman standing before her, holding a tray with two steaming cups of coffee balanced on it. “Hard not to think about,” Victoria said, accepting one of the cups gratefully. The other woman pulled up a chair and sat beside her.
“The more you think of it -- of what you had, what you lost -- the more it will hurt,” she said, sipping from her own cup. Victoria smiled.
“Demonic intuition, Nash?”
“If you like,” the woman said, smiling. She had pale crimson skin and eyes and hair to match, with teeth like ivory needles. A row of circular flat protrusions rode the crest of her head from just between her brows on up and back, splitting her hair into two punkish sections. Once, she had simply been known as the Midwife, a child of the N’Garai. Now, she called herself by a dead woman’s name at the behest of said woman’s lover.
It was an odd thing, but then, the Midwife was an odd demon. One dedicated to the task of preserving life at all costs, whatever form that life might take.
She took another sip of coffee. “I’ll start preparing the spot for the garden today, if you like.”
“You don’t have to,” Victoria said, not looking at her. Nash chuckled.
“I want to.”
“Then by all means. I heard the cats again last night.” It came out apropos of nothing.
Nash looked at her. “They can’t get in, you know. They won’t, rather. Besides which, they’re not looking to harm you.”
“There’s harm and then there’s harm,” Victoria murmured. Every night, it was the same thing, over and over again: the cats, crowding around the edges of her new home, singing to her. Asking her to…what?
Cats couldn’t sing, but that didn’t seem to stop these. Every night. In French, of course. Sweetly and seductively.
It was getting on her nerves.
“I think they want me to get naked and dance with them,” she said. Nash laughed. She sounded like a crackling fire and Victoria flinched, slightly.
“Probably. Little nightmares with only one thing on their mind.” She looked at Victoria and tapped her nose. “They can smell the darkness in your blood. To their minds, you and they share a bond.”
“And why did we come here again?”
“It’s quiet. And others will find it hard to visit.” She placed emphasis on the word ‘others’. Victoria swallowed and stroked her stomach.
A year before, her belly had contained a seed of evil, he essence of Chthon, incarnated in her flesh and blood, even as she had been bred to do.
Not that her father, damn his eyes, had ever admitted such. So desperate for a child to carry on the Montesi line, to carry on his holy work, that he had made a bargain with a devil in return for a son.
He had gotten her instead; an atheist lesbian with absolutely no interest in her father’s ridiculous crusade. The devil’s little joke.
She was out of it now, her devil-seed aborted before it had even had a chance to exist, and her privacy protected by the woman she had given the name of her old lover, though whether that last part had been generous gesture, or a selfish one, she couldn’t say.
She looked at Nash.
“Let’s get to work. It’d be nice to have tomatoes this year.”
Transia
Stone cracked and shattered as the spawn of Frankenstein ripped the wall asunder and plunged into the room. Assault rifles chattered and tiny hornets of lead tore through his pale flesh. He bellowed, more in annoyance than pain, and swatted the life out of the closest of the Darkholders.
In moments, the room was empty, save for the dead. The Monster mentally included himself among that number, as he flexed his scarred hands.
Alarms blared, alerting the inhabitants of the castle to his presence. It didn’t matter, really. He had seen little so far that could prove a threat to one such as himself. And, while he was certain his new ‘masters’ might desire a certain subtlety, he was in no mood to behave himself, not after seeing what he had seen.
This castle was a chamber of horrors, each more terrible than the last. And the Monster, whyever else he was here, intended to tear it down stone by stone.
But first, the page.
“And what page might that be, beast?”
The Monster spun. A form cloaked in light dropped through the ceiling. The light drizzled away, revealing the green-cloaked form of Modred the Mystic. White hair coiling around his vulpine features, Modred examined the Monster. “Well, beast? Can thou speak?”
“Quite well actually, yes,” the Monster rumbled. “You read my thoughts?”
“A parlor trick,” Modred said, with a dismissive gesture. “Who are you?”
“Nothing. No one.”
“And why have you come?”
“To collect something,” the Monster said, tensing.
“You dance around the matter with the grace of a clumsy child,” Modred said. “I presume you are here after the page of the Darkhold these fine merry fools had in their possession.”
“Had?”
“Oh yes. Now it is in mine,” Modred said, smiling. The Monster cocked his head. Then, with inhuman speed, he hurled himself at Modred.
Modred laughed and the Monster tore through his form as if it were no more an obstacle than the morning mist. The Monster crashed to the floor and rolled to his feet. Modred gave him no time to recover, flinging out a hand. The floor beneath the Monster’s feet began to crumble, giving way.
“You amuse me, beast. I would know more of your purpose, but I fear other events are calling for my attention at the nonce. Therefore, we must keep you occupied, yes?”
The Monster fell, caught in a cloud of debris that seemed to carry him through the lower floors of the castle and on into the depths. He plunged downwards, down and down further still, Modred’s laughter following him the entire way.
Beneath the tower, beneath the cliff it had been wrought from, a river flowed. It was from this river that the tower took its water supply.
The Monster hit the water with a resounding splash. He lay still for a moment, then surged up with a bellow, splashing the dark water across stone. He glared upwards, but his eyes were unable to pierce the gloom.
“Hhrm,” he grunted. The frigid waters came up to his waist and the cavern was rough hewn. Making his way towards the closest surface, he made to clamber out of the water, when his eye caught sight of the sigils carved into the rock. Squinting, he looked around.
More sigils. Hundreds. Thousands.
Something splashed nearby. Like a massive body-or bodies-sliding into the water. The Monster turned, even as claws sank into his back and yanked him backwards, beneath the arctic waters and down into the darkness.
London
The theater had been closed for years, since the occurrence of an incident that now existed only on paper, forgotten in moldy police files. A woman had died. A man had been crippled. A war had begun. But it was an old story, and one that had long since ended.
Light burst the consuming darkness asunder and a bedraggled shape fell onto the stage with a wet thump.
Dracula, former Lord of the Undead, now merely a living man once more, came to his feet with a curse. He shook a fist at the ghostly image of his ‘savior’.
“DeGuzman! If I didn’t know better, I—”
“Calm yourself, Prince Dracula,” DeGuzman said, his voice echoing oddly, as if from a distance. “My powers are strained to their utmost at the moment. I am fighting a war on two fronts -- something you know about.”
“Yes,” Dracula said after a moment. “Yes. Know that I would kill you if you were here, Darkholder.”
“I have no doubt that you would try,” DeGuzman said. “But frankly, why not put your limited energies towards more productive goals?”
Dracula snarled. DeGuzman smiled. “I’m sure you recognize this place. But even if you don’t, you’ll recognize the city.”
“London. I can smell the stink of the Thames from here,” Dracula said, crossing his arms. “Why have you brought me here?”
“Simple. There is a man here, and that man posses a page of the Book of Sins. His name is Phyffe. Augustine Phyffe. You will collect that page for me, and every other page after that until the book is whole once more, and mine.”
“And then you will restore my powers to me?”
“If that is your wish,” DeGuzman said. “Then, you may discover that you have missed the sweet kiss of mortal life.”
“Pfaugh,” Dracula said, swiping the air. He gathered his cloak to himself. “Dracula will play your game, sorcerer, but only because there is no other option. But rest assured—”
Dracula paused when he realized he was alone. DeGuzman, or his image, was gone. Dracula sniffed and took a deep breath of the theater’s musty air.
London: the scene of so many past schemes and failures. His only consolation at this point was that his foul offspring would have no idea of where he was. While Lilith was normally no more than an annoyance, in his current debilitated state she could possibly do him harm.
Whatever the threats that lay before him, the dangers, Dracula would win through them all. To fail was inconceivable. He would be triumphant. And then-then!-with the Darkhold once more in his possession…
“To hell with you, DeGuzman. And to hell with all those would seek some advantage over Dracula,” Dracula said and started down the stairs, stage left.
Venice
Lilith awoke to a golden vision. Then, pain, as an iron claw wrapped in a silk glove fastened on her throat and hauled her up, out of the wreckage of Dracula’s coffin.
“Where is he?” the Prince of Venice hissed. “Where is Dracula?”
“Who dares--?” Lilith spat, clawing at the Prince’s hand. He lifted her and flung her aside, towards the waiting hands of his men-at-arms. The other vampires fell on Dracula’s daughter, pinning her to the ground with a bevy of yowls and snarls.
Since Dracula’s escape, the Prince and his handpicked guard had scoured the city, destroying Dracula’s hidden lairs one by one, rendering them useless to the fugitive. They had traveled via the underground waterways, allowing the lesser vampires the dirty task of patrolling the city. The Prince turned, robes rustling.
“Lilith Draculabane. Where your father is, you will not be far behind. That is what they say. Where is he, harlot?”
“If I knew, I would be there,” she said. She twisted, her spine coiling with feline smoothness, and she kicked her way free of her captors. Her clawed fingers plunged into the chest of one, tearing through a coat of ancient chainmail and puncturing his heart.
She pulled the wizened organ free and was rewarded with a despairing shriek as the vampire collapsed. Lilith let the heart fall at the Prince’s feet.
“Mazarin. You know better than to call me harlot, leper-prince.”
The Prince bristled, his feelings evident, despite the golden mask he wore. “You—”
Above them, the wooden ceiling gave a crack. Splinters sifted down. All of the vampires looked up. Pistols roared and a circular section of wood fell straight down, carrying a black-suited figure with it.
Blade stood, looking around. “Looks like a party. Mind if I crash?”
To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Lilith in chains! Victoria Montesi-caught between Morbius and the Darkholders! And who is that at the mercy of Dracula? Be here in thirty for ‘WEIRD SISTERS’!
Previous Issue | Next Issue
Blade sat on his haunches, leaning against his sword, eyes narrowed. The house opposite slumped, nearly falling into the canal.
“How can you tell?” Cardinal Vinchenze murmured, hands folded inside his robes. Blade didn’t turn.
“The nose knows,” he said, tapping the extremity in question. “Big Daddy Fangs smells like nothing you’ve ever known, if you’ve got the range.”
“All vampires smell—”
“Not like this. Difference between a trash can and a garbage dump. But…” Blade hesitated. Vinchenze put a hand on his shoulder.
“But what, Mr. Brooks?”
Blade shifted slightly, dislodging the cardinal’s hand. “The smell is old. I ain’t getting the whiff of that old black magic like I usually do. Something is up.” He rose to his feet and idly spun his sword. “Something big. If what that leech said was right—”
“They lie, Mr. Brooks. They lie with every breath,” Vinchenze said, softly.
Blade looked at him. “Call me Blade.”
Sheathing his sword, he trotted across the narrow street, towards the house. Carnival was still going on and drunken revelers stumbled through the streets, despite the pink rays of the dawn spreading over the rooftops. The vampires, on the other hand, had retreated, for the moment.
The cannon fodder, at least.
Blade grimaced. That was all he had seen last night, hungry ghosts with more appetite than brains. Vinchenze’s little group -- the so-called Montesi Order -- had killed a few, and were champing at the bit for some real action.
Blade looked up at the house and pulled down his sunglasses, eyeing the way it seemed half-sunk into the street. Old, probably pre-War. In disrepair. A firetrap, basically.
Perfect, really. Blade sniffed. Dracula’s scent lingered here; it had seeped into the wood and the brick like bloodstink in a slaughterhouse. But it was old. That familiar nastiness wasn’t here.
“Hunh.” Blade looked down. His nostrils flared. It was a little skill, but useful. He’d always had a nose for the darkness, and it came in handy sometimes. He turned slightly, and beckoned to Vinchenze.
“What is it?”
“Vampires.”
“Dracula?”
“No. Scent’s similar, but not quite.” Blade shook his head. “They’re moving though. We might have some competition.”
“Whether they serve Dracula or no, they will perish in cleansing fire. Pellgrini!” Vinchenze snapped. One of the masked Montesi brethren clanked forward, his robes rustling against his archaic armor. He raised a square-headed personal battering ram and swung it back.
Blade tensed as the ram struck the ancient door, reducing it to a cloud of splinters. Then, he was moving, sweeping his pistols from their holsters and diving through the doorway.
In the air, racing the sun
“Who are they, Stroud?” Michael Morbius hissed, squatting behind the seats of the private plane, his pale form hidden from the sun by a thick tarp.
Simon Stroud, formerly of the CIA, now of the Black Chamber, tapped an instrument panel. “Who’s they, blood-sucker?”
“Your new masters.”
“I don’t have masters, Morbius. I got employers,” Stroud said. “I’m not like you.”
“Ha!” Morbius croaked. “We’re more alike than either of us cares to think, you buffoon.” He shifted, grunting as a beam of light grazed his bare forearm. “But please, for courtesy’s sake, if nothing else, answer my question.”
Stroud was silent for a minute. Then, reluctantly, “They started out as a War-time cryptography unit. That’s skuttlebutt anyway. Cracking codes for the Allies. Then, one day, they got a code that wasn’t made by anyone on Earth. And they cracked that one too.”
He fell quiet. Morbius shifted. “And?”
“That’s it. They cracked that last code and they’ve been scrambling to act on what they learned ever since,” Stroud said. “All this occult crap plays into it.”
“And the Darkhold?” Morbius said.
“Who knows? Not me,” Stroud said. He glanced at Morbius. “And I don’t care either. Bad enough I got to let you live.”
“Let me live? Ha!” Morbius gave a snort. “You have a high opinion of yourself, Stroud.”
“Shut up. We’re an hour out. The Chamber has a private airfield. Once night falls—”
“Yes, yes,” Morbius said, waving a hand. His eyes gleamed under the tarp. “I will find Victoria Montesi. But I will not harm her!”
“Since when have you been squeamish?” Stroud said, sounding amused.
Morbius growled. “Montesi is-was-a friend. Or as close to one as someone like myself gets.”
“Huhn.” Stroud fell silent. Then, “They only want you to bring her back to the airfield. Mr. Diogenes will meet us there, when I let them know you got the job done.”
“You are accompanying me?” Morbius said.
“As if I’d let you out of my sight! I don’t know about the other freaks, but I know you. I know what you’re capable of, and I know that no fancy tricks are going to keep you leashed for long,” Stroud said. He patted the pistol holstered under his left arm. “And when you finally slip your leash…”
Morbius shrugged off the tarp and wrapped a clawed hand around the back of Shroud’s skull. He leaned close to his old antagonist. “You’ll do what?” he said, squeezing gently for emphasis. They both knew he could crush Stroud’s skull as easily as a man might crush an egg.
Stroud didn’t reply. Instead he pulled back on the plane’s control lever with a savage jerk, sending the private plane into a steep upwards curve.
Sunlight poured in through the windows and the smell of sizzling flesh filled the cockpit. Morbius snarled in pain. “Stroud, if you don’t get us out of here, I’ll—!”
“Die in a fiery crash? Or maybe burn up in the sun?” Stroud said, the pain of Morbius’ grip causing his features to tighten. “Your choice, freak. I’m real willing to die if it means taking you with me.”
The tableau held for a minute. Two. Then Morbius released him and slunk back, hauling his tarp up around himself. Stroud put the plane back on course. Neither one said anything to the other until they landed.
Somewhere in Northern France
The town, such as it was, had no name. It was on no map and no one, save those who lived there, even knew it existed.
As such, it was the perfect place to hide.
Victoria Montesi sat in her tiny garden, watching the birds flit through the branches of the great tree that occupied it. Eyes closed, she listened to the world around her, as she had every morning since—
Her mind shied away from the thought, and her arms reflexively tightened around her flat belly.
“You’re thinking about it again,” someone said.
Victoria’s eyes opened and she looked up at the lean, odd woman standing before her, holding a tray with two steaming cups of coffee balanced on it. “Hard not to think about,” Victoria said, accepting one of the cups gratefully. The other woman pulled up a chair and sat beside her.
“The more you think of it -- of what you had, what you lost -- the more it will hurt,” she said, sipping from her own cup. Victoria smiled.
“Demonic intuition, Nash?”
“If you like,” the woman said, smiling. She had pale crimson skin and eyes and hair to match, with teeth like ivory needles. A row of circular flat protrusions rode the crest of her head from just between her brows on up and back, splitting her hair into two punkish sections. Once, she had simply been known as the Midwife, a child of the N’Garai. Now, she called herself by a dead woman’s name at the behest of said woman’s lover.
It was an odd thing, but then, the Midwife was an odd demon. One dedicated to the task of preserving life at all costs, whatever form that life might take.
She took another sip of coffee. “I’ll start preparing the spot for the garden today, if you like.”
“You don’t have to,” Victoria said, not looking at her. Nash chuckled.
“I want to.”
“Then by all means. I heard the cats again last night.” It came out apropos of nothing.
Nash looked at her. “They can’t get in, you know. They won’t, rather. Besides which, they’re not looking to harm you.”
“There’s harm and then there’s harm,” Victoria murmured. Every night, it was the same thing, over and over again: the cats, crowding around the edges of her new home, singing to her. Asking her to…what?
Cats couldn’t sing, but that didn’t seem to stop these. Every night. In French, of course. Sweetly and seductively.
It was getting on her nerves.
“I think they want me to get naked and dance with them,” she said. Nash laughed. She sounded like a crackling fire and Victoria flinched, slightly.
“Probably. Little nightmares with only one thing on their mind.” She looked at Victoria and tapped her nose. “They can smell the darkness in your blood. To their minds, you and they share a bond.”
“And why did we come here again?”
“It’s quiet. And others will find it hard to visit.” She placed emphasis on the word ‘others’. Victoria swallowed and stroked her stomach.
A year before, her belly had contained a seed of evil, he essence of Chthon, incarnated in her flesh and blood, even as she had been bred to do.
Not that her father, damn his eyes, had ever admitted such. So desperate for a child to carry on the Montesi line, to carry on his holy work, that he had made a bargain with a devil in return for a son.
He had gotten her instead; an atheist lesbian with absolutely no interest in her father’s ridiculous crusade. The devil’s little joke.
She was out of it now, her devil-seed aborted before it had even had a chance to exist, and her privacy protected by the woman she had given the name of her old lover, though whether that last part had been generous gesture, or a selfish one, she couldn’t say.
She looked at Nash.
“Let’s get to work. It’d be nice to have tomatoes this year.”
Transia
Stone cracked and shattered as the spawn of Frankenstein ripped the wall asunder and plunged into the room. Assault rifles chattered and tiny hornets of lead tore through his pale flesh. He bellowed, more in annoyance than pain, and swatted the life out of the closest of the Darkholders.
In moments, the room was empty, save for the dead. The Monster mentally included himself among that number, as he flexed his scarred hands.
Alarms blared, alerting the inhabitants of the castle to his presence. It didn’t matter, really. He had seen little so far that could prove a threat to one such as himself. And, while he was certain his new ‘masters’ might desire a certain subtlety, he was in no mood to behave himself, not after seeing what he had seen.
This castle was a chamber of horrors, each more terrible than the last. And the Monster, whyever else he was here, intended to tear it down stone by stone.
But first, the page.
“And what page might that be, beast?”
The Monster spun. A form cloaked in light dropped through the ceiling. The light drizzled away, revealing the green-cloaked form of Modred the Mystic. White hair coiling around his vulpine features, Modred examined the Monster. “Well, beast? Can thou speak?”
“Quite well actually, yes,” the Monster rumbled. “You read my thoughts?”
“A parlor trick,” Modred said, with a dismissive gesture. “Who are you?”
“Nothing. No one.”
“And why have you come?”
“To collect something,” the Monster said, tensing.
“You dance around the matter with the grace of a clumsy child,” Modred said. “I presume you are here after the page of the Darkhold these fine merry fools had in their possession.”
“Had?”
“Oh yes. Now it is in mine,” Modred said, smiling. The Monster cocked his head. Then, with inhuman speed, he hurled himself at Modred.
Modred laughed and the Monster tore through his form as if it were no more an obstacle than the morning mist. The Monster crashed to the floor and rolled to his feet. Modred gave him no time to recover, flinging out a hand. The floor beneath the Monster’s feet began to crumble, giving way.
“You amuse me, beast. I would know more of your purpose, but I fear other events are calling for my attention at the nonce. Therefore, we must keep you occupied, yes?”
The Monster fell, caught in a cloud of debris that seemed to carry him through the lower floors of the castle and on into the depths. He plunged downwards, down and down further still, Modred’s laughter following him the entire way.
Beneath the tower, beneath the cliff it had been wrought from, a river flowed. It was from this river that the tower took its water supply.
The Monster hit the water with a resounding splash. He lay still for a moment, then surged up with a bellow, splashing the dark water across stone. He glared upwards, but his eyes were unable to pierce the gloom.
“Hhrm,” he grunted. The frigid waters came up to his waist and the cavern was rough hewn. Making his way towards the closest surface, he made to clamber out of the water, when his eye caught sight of the sigils carved into the rock. Squinting, he looked around.
More sigils. Hundreds. Thousands.
Something splashed nearby. Like a massive body-or bodies-sliding into the water. The Monster turned, even as claws sank into his back and yanked him backwards, beneath the arctic waters and down into the darkness.
London
The theater had been closed for years, since the occurrence of an incident that now existed only on paper, forgotten in moldy police files. A woman had died. A man had been crippled. A war had begun. But it was an old story, and one that had long since ended.
Light burst the consuming darkness asunder and a bedraggled shape fell onto the stage with a wet thump.
Dracula, former Lord of the Undead, now merely a living man once more, came to his feet with a curse. He shook a fist at the ghostly image of his ‘savior’.
“DeGuzman! If I didn’t know better, I—”
“Calm yourself, Prince Dracula,” DeGuzman said, his voice echoing oddly, as if from a distance. “My powers are strained to their utmost at the moment. I am fighting a war on two fronts -- something you know about.”
“Yes,” Dracula said after a moment. “Yes. Know that I would kill you if you were here, Darkholder.”
“I have no doubt that you would try,” DeGuzman said. “But frankly, why not put your limited energies towards more productive goals?”
Dracula snarled. DeGuzman smiled. “I’m sure you recognize this place. But even if you don’t, you’ll recognize the city.”
“London. I can smell the stink of the Thames from here,” Dracula said, crossing his arms. “Why have you brought me here?”
“Simple. There is a man here, and that man posses a page of the Book of Sins. His name is Phyffe. Augustine Phyffe. You will collect that page for me, and every other page after that until the book is whole once more, and mine.”
“And then you will restore my powers to me?”
“If that is your wish,” DeGuzman said. “Then, you may discover that you have missed the sweet kiss of mortal life.”
“Pfaugh,” Dracula said, swiping the air. He gathered his cloak to himself. “Dracula will play your game, sorcerer, but only because there is no other option. But rest assured—”
Dracula paused when he realized he was alone. DeGuzman, or his image, was gone. Dracula sniffed and took a deep breath of the theater’s musty air.
London: the scene of so many past schemes and failures. His only consolation at this point was that his foul offspring would have no idea of where he was. While Lilith was normally no more than an annoyance, in his current debilitated state she could possibly do him harm.
Whatever the threats that lay before him, the dangers, Dracula would win through them all. To fail was inconceivable. He would be triumphant. And then-then!-with the Darkhold once more in his possession…
“To hell with you, DeGuzman. And to hell with all those would seek some advantage over Dracula,” Dracula said and started down the stairs, stage left.
Venice
Lilith awoke to a golden vision. Then, pain, as an iron claw wrapped in a silk glove fastened on her throat and hauled her up, out of the wreckage of Dracula’s coffin.
“Where is he?” the Prince of Venice hissed. “Where is Dracula?”
“Who dares--?” Lilith spat, clawing at the Prince’s hand. He lifted her and flung her aside, towards the waiting hands of his men-at-arms. The other vampires fell on Dracula’s daughter, pinning her to the ground with a bevy of yowls and snarls.
Since Dracula’s escape, the Prince and his handpicked guard had scoured the city, destroying Dracula’s hidden lairs one by one, rendering them useless to the fugitive. They had traveled via the underground waterways, allowing the lesser vampires the dirty task of patrolling the city. The Prince turned, robes rustling.
“Lilith Draculabane. Where your father is, you will not be far behind. That is what they say. Where is he, harlot?”
“If I knew, I would be there,” she said. She twisted, her spine coiling with feline smoothness, and she kicked her way free of her captors. Her clawed fingers plunged into the chest of one, tearing through a coat of ancient chainmail and puncturing his heart.
She pulled the wizened organ free and was rewarded with a despairing shriek as the vampire collapsed. Lilith let the heart fall at the Prince’s feet.
“Mazarin. You know better than to call me harlot, leper-prince.”
The Prince bristled, his feelings evident, despite the golden mask he wore. “You—”
Above them, the wooden ceiling gave a crack. Splinters sifted down. All of the vampires looked up. Pistols roared and a circular section of wood fell straight down, carrying a black-suited figure with it.
Blade stood, looking around. “Looks like a party. Mind if I crash?”
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: Lilith in chains! Victoria Montesi-caught between Morbius and the Darkholders! And who is that at the mercy of Dracula? Be here in thirty for ‘WEIRD SISTERS’!
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