In the dark waters that filled the guts of the mountain, the Monster of Frankenstein battled alone. Slippery black tendrils ensnared him while hooked suckers dug cruelly into his fish-belly colored skin. Clear serum leaked from the wounds and he snarled silently.
Fingers like bent iron caught purchase in the alien flesh and, with a heave of his titanic shoulders, the Monster ripped a tentacle free of its mooring, eliciting a shrill squeal from the demon.
The Monster was not well-versed in the occult sciences, despite his lifestyle. That this creature responded to physical assault was enough for him, and he flailed about with the twitching tentacle, battering at the unseen shapes that pressed him on all sides.
The creatures were not used to their prey putting up such stiff resistance and, as the Monster surged forward, they retreated, sliding back through the water into the depths with a series of hooting cries.
The Monster tossed the bloody length of flesh aside and took stock. Though the beasts had retreated, they were not gone. Merely waiting.
He snarled and began making his way towards the rocks that jutted from the water. He needed some place with sure footing--
“I am intrigued by thy abilities, beast,” a voice said, with a hint of mockery. The Monster, still chest-deep in water, looked up.
Modred the Mystic slowly floated down, his emerald cloak held tightly about his thin frame. Dead, white eyes examined the creature the way a scientist would a particularly unique species of insect.
“And, I am quite impressed with your survival instinct. But, then, I smell the stink of modern technology about thee, almost hidden beneath the alchemical stench your kind normally carries,” he continued.
“My—my kind?” the Monster grunted, puzzled despite himself.
Modred laughed. “Oh yes. While you are quite--ah--unique, thou are neither the first nor the last homonunculous I have dealt with. Sorcerers once crafted your kind by the score…” His sharp face split in a grin. “And I know all the ways of dealing with something like you.” He gestured, and the Monster staggered as his body seemed to suddenly fill with flame.
For only the third time in his long life, the Monster of Frankenstein screamed!
|
#7
AUG 10 |
 |
“Haunt of Horror!”
London
Jack Russell was a monster at peace with his monstrousness. Or he had been, until recently. Now he was a veritable hell-hound, crouching on the edge of psychosis as his body fought to reject the techno-organic implants that now guided his actions.
As long as he stayed on track, the Vibranium spheres floating along the length of his spinal column stayed soft and painless. But when he resisted, or even thought about resisting, they hardened and became brittle. And when they became brittle, they started…leaking.
He shuddered and took another pull of the can of cider he clutched. The room-temperature fluid sloshed around his mouth for a moment before he surreptisiously spat it out. He hated the taste, but the local law were less likely to bother a man sitting quietly on a pub doorstep drinking than they were one leaning against a wall, hands in his pockets.
Russell was smoking as well, for good measure, though he enjoyed that a bit more. In his belly, something hairy and abominable shifted impatiently.
He reached around and scratched his back, feeling for the spheres, even though he knew they were buried deep in his tissue. The little bastard--Diogenes, he’d called himself--had said something about ‘old Nazi know-how’, which had been enough at the time to chill Jack’s blood.
The book store was a run down looking chunk of brick and glass, with semi-soaped windows. It exuded the smell of pulped paper and human sweat. It had been an occult shop in the 1970’s; now it was a second to fourth hand charity shop. Of course, it still had some of the old stock left.
That was why Augustyne Phyffe was there, at the moment. Jack took another drink and waited for his prey to emerge. He had been trailing the man for days, following him across the width and breadth of England as he hunted for something Jack was all-too familiar with. Phyffe wanted a page from the Darkhold and, once he’d found it, it was Jack’s job to take it away.
Granted, that was probably easier said than done. Phyffe was a sorcerer, and one who’d had some training from Doctor Strange to boot.
Jack finished the cider and crushed the can. Phyffe had been in the store for close to an hour, and--
The scent hit him between the eyes, dragging him up and around before he realized what he was doing. His nostrils flared.
“Topaz,” he said. His cigarette fell from his fingers and dropped to the pavement, where it smoldered, forgotten. Where was she?
The crowd broke and he saw her, heading for the bookshop. She had changed, but he knew it was her. The nose knows. He grinned, but only for a moment, as he caught sight of who she was with.
“Oh hell,” he said.
“This is hell,” Dracula said, jerking aside as someone nearly stumbled into him. He shaded his eyes and glared up at the sun.
Topaz chuckled. “Only you would think so. Has your time as a monster erased even the memory of humanity from you?” she asked.
Dracula switched his glare to her. “Mind your tone, witch. Dracula will brook no insolence--” he began.
Topaz spun, meeting his eyes. Dracula stepped back, his lips writhing back from his all-too human teeth. “Not insolence. Observation," she clarified.
Dracula licked his lips. He had discarded his formal wear for a more moderate suit and tie, but he still made the instinctive motion to pull a cloak about himself. Angrily, he clenched his hands and thrust them aside. “You still have not told me your price.”
“Maybe I haven’t decided on it yet,” Topaz said. “Here. I passed Phyffe’s name around through the local occult circles. The clerk here called me.”
“Good,” Dracula grunted. “We will wait. Observe.”
“Observe?” Topaz raised an eyebrow.
It was Dracula’s turn to smile. “Phyffe may-or may not-have what I desire. If he does not, then it serves our interests not to disturb him.” He tapped the side of his nose. “He will lead us to it.”
“You enjoy it, don’t you?” Topaz asked.
“Enjoy what?”
“This. The game. Move and counter-move.” Topaz whispered a soft string of syllables and the noise of the street-crowd vanished as the two were shrouded in a cone of silence. People avoided them without seeming to see them.
Dracula blinked. “Hnh. You could have done that earlier.”
“I wanted you to see what you were missing, Voivode Dracula.” Topaz straightened his tie absently. “But now we need to talk.” She looked up at him. “You will not kill him, or any others.”
“No? You do not know me as well as you think, then,” he said.
“You misunderstand.”
“No. I do not. You would peace-bond Dracula’s sword, even if it means the difference between life and death,” he snapped. “That is not part of our arrangement!”
“We have no arrangement, unless I say otherwise,” Topaz said calmly, her dark eyes flashing.
Dracula’s emotions washed over her like a wave. In his other state, his thoughts and feelings were wrapped in a numbing fog, but like this, as a man once more, she got the full effect. Dracula blazed, and his passions were like an inferno. He grabbed her wrist, his eyes filled with rage.
Then, another burst of emotion, a familiar one, caused her to turn, her eyes widening in shock.
“No—”
A savage shape, the color of drying blood, struck Dracula like a thunderbolt, sending him flying through the front window of the book-shop!
Topaz fell back. “No! Jack!”
The Werewolf ignored her, springing towards Dracula’s recumbent form, slavering jaws spread wide!
Northern France
Arkady had served the Masks of the Darkhold since childhood. He had been trained in Atlantean arts of combat, and had the empathy of agitated rattlesnake. He was a calculating, remorseless shell, fit only to serve Chthon.
Michael Morbius, on the other hand, was a sado-masochistic, self-loathing savage, driven by a berserk blood-lust.
Two Darkholders died, ripped gullet to grin by casual backhanded swipes of Morbius’ clawed hands as he landed among them, his eyes blazing and his skin steaming in the afternoon sun. Arkady stepped back, sword extended, his free fingers scrambling for the pistol holstered beneath his arm.
“Nunh-unh,” Victoria Montesi said, hooking Arkady’s ankle with one foot. The man fell, his sword flying from his fingers.
Montesi snatched up the weapon and held it to his throat. “Pull out the pistol…slowly!”
Arkady did as she bade, silently. Montesi nodded. “Toss it.”
“As efficient as ever, Ms. Montesi,” Morbius hissed. He squatted on the body of another Darkholder, his hands wrapped around the man’s gaping windpipe.
“Dr. Morbius—”
“Michael, please,” he said, stripping the Darkholder’s mask off and wrapping it around his own face, tearing it in the process to reveal his features. “The sun is not as vicious here.”
“Something to do with the location. It sets here earlier.” Montesi sank to one knee and scooped up Arkady’s pistol, tossing the sword away. “Why are you here, Michael?”
“You sound quite suspicious for a woman who was, until recently, in distress.” Morbius rose. “Explanations later. For now we must--”
“Go back for Nash,” Montesi said.
“But--”
“No!” She turned. “We go back for her.”
Arkady, momentarily forgotten, lunged for the sword. Sweeping it up, he rolled to his feet and drove the blade towards Morbius’ neck.
Montesi fired the pistol, catching the Darkholder high in the hip, sending him whirling off balance. Morbius turned, driving a fist into the man’s sternum. Bone cracked and the Darkholder flopped backwards, limp.
“Hnf. Not as satisfying as I’d hoped,” Morbius said, licking blood from his knuckles. He looked at Montesi. “Now, who is this Nash?”
Simon Stroud peered around the corner of the café, swiftly counting hostiles. Four, and whatever the hell those other two things were. The leech was on Montesi’s trail, which left Stroud-as always-with clean up.
He took a breath, two, then swung around the corner, his pistol bucking in his hands. Plumes of dust and blood popped from the chests of two of the Darkholders watching the fray, and they fell. The remaining two scattered, one opening up with an assault rifle. Stroud threw himself behind a market stall.
Ignoring the splinters of wood and fruit that flew around him, Stroud pressed himself flat to the ground and began to crawl.
Meanwhile, in the street, the demoness known as Nash fought with the corpse clad in dog-skin. It was a simple revenant, but strong. Raw, red arms crashed down on her head, and she dropped, momentarily stunned. She kicked out, knocking it off balance. It yowled and grabbed her leg, ripping her from the ground and flinging her aside.
She crashed through a stall and landed in a heap near Stroud, who blinked, then rose to his feet, emptying his clip into the dog-thing. It shrieked and scurried away, using the stalls as cover.
Dropping, Stroud quickly reloaded. “You move?” he asked.
Nash rolled onto all fours and rose, her fangs flashing. “Who-”
“A friend, I’m guessing. We hate the same guys, at least.” Stroud smiled. “Think you can handle dog-boy?”
“Think you can handle the other two?”
“Only one way to find out.” Stroud rose as Nash moved. The Darkholder with the automatic weapon tracked her movements, and Stroud shot him first. The second man was already leaping over a stall towards him, wielding a knife. Stroud grabbed the wrist, jerked and crashed his pistol against the Darkholder’s temple, sending him sprawling. As the man struggled to rise, Stroud shot him twice.
Something snarled behind him.
Stroud spun, cursing, as the dog-thing lunged!
Blade sat uncomfortably in his seat, eyes locked on the inattentive form of Cardinal Vinchenze, current war-leader of the Montesi Order. Vinchenze, for his part, was confering with two of his men in Italian.
Blade spoke Italian and Latin, though neither Vinchenze nor his associates knew that, and he wasn’t planning on sharing that bit of info. Instead, he closed his eyes, letting his senses roam. Past the recycled air smell, he could taste the stink of vampire. Lilith. Locked in a box sealed shut with silver and wreathed with Bible verses and garlic. Guarded by four of Vinchenze’s best men, all armed with flame throwers.
Beyond the particular insanity of using flame-spewing devices aboard an aircraft, Blade was beginning to have doubts about this whole affair.
He’d argued that they should stay in Venice, finish off Dracula’s organization. With the Prince gone to ground or dead--not likely dead, a small, experienced part of him said--that left Dracula’s minions leaderless and scattered.
In other words, ripe for a staking.
Vinchenze had them on the plane an hour later. He’d claimed he’d contacted the papal authorities in the city.
“You seem perturbed.”
Blade’s eyes sprang open. Vinchenze was looking at him. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Dracula’s on the run.” Blade rubbed the space between his eyes with his thumb. “I want to know why.”
“Does it really matter?”
“Of course it matters,” Blade spat. “If someone is after him, we need to know who and why!”
“And that is what our captive is for,” Vinchenze said. He frowned at Blade’s expression. “Really, Mr. Brooks. Feeling sympathy for your prey?”
“Nope. Disgust.”
Vinchenze nodded. “As you should.”
“For you,” Blade amended.
Vinchenze blinked. “What?”
“I kill. I’m good at it, and vampires need killing.” Blade tapped the knives strapped across his chest. “I don’t torture, though.”
“God’s tools are often harsh,” Vinchenze said, steepling his fingers. “And that demon is not human--has, according to our records, never been human.”
“Maybe not. But she’s always been against Dracula.” Blade leaned forward. “Now she’s against us.”
“Ah. Enemy of my enemy, eh, Mr. Brooks?” Vinchenze nodded. “That is your thinking?”
“In a manner of speaking, yeah,” Blade said. His skin prickled. “Lilith is...odd, I’ll grant you. Dangerous, too. But she’s damn near the only thing Dracula is scared of.”
“There can be no alliances with those whom the darkness taints, Mr. Brooks. All are abominations unto the eyes of the Godhead.”
“That include me?” Blade asked, after a moment.
Vinchenze sat back, face troubled. “I-”
“I’m going to check on the cargo. Give your boys a break.” Blade rose and headed for the rear of the plane.
“Mr. Brooks,” Vinchenze said. Blade didn’t stop. The guards let him into the back with no trouble. He looked at the four men standing at compass points around the box.
“Beat it.”
“We were ordered-” one began. Blade sat on the box and frowned, pulling off his glasses.
“Don’t care. Go.” He stared at each of the men in turn, making them shift nervously. They had seen the aftermath of his fight in Venice, and the images floated vividly before their eyes now.
One by one, they trooped out. Blade waited for a moment, then pulled out a knife, jammed it into the box lid and began carving a hole.
When he’d finished, he said, “Can you hear me?”
There was no reply. Blade sighed.
“This wasn’t my idea. Not that I wouldn’t have cut your damn head off if the opportunity presented itself, but you’ve always played me fair.”
There was a brief sound. It might have been laughter.
“Here’s the deal. You want out, I’ll get you out...but I want your daddy dead. For good this time. You give me any problems, I’ll help the Spanish Inquisition out there turn you into a fritter without so much as a twinge of guilt.” He waited. “Knock once for ‘no’, twice for ‘yes’.”
Knock.
Blade tensed.
Knock.
He relaxed. “Good enough.”
Transia
The Monster of Frankenstein stood slowly, teeth gritted against the pain. “Why?”
“A whim,” Modred said, examining the EMP generators he’d wrenched from the Monster’s back. “Unpleasant devices. Humanity has always been a clever clark, in terms of industry.” Inside the bubble of magical force, the generators crumpled and were crushed one by one. Modred flicked his fingers and sent them spinning away into the darkness.
“They won’t be happy,” the Monster said.
“No, I suppose they won’t. No matter. We have an arrangement now, you and I,” Modred said, descending to the surface of the water, ripples spreading around his green boots.
“Do we?” The Monster tilted his head, eyes narrowing. His hands became fists, the veins bulging like snakes beneath his skin. Modred smiled.
“Aye, I have no doubt you could splinter me fast, beast, if you could but get your hands on me.” He gestured, and the dark waters swept up around the creature, entangling him in semi-solid tendrils. “But you won’t get that chance. Won’t even want it,” he continued, pulling the struggling creature towards him. “Not after you hear my offer, brute.”
“Offer?” the Monster said. He stopped struggling.
Modred smiled. “I have freed you, beast, and all I ask in return is one simple act of murder.”
The Monster’s eyes blazed. “Who?”
“A man named…DeGuzman.”
To Be Continued...
Next Issue: In Midnight Sons #8: It’s monster on monster violence as the hunt for the Darkhold begins! And what plan does the Black Chamber have for Victoria Montesi? Be here in thirty for ‘DEVILS IN THE DARK’!
Previous Issue | Next Issue
Jack Russell was a monster at peace with his monstrousness. Or he had been, until recently. Now he was a veritable hell-hound, crouching on the edge of psychosis as his body fought to reject the techno-organic implants that now guided his actions.
As long as he stayed on track, the Vibranium spheres floating along the length of his spinal column stayed soft and painless. But when he resisted, or even thought about resisting, they hardened and became brittle. And when they became brittle, they started…leaking.
He shuddered and took another pull of the can of cider he clutched. The room-temperature fluid sloshed around his mouth for a moment before he surreptisiously spat it out. He hated the taste, but the local law were less likely to bother a man sitting quietly on a pub doorstep drinking than they were one leaning against a wall, hands in his pockets.
Russell was smoking as well, for good measure, though he enjoyed that a bit more. In his belly, something hairy and abominable shifted impatiently.
He reached around and scratched his back, feeling for the spheres, even though he knew they were buried deep in his tissue. The little bastard--Diogenes, he’d called himself--had said something about ‘old Nazi know-how’, which had been enough at the time to chill Jack’s blood.
The book store was a run down looking chunk of brick and glass, with semi-soaped windows. It exuded the smell of pulped paper and human sweat. It had been an occult shop in the 1970’s; now it was a second to fourth hand charity shop. Of course, it still had some of the old stock left.
That was why Augustyne Phyffe was there, at the moment. Jack took another drink and waited for his prey to emerge. He had been trailing the man for days, following him across the width and breadth of England as he hunted for something Jack was all-too familiar with. Phyffe wanted a page from the Darkhold and, once he’d found it, it was Jack’s job to take it away.
Granted, that was probably easier said than done. Phyffe was a sorcerer, and one who’d had some training from Doctor Strange to boot.
Jack finished the cider and crushed the can. Phyffe had been in the store for close to an hour, and--
The scent hit him between the eyes, dragging him up and around before he realized what he was doing. His nostrils flared.
“Topaz,” he said. His cigarette fell from his fingers and dropped to the pavement, where it smoldered, forgotten. Where was she?
The crowd broke and he saw her, heading for the bookshop. She had changed, but he knew it was her. The nose knows. He grinned, but only for a moment, as he caught sight of who she was with.
“Oh hell,” he said.
“This is hell,” Dracula said, jerking aside as someone nearly stumbled into him. He shaded his eyes and glared up at the sun.
Topaz chuckled. “Only you would think so. Has your time as a monster erased even the memory of humanity from you?” she asked.
Dracula switched his glare to her. “Mind your tone, witch. Dracula will brook no insolence--” he began.
Topaz spun, meeting his eyes. Dracula stepped back, his lips writhing back from his all-too human teeth. “Not insolence. Observation," she clarified.
Dracula licked his lips. He had discarded his formal wear for a more moderate suit and tie, but he still made the instinctive motion to pull a cloak about himself. Angrily, he clenched his hands and thrust them aside. “You still have not told me your price.”
“Maybe I haven’t decided on it yet,” Topaz said. “Here. I passed Phyffe’s name around through the local occult circles. The clerk here called me.”
“Good,” Dracula grunted. “We will wait. Observe.”
“Observe?” Topaz raised an eyebrow.
It was Dracula’s turn to smile. “Phyffe may-or may not-have what I desire. If he does not, then it serves our interests not to disturb him.” He tapped the side of his nose. “He will lead us to it.”
“You enjoy it, don’t you?” Topaz asked.
“Enjoy what?”
“This. The game. Move and counter-move.” Topaz whispered a soft string of syllables and the noise of the street-crowd vanished as the two were shrouded in a cone of silence. People avoided them without seeming to see them.
Dracula blinked. “Hnh. You could have done that earlier.”
“I wanted you to see what you were missing, Voivode Dracula.” Topaz straightened his tie absently. “But now we need to talk.” She looked up at him. “You will not kill him, or any others.”
“No? You do not know me as well as you think, then,” he said.
“You misunderstand.”
“No. I do not. You would peace-bond Dracula’s sword, even if it means the difference between life and death,” he snapped. “That is not part of our arrangement!”
“We have no arrangement, unless I say otherwise,” Topaz said calmly, her dark eyes flashing.
Dracula’s emotions washed over her like a wave. In his other state, his thoughts and feelings were wrapped in a numbing fog, but like this, as a man once more, she got the full effect. Dracula blazed, and his passions were like an inferno. He grabbed her wrist, his eyes filled with rage.
Then, another burst of emotion, a familiar one, caused her to turn, her eyes widening in shock.
“No—”
A savage shape, the color of drying blood, struck Dracula like a thunderbolt, sending him flying through the front window of the book-shop!
Topaz fell back. “No! Jack!”
The Werewolf ignored her, springing towards Dracula’s recumbent form, slavering jaws spread wide!
Northern France
Arkady had served the Masks of the Darkhold since childhood. He had been trained in Atlantean arts of combat, and had the empathy of agitated rattlesnake. He was a calculating, remorseless shell, fit only to serve Chthon.
Michael Morbius, on the other hand, was a sado-masochistic, self-loathing savage, driven by a berserk blood-lust.
Two Darkholders died, ripped gullet to grin by casual backhanded swipes of Morbius’ clawed hands as he landed among them, his eyes blazing and his skin steaming in the afternoon sun. Arkady stepped back, sword extended, his free fingers scrambling for the pistol holstered beneath his arm.
“Nunh-unh,” Victoria Montesi said, hooking Arkady’s ankle with one foot. The man fell, his sword flying from his fingers.
Montesi snatched up the weapon and held it to his throat. “Pull out the pistol…slowly!”
Arkady did as she bade, silently. Montesi nodded. “Toss it.”
“As efficient as ever, Ms. Montesi,” Morbius hissed. He squatted on the body of another Darkholder, his hands wrapped around the man’s gaping windpipe.
“Dr. Morbius—”
“Michael, please,” he said, stripping the Darkholder’s mask off and wrapping it around his own face, tearing it in the process to reveal his features. “The sun is not as vicious here.”
“Something to do with the location. It sets here earlier.” Montesi sank to one knee and scooped up Arkady’s pistol, tossing the sword away. “Why are you here, Michael?”
“You sound quite suspicious for a woman who was, until recently, in distress.” Morbius rose. “Explanations later. For now we must--”
“Go back for Nash,” Montesi said.
“But--”
“No!” She turned. “We go back for her.”
Arkady, momentarily forgotten, lunged for the sword. Sweeping it up, he rolled to his feet and drove the blade towards Morbius’ neck.
Montesi fired the pistol, catching the Darkholder high in the hip, sending him whirling off balance. Morbius turned, driving a fist into the man’s sternum. Bone cracked and the Darkholder flopped backwards, limp.
“Hnf. Not as satisfying as I’d hoped,” Morbius said, licking blood from his knuckles. He looked at Montesi. “Now, who is this Nash?”
Simon Stroud peered around the corner of the café, swiftly counting hostiles. Four, and whatever the hell those other two things were. The leech was on Montesi’s trail, which left Stroud-as always-with clean up.
He took a breath, two, then swung around the corner, his pistol bucking in his hands. Plumes of dust and blood popped from the chests of two of the Darkholders watching the fray, and they fell. The remaining two scattered, one opening up with an assault rifle. Stroud threw himself behind a market stall.
Ignoring the splinters of wood and fruit that flew around him, Stroud pressed himself flat to the ground and began to crawl.
Meanwhile, in the street, the demoness known as Nash fought with the corpse clad in dog-skin. It was a simple revenant, but strong. Raw, red arms crashed down on her head, and she dropped, momentarily stunned. She kicked out, knocking it off balance. It yowled and grabbed her leg, ripping her from the ground and flinging her aside.
She crashed through a stall and landed in a heap near Stroud, who blinked, then rose to his feet, emptying his clip into the dog-thing. It shrieked and scurried away, using the stalls as cover.
Dropping, Stroud quickly reloaded. “You move?” he asked.
Nash rolled onto all fours and rose, her fangs flashing. “Who-”
“A friend, I’m guessing. We hate the same guys, at least.” Stroud smiled. “Think you can handle dog-boy?”
“Think you can handle the other two?”
“Only one way to find out.” Stroud rose as Nash moved. The Darkholder with the automatic weapon tracked her movements, and Stroud shot him first. The second man was already leaping over a stall towards him, wielding a knife. Stroud grabbed the wrist, jerked and crashed his pistol against the Darkholder’s temple, sending him sprawling. As the man struggled to rise, Stroud shot him twice.
Something snarled behind him.
Stroud spun, cursing, as the dog-thing lunged!
Blade sat uncomfortably in his seat, eyes locked on the inattentive form of Cardinal Vinchenze, current war-leader of the Montesi Order. Vinchenze, for his part, was confering with two of his men in Italian.
Blade spoke Italian and Latin, though neither Vinchenze nor his associates knew that, and he wasn’t planning on sharing that bit of info. Instead, he closed his eyes, letting his senses roam. Past the recycled air smell, he could taste the stink of vampire. Lilith. Locked in a box sealed shut with silver and wreathed with Bible verses and garlic. Guarded by four of Vinchenze’s best men, all armed with flame throwers.
Beyond the particular insanity of using flame-spewing devices aboard an aircraft, Blade was beginning to have doubts about this whole affair.
He’d argued that they should stay in Venice, finish off Dracula’s organization. With the Prince gone to ground or dead--not likely dead, a small, experienced part of him said--that left Dracula’s minions leaderless and scattered.
In other words, ripe for a staking.
Vinchenze had them on the plane an hour later. He’d claimed he’d contacted the papal authorities in the city.
“You seem perturbed.”
Blade’s eyes sprang open. Vinchenze was looking at him. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Dracula’s on the run.” Blade rubbed the space between his eyes with his thumb. “I want to know why.”
“Does it really matter?”
“Of course it matters,” Blade spat. “If someone is after him, we need to know who and why!”
“And that is what our captive is for,” Vinchenze said. He frowned at Blade’s expression. “Really, Mr. Brooks. Feeling sympathy for your prey?”
“Nope. Disgust.”
Vinchenze nodded. “As you should.”
“For you,” Blade amended.
Vinchenze blinked. “What?”
“I kill. I’m good at it, and vampires need killing.” Blade tapped the knives strapped across his chest. “I don’t torture, though.”
“God’s tools are often harsh,” Vinchenze said, steepling his fingers. “And that demon is not human--has, according to our records, never been human.”
“Maybe not. But she’s always been against Dracula.” Blade leaned forward. “Now she’s against us.”
“Ah. Enemy of my enemy, eh, Mr. Brooks?” Vinchenze nodded. “That is your thinking?”
“In a manner of speaking, yeah,” Blade said. His skin prickled. “Lilith is...odd, I’ll grant you. Dangerous, too. But she’s damn near the only thing Dracula is scared of.”
“There can be no alliances with those whom the darkness taints, Mr. Brooks. All are abominations unto the eyes of the Godhead.”
“That include me?” Blade asked, after a moment.
Vinchenze sat back, face troubled. “I-”
“I’m going to check on the cargo. Give your boys a break.” Blade rose and headed for the rear of the plane.
“Mr. Brooks,” Vinchenze said. Blade didn’t stop. The guards let him into the back with no trouble. He looked at the four men standing at compass points around the box.
“Beat it.”
“We were ordered-” one began. Blade sat on the box and frowned, pulling off his glasses.
“Don’t care. Go.” He stared at each of the men in turn, making them shift nervously. They had seen the aftermath of his fight in Venice, and the images floated vividly before their eyes now.
One by one, they trooped out. Blade waited for a moment, then pulled out a knife, jammed it into the box lid and began carving a hole.
When he’d finished, he said, “Can you hear me?”
There was no reply. Blade sighed.
“This wasn’t my idea. Not that I wouldn’t have cut your damn head off if the opportunity presented itself, but you’ve always played me fair.”
There was a brief sound. It might have been laughter.
“Here’s the deal. You want out, I’ll get you out...but I want your daddy dead. For good this time. You give me any problems, I’ll help the Spanish Inquisition out there turn you into a fritter without so much as a twinge of guilt.” He waited. “Knock once for ‘no’, twice for ‘yes’.”
Knock.
Blade tensed.
Knock.
He relaxed. “Good enough.”
Transia
The Monster of Frankenstein stood slowly, teeth gritted against the pain. “Why?”
“A whim,” Modred said, examining the EMP generators he’d wrenched from the Monster’s back. “Unpleasant devices. Humanity has always been a clever clark, in terms of industry.” Inside the bubble of magical force, the generators crumpled and were crushed one by one. Modred flicked his fingers and sent them spinning away into the darkness.
“They won’t be happy,” the Monster said.
“No, I suppose they won’t. No matter. We have an arrangement now, you and I,” Modred said, descending to the surface of the water, ripples spreading around his green boots.
“Do we?” The Monster tilted his head, eyes narrowing. His hands became fists, the veins bulging like snakes beneath his skin. Modred smiled.
“Aye, I have no doubt you could splinter me fast, beast, if you could but get your hands on me.” He gestured, and the dark waters swept up around the creature, entangling him in semi-solid tendrils. “But you won’t get that chance. Won’t even want it,” he continued, pulling the struggling creature towards him. “Not after you hear my offer, brute.”
“Offer?” the Monster said. He stopped struggling.
Modred smiled. “I have freed you, beast, and all I ask in return is one simple act of murder.”
The Monster’s eyes blazed. “Who?”
“A man named…DeGuzman.”
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: In Midnight Sons #8: It’s monster on monster violence as the hunt for the Darkhold begins! And what plan does the Black Chamber have for Victoria Montesi? Be here in thirty for ‘DEVILS IN THE DARK’!
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