The airfield was deserted, but then that was no surprise given that it no longer existed as far as French aviation authorities were concerned. It had been used first by the Nazis, then by French Intelligence, then by MI-6 and, finally, by the CIA before the Black Chamber purchased it in the gold-rush days as the dust from the fall of the Berlin Wall was clearing.
Men moved through the aerodrome seeing to the loading and fuelling of a particularly angled stealth-plane. The man in charge sat on a crate and ate greedily from a bag of fast-food.
“It’s quite a story, really,” Mr. Diogenes said, taking a sip from the Styrofoam cup with its garish two-dimensional mascot. “We started as code-breakers, you see and then, one day, we broke the wrong code and learned that the war we had been fighting was as insignificant as children squabbling on a playground. No, even less than that...ants warring over a lump of sand.”
“Fascinating,” Victoria Montesi said, testing the restraints that held her arms and legs fastened to the steel examination chair. “Do go on.”
“Flatterer,” Diogenes said, baring pearly teeth in a slipshod grin. He took another bite of heat-lamp warmed hamburger and bobbed his head. “Do you know how I know we won the war on communism? There’s a McDonald’s in France.”
“I don’t recall France being communist. Maybe you’re thinking of the Communards,” Montesi grunted, twisting her hand to try and slip it free. Her skin was rubbed raw from repeated attempts and Diogenes watched her with some amusement.
“Perhaps you’re right. In any event, it was a digression. We broke the Dark Code--that’s what they called it--and learned about the War in Heaven. It’s still going on, you know...” he said slyly. “Angels and demons and entities of the spiritual angles, all that rot.” He chewed a fry. “Elder gods, titans, the whole she-bang-a-bang. And we’re caught right in the middle...but not for long.”
“Is this the part where you tell me your master plan?” Montesi spat.
“No. This is the part where I offer you a french fry,” Diogenes said, extending a cold, wilted slice of potato.
“No thanks. Where’s Dr. Morbius?”
“Hmm? Oh, packed in his pet-carrier,” he said, waving a pudgy hand. Montesi turned and saw an upright cryogenic tube being loaded onto a forklift. “He’s too valuable to kill. So are you, for that matter.” He smiled at her. “We’re going to need both of you.”
“For what?”
Diogenes’ smile grew unpleasantly wide. “Are you sure you don’t want a french fry?”
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#10
AUG 11 |
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“In the Black Chamber”
London
“Can this infernal thing not go faster?” Dracula snarled, striking the dashboard with one pale fist. “Dracula must have that page!”
“Dracula can bloody well stop hitting my car! The accelerator is down as far as it will go,” Topaz barked, casting a dark-eyed glare at the former Lord of the Undead. She twisted the wheel and took the car through a roundabout. The headlights of Phyffe’s car bobbed and blinked in the distance. The scion of one of England’s oldest families was running for the safety of the family home in Chelsea, his newest possession close to hand.
Topaz turned her attention back to the road. “Who were those men back there, the ones who attacked you and Jack?”*
[*SEE LAST ISH-JOLLY JOSH]
Dracula gave her a cunning smile. “Old enemies, woman, and ones Dracula has longed to cross swords with again. Knowing that they are somehow involved in this fills me with a sense of the blackest bliss.”
“Well I’m glad you’re happy, but they almost killed us!”
“Feh; Dracula is not destined to die like one of the common herd,” Dracula said, making a sharp gesture. “No, once I have Phyffe’s page of the Darkhold in hand, I shall--"
Topaz suddenly slammed on the brakes. Dracula, whipped forward by the stop, turned to look at her incredulously. “Shall what? You’re mortal now,” Topaz said. “Human, Dracula. Are you so eager to toss aside what you’ve only just regained?”
“What?” Dracula sputtered. “How dare you address me thus...”
“I dare, Dracula, because I know what it means to be given a second chance,” Topaz said. “You--"
“I AM DRACULA!” Dracula roared, lunging at her across the short distance like a stone flung from a catapult. “DRACULA, do you hear? I will not be nothing!” Fingers like iron hooks dug into her throat. Topaz’s eyes flared like candles in a windy room and then Dracula was flying backwards. He took the door with him as he was flung out of the car and into the mud on the side of the road.
Covered in broken glass and wrapped in the twisted remains of the door, he tried to struggle to his feet. Topaz slid out of the car and stalked towards him, power bristling around her like a halo. She gestured, and crimson manacles fastened on his wrists and ankles.
Dracula grunted as he was dragged into the air. “We...are...wasting...time,” Dracula said hoarsely.
"I know where Augustyne is going,” Topaz said, "and we need to chat.” She flipped her fingers and Dracula was slammed back against the car. He yowled as his spine connected with the torn edge of the frame. “You say you are nothing, Dracula? What were you before? Lord of what? Worms? Maggots?”
"Don’t test my patience, woman,” Dracula rasped, still struggling. “Dracula’s desires are inconceivable to one such as you...” He grinned at her through bruised lips. “I have survived lifetimes. Lifetimes! I have outlived or outfought every enemy to cross my path...I have been stripped of my powers more than once...and I have been killed a dozen times--nay! A hundred! Through it all, Dracula ever remains true to himself. Can you say the same?”
Topaz hesitated and her spell faded, dropping Dracula to the ground. A moment later, he rose to his feet, his tattered dignity wrapped around him. “You tried to use the Darkhold before and you were destroyed for your trouble,” she said, more quietly. “Why risk it again?”
“As I said, Dracula must be true to himself...Dracula must strive to rule always, forever.” He made a fist and extended it. “I am King, and I will be King again.”
“Strive for something else,” Topaz said.
Dracula flashed a smile that was still lupine for all that it lacked fangs. “There IS nothing else.”
France
Blade’s eyes shot open. Above him, stars wheeled far above the branches of the dark trees that had cushioned their fall. Every muscle in his body felt as if it had been whacked with a meat tenderizer and, when he tried to move, a groan escaped him.
“Careful, Blade, you humans are so fragile.” Lilith’s voice was a sultry purr. Blade looked around and saw her crouched nearby, her red eyes shining in the dark. She stood and walked toward him. Her fingers wrapped in the front of his coat and she jerked him to his feet. “Though you do seem to be more durable than the usual member of the herd,” she said.
“Durable is my middle name,” Blade said, swatting her hand away. “Where are we?”
“France, I think,” Lilith said.
“How can you tell?”
“The modern vampire must learn to keep track of little things like miles travelled while on an airplane. What did you think I was doing in that dreary box? Sulking?” Lilith asked. “Now, if you’re feeling up to it, I can smell blood...that way.” She pointed.
Blade made a face. “Blood?” He reached for the sword that should have been strapped to his back, but his hand closed on empty air. Lilith laughed and held up his combat harness. His sword and pistols hung from it, snug in their sheath and holsters, respectively.
“Really, did you think I was just going to leave you armed and dangerous?” she said.
“I assumed this was a partnership,” Blade said slowly.
Lilith grinned. "Silly rabbit. Never assume anything where my kind is concerned. You should know that by now,” she said. She tossed him the harness. “Still, you have a point.”
Blade slid the harness on as he watched her warily. “Glad to hear it. Where do you think Daddy Dearest went?”
“Hmm? Oh, I have some ideas...his lair stank of dark magic. Nasty as he is, my father rarely meddles in that sort of thing.” She looked away. “We’ll need a sorcerer of our own, I think.”
“Great,” Blade said, without enthusiasm. “And where do we get one of those?”
“I think...north,” Lilith said, tapping her nose. “It’s not just blood I smell. Magic too. And something else, something...”
Blade’s head jerked up, his nostrils flaring. “Gun-oil,” he said. He looked down, his eyes narrowing as he took in the plethora of red dots scurrying across his chest. “Hell...get down!” He dove to the forest floor as assault rifles roared.
Lilith danced in the hail of lead, punched this way and that as she was sliced to ribbons. Blade rolled to his feet, pistols in hand. He didn’t spare a glance for Lilith as a number of dark-clad shapes stepped out of the trees. “Hold it right there,” Blade snarled, swinging the guns around, trying to cover all of them at once.
One of the men cocked his head and spoke into a radio. “Two intruders, Control. Ask Mr. Diogenes what we should do with them...”
Transia
The Monster of Frankenstein trudged through the snow, the heavily bundled form of Randolph DeGuzman held close to his chest, as gently as a mother might hold an infant. They had left the forest far behind and were now climbing toward the crest of Mount Wundagore.
“We’re almost there,” DeGuzman said through chattering teeth.
“I smell strange magics,” the Monster rumbled.
“It’s the mountain; that or the citadel on the highest peak. They say demons live there...” DeGuzman said, squirming tighter into his furs. The Monster radiated no heat and, indeed, seemed to suck it in.
“Not demons, creatures like myself. I met their creator once...briefly,” the Monster said. He paused. “We would do well to avoid them, nonetheless. They bear your kind no love.”
“My kind? Humans, you mean?”
“No. Chthon-worshippers.” The Monster laughed and DeGuzman shivered. “What is this place, DeGuzman?”
“A little home away from home,” DeGuzman said. “Stop.” The Monster did. DeGuzman squirmed around and extended a hand. Curling his fingers, he spoke a flat phrase. The warding spell he’d placed on the hunting lodge wavered, revealing it. The Monster grunted.
“Intriguing. Why hide it?”
“Wouldn’t you?” DeGuzman said, as the Monster set him on his feet. “I have an enemies list as long as your arm.” He stamped snow off of his boots and shoved the door open. A moment later, the Monster yanked him aside as a staggering, champing scrum of zombies lunged for him. Clad in the ragged robes of the Darkholder cult, they moaned and scrambled towards their prey.
“Stand aside,” the Monster said, shoving DeGuzman into the snow. He punched through a zombie’s skull and swung the body around, decapitating several of its companions. Stamping on the twitching bodies, he bulled into the tomb-herd and shoved them back into the house. It took him minutes to swat the unlife out of those remaining. He turned as DeGuzman entered. “Your guard dogs are unimpressive.”
“Not mine; Modred must have sent them. Wily bastard!” DeGuzman snapped. He looked around. Aside from the corpses, he was relieved to see that the house had been untouched. He shook himself. “We won’t have much time...”
“What are we doing here?” the Monster asked, looking around.
“Gathering a war-chest,” DeGuzman said. “Spell-books, items of power, things to bully and bargain with. We will need it all.” He looked at the Monster. “Your strength aside, Modred now has the full resources of the organization--MY organization--at his disposal. All I have is this!” He held up the curled page of the Darkhold he had kept safe in his furs. “But with it, I control the most powerful piece on the board.”
“Which is?”
“Dracula,” DeGuzman said. He shook the page. “And with Dracula, I will--"
“Fail. As you have always failed, Randolph.” The two of them spun as the decapitated head of the zombie issued a phlegm-filled chuckle. It spoke again. “Your time in the wilderness has not improved you, I see.”
"Modred,” the Monster growled, raising a foot over the skull.
“I am disappointed in you, brute. I would have thought you would be more grateful,” Modred said. “Especially since it was I who freed you.”
“I learned treachery at the feet of masters,” the Monster said. He stooped and snatched up the head by the pitiful strands of hair that clung to the scalp. “Speak your piece.”
“Surrender, DeGuzman. Give me that curling piece of parchment or ye shall most surely perish and thy soul be used for bedding by the beasts of Hell’s stables,” Modred said.
“Never! Chthon’s will be done!” DeGuzman snapped, hugging the parchment away. “Dispose of that!”
“Certainly,” the Monster said, squashing the skull between his palms. Dropping the mass, he looked at DeGuzman. “You had best hurry, little man. I fear our time has grown even more limited.”
France
Simon Stroud listened with half an ear as Diogenes barked orders to his ground-pounders. They had stumbled on some unfortunate intruders apparently. Stroud felt a twinge of sympathy. He sat well outside the aerodrome, smoking his fifth cigarette in as many minutes, wondering how in the hell he had gotten into this dodge.
Montesi wasn’t a monster, not like Morbius. A bit creepy, true, but not a monster. He sucked on his cigarette and looked back toward the aerodrome. It wasn’t the same one he had been heading to a few hours earlier. This was the Chamber’s permanent base on the Continent, unimpressive as it was.
Idly, he tapped the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh. There weren’t many grunts here...most of them were on patrol. Diogenes had kept a few around to oversee the loading of the plane, but not many. Not enough to be a problem if Stroud decided to...do what?
He thought of Montesi again. What did they want her for? Was she going to be tricked out like Morbius, turned into another hunting dog? And, if so, what the devil were they hunting?
He owed the Black Chamber a lot; more than he cared to admit, really. They had found him in the gutter and given him back his purpose. Taken him out of his dingy basement office at Langley and put him back in the field, on the trail of the one man he hated more than any other. But now...now Stroud thought maybe the basement had been better.
He had committed a number of dirty tricks in his time--wetwork, black ops, assassinations and frame-jobs--but never something like this. Despite what he’d said before, this wasn’t about national security and he damn well knew it.
The question was, what was he going to do about it?
A moment later, the question was forgotten as he spun, drawing the knife from its sheath as he moved. Fast as he was though, clawed hands pinned his own and tossed him into the dirt as a weight settled on him. A familiar face glared down at him, eyes blazing with an infernal light.
“That wasn’t nice, what you did to me,” the demoness called Nash snarled, baring elongated teeth. She looked like three miles of bad road but didn’t seem otherwise hampered by the damage she’d sustained in the town. “But I’ll give you one chance to make up for it...where is Victoria Montesi?”
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To Be Continued...
Next Issue: In Midnight Sons #11: A new partnership is formed as an old one disintegrates and MIDNIGHT SONS rolls towards its senses-shattering two-part finale! Be here in thirty for ‘DANSE MACABRE’!
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