For Mature Readers Only

# 1
June '06

Strange Tales Presents

DRACULA LIVES

"Dracula Lives!"

Written by Curt Fernlun

The rain had been falling all day...

Cold and hard, the heavy drops had fallen in wind swept sheets, an icy blast of air flowing in off of the Atlantic blowing near gale force at times. The streets were awash, sewage bubbling up and overflowing the gutters in racing torrents that flowed towards the river in unending stream. Water poured into the Underground, falls of filthy water gushing through the air gratings and service vents and pooling on the crowded platforms and about the valleys of the sunken tracks. Rats hissed and screamed, scrabbling for higher ground scrambling from the darkness below without fear of the startled commuters they passed, a panic stirring in man and vermin alike. Lights flickered with every new flash of lightning, every crack of thunder that seemed ever just overhead.

Still the people of London carried on, struggling through the deluge, cursing and complaining as ill blown winds ripped their brollies asunder and away and blowing hats sailing into the low leaden skies. They staggered on as the British do, ever striving forward at a methodical pace slowed only slightly as thunder rumbled past and they might glance up for some sign of the sun, some harbinger of impending hope. There was something in the air they knew, they could feel it; a static of some sort, though none could name it exactly and most would be hard-pressed to explain the pall of dread that seemed to hang with the clouds, weighing them down.

It was a cold feeling, a shiver on the spine as though the collective grave of the city had been stepped on and crushed underfoot. It was depressing, making all snappish, dreary and short. And there was the weather, nasty and wretchedly brutal, and the traffic snarled in knots because of it, and the delays in the Tubes and not a cabbie to be had in the whole of London . And in the outlying cities the trains were stalled, and the platforms were packed with people shouting and shoving or snarling grimly and staring to the sky waiting for something to happen.

Something to give.

Something to break...

And lightning split the sky, and thunder slammed down on the city.

Something was coming.

Something wicked...

Somewhere Else

He raged!

He pounded his fists against the unyielding walls again and again, over and over. He spat and cursed as he scraped his nails against the withered, yellowing paper and plaster, peeling away the gaudy, outdated material only to seethe as it roiled and swelled back into place, covering the slight impression he had made. He screamed his frustrations and impotence at the walls, the very heavens as he slashed and smashed, kicked and slammed, all to no avail.

Dracula was not amused...

Lambeth

The heavy oaken doors flew open and slammed hard against the walls, echoing as the winds whipped in through the dim entryway. Merrick snapped awake and alert as the daily journal riffled on the desk, its pages flapping and fluttering wildly, he stretching to grab at the errant pages of the evening Times as they whipped away in the damp, icy blast. He could feel the chill, sodden air rolling in through the open doors, soaking the age-old wood and chipped, battered tiles that covered the foyer. He heard the umbrella stand crash to the floor as well as a high-pitched voice cursing in the howl.

"Close the door, ya bloody fool!" he shouted, forgetting the flapping sheets of newsprint as he dashed from behind the desk and charged for the doorway. "What're you, daft?"

He stared at the rain-slicked form that shoved on the two heavy doors, struggling and sliding on the slick tiles to beat back the mighty winds. In the end Merrick slammed against the left hand door, shoving it closed with a dull thud as the other pressed against the right, holding it in place whilst Merrick slid the bolt back into place. Sagging and sighing Merrick glanced at the drenched arrival, the man's rubber mac dripping freely on the floor, his hair wild even beneath his dark green rubber rain hat. The man was heaving, breathing hard as he chanced a quick glance at the guard, nodding his thanks silently with a sheepish grin before he let out a final rattling sigh and pulled his hat from his head with a flurry of water-logged hair.

"Cor," the newcomer breathed, slapping the hat against his thigh to shake the water free. "It's like the end of all out there t'night, innit?"

"Not by 'alf, Mickey. You're late."

"Tunnels is flooded, ain't they? An' not a fuckin' lor t'be had," the man, Mickey said as he doffed his green mac, shaking it against the wall before hanging it on a nearby hook to dry out. "It's the Deluge all over again I think. Bloody rain's not let up an inch since it started."

"There is that," Merrick said as he sidled back to his desk, stooping to gather the scattered papers blown about the lobby at Mickey's entrance. He tossed the sodden mess into the trash before he settled back into his chair and jotted down the other's name in the journal, along with the time before spinning the pad about for Mickey to sign. "I jostled the time a bit," Merrick said with a smile as he watched Mickey Banyon sign his name in the log, trying not to drip on the pad. The other man shivered a bit as he stood straight again, staring up as the lights flickered and thunder boomed.

"Bloody 'ell," Mickey said, watching as the dusty bulbs overhead strobed a bit before humming steadily again. "That been happening all night?"

"Yah, off n' on most a' the day too. It's a bitch. The power went out for about five minutes 'round four."

Mickey twisted his lips into a frown. "How'd they take that, then?"

"It's bizarre, son," Merrick said as he poured them both a cup of coffee from the carafe on the sideboard. He started spooning in sugar without abandon as he glanced up at Mickey, reading the daily reports. "They's quiet. Dead like all day. Couple of 'em gave a bit a row at the thunder, but for the most part they's like the dead. Like they's 'spectin' somethin'. Got me riled I'll say. Bloody giffers."

"Odd," Mickey said tossing the dailies back to the desk. "They usually in a right fit when the weather gets like this."

"Well, 618's makin' up for it. He was in a bloody toss all day. You know 'ow he gets."

"Eyes all wild n' shit?"

"S'truth! Like he was dancin' with the devil."

"In the pale moonlight?"

Merrick chuckled, sipping at his coffee. He grimaced and added another spoon of sugar. "He scares me, that one."

"Jus' another loon, lad. No worries."

"Yeah, well, Ginny's up with 'im now, tryin' t' teach 'im a bit a' respect."

"Ooh... pity the sod, eh?"

"Yeah," Merrick agreed, settling in behind his desk again as the thunder rolled and the lights flickered once again. Both men held their breath until the rumbles passed, sighing as the lights stayed on. "She'll set 'is arse right. Die tryin' maybe. He's 'ard, that one."

"Don't I know it." Mickey sipped at his coffee as he adjusted his gear for the night; the pager hooked to his belt, his pouch of medicinals, his 'basher'. "Still, he'll come about I expect. Our 'Nurse Cratchet' 'as 'er ways, don't she? I'll check in on me rounds... later."

Thunder slammed down on the Royal Bethlehem Hospital for the Insane once more, and both men heard the winds outside rage and howl, the rain crashing down. The old lighting flashed and waned, greasy bulbs sputtering and shadows creeping about them before finally enveloping them in totality of thick black. In the sudden darkness they stared...

"Bloody 'ell..."

"I'll get the torch."

They heard the screams then one by one as the inhabitants started in and they shivered. It was a cacophony, a chorus of discord that rose in the dark, echoing through the old and weathered halls, voices screaming, screeching for release. And there was one that cut through the rest; not a scream of madness, nor a cry of the lunatics. It was a scream of terror and pain. It was a short, final gasp of death, come to call...

"Bloody 'ell..."

Somewhere Else

They had trapped him in their damnable house- the House of Shadows that the equally damned Defenders had made their home and base. They had fought and they had lured him here, into a room with no seeming exit, no release! The walls were ever shifting, the hallways changing and morphing at whim, doors leading nowhere and stairways that simply stopped. He could hear the moans and groans of the house shifting and settling. It sounded almost human as it adapted, changing to stymie and condemn. It was mind-boggling. Damn them...

Damn the fowl and the rat. Damn his grand daughter! Damn the Hellstrom bitch to eternal torment, writhing with huge festering boils in Perdition's Flames!

Damn them all to never-ending Hell!

London Proper

"Good lord, Victoria," Dane Whitman said as he watched the woman that he had fancied for so long unwrap the plain brown paper from the huge rectangular parcel, which she had just brought home to the townhouse that they shared in London. He swirled his brandy in the snifter, frowning slightly as he sensed that it had cooled slightly and was no longer at the proper, optimum temperature. He shrugged though, in the end, and downed another taste anyway. "That must be the ugliest portrait I have ever seen. It's so plain. I assume they saw you coming, eh luv?"

"You just have no taste, Sir Knight." Victoria Bentley grinned widely as she ripped the brown wrappings from the painting that she had bought at the Strand Antiquities. She knew what Dane was saying though as she stepped back with her hands on her hips, taking in the full-size portrait of ' Victoria in Contemplation'. It was damn ugly. The Queen was almost obese and looking quite lost in a haze as she stared out a common window at Winchester . Dressed in black, with dark background and only a possible hint of light from off the right panel, it was truly depressing and plain. Thankfully, she did not care.

"I didn't buy it for the painting, you clod. I bought the frame."

"Oh, and that's so special."

Dane Whitman swirled the last of his brandy in his snifter as he looked at the frame in question. It was gilded and brass at a glance, a gaudy thing with far too much elaboration for his taste, but he could see by the glow about Victoria that she was smitten with the ugly thing, so that was fine with him. He smirked, downing the last of his drink before rising and stepping to her side.

"What then? You'll scrape away that ugly bit- someone's lifework no doubt- just to commission some grand works in its place? I can feel my accounts moaning in despair even now."

Victoria Bentley smiled, brushing a stray lock of her brown hair from her eyes as she scratched at the thin coating of paint about the frame. "That's right," she said, grinning as she stared at the dark surface beneath the paint. It was black, almost like obsidian. She was surprised that the paint scraped away so easily. "You never know, Doubting Thomas. There could be a Van Gogh beneath this travesty. We could be rich."

"We're already rich," Dane said as he grabbed a paring knife from the side table and started scratching at the paint in earnest.

"Well, wealthier then. Plenty of charities that might benefit from our windfall."

Dane Whitman shrugged as he took the knife to the paint, scratching slowly at the corner of the frame, faster and faster as the old oils flaked away. "Seems something dark beneath. Looks like glass," he said.

"Ooh, what? Can you make it out?"

Dane paused, scratching at the paint and staring at the reflective black surface beneath in confusion. "It seems a mirror. But it's so dark. Who'd you buy this from?"

"The Strangway Estate," Victoria answered, scraping at the far corner of the painting with her fingernail, biting her lip in impatience. She gasped as she saw the dark glass starting to show though. "It's beautiful..."

Dane Whitman licked his lips as he stared at the growing darkness. It was beautiful, intoxicating almost, and more so the more that he exposed. He felt a shiver run down his spine, and then back up again as he stared at the dark glass, watching it swirl...

Somewhere Else

The Lord of the Undead slammed his fists against the wall again, pounding with every bit of his ill-gained, vampiric strength, doing nothing but expending his energies uselessly and venting his own rage. His eyes flashed red, mirroring his anger. The skin on his hands ripped and teared with every new blow until bone protruded and the plaster washed wall was spattered with stolen blood. Still he continued...

Pounding...

Cursing...

Tiring...

Dracula staggered back. He was sweating. His chest heaved as he tried to draw breath after his outburst. His hands actually hurt from the brutal beating that they had endured against the unyielding walls of his prison. His eyes grew wide as he stared at his torn, rent flesh, the rotted and rotting blood staining the yellowed, decayed bone beneath. He was reverting.

He was dying...

Somewhere Between

Something was wrong.

Aperire!

He could see the opening, the portal was right there. Right in front of him!

Transgredi!

He could see the world spinning there beyond, so close that he could almost reach out and touch it. Figuratively of course, and the image that he saw shining in the firmament was simply a representation, which he had subconsciously conjured up for ease of traveling. It was just a representation of the Earth, but the principal held, and that was his goal. He could not imagine just what was wrong.

Transire!

The magicks swelled once again, the Hedge Curses rolling off of his tongue with ease. Sparks flew from his fingertips as he raised his hands high to the barrier that he had encountered. But, as before, as so many times the magic simply sparkled prettily and bounced from the unseen, invisible wall in useless frustration. Eric Arcane sighed.

He had known something would go wrong somehow. He knew that it would not be easy from that first moment when Strange had appeared and whisked him off into the Astral Plane. He should have said 'no' from the get go.

The fate of the universe hangs in the balance, Strange had said, all arrogant and puffing on his cigarette. Your powers are needed .

How could he say no? It was Doctor- fucking- Strange!

And he had met others. He had met mages from other worlds and dimensions, gods and inter-dimensional beings and those things that dreams were made of. And he had seen things there in the Astral Plane that he might have only imagined before: the WALL for one, and one of the Entities. It had been an experience, to be sure. But, of course, now he was fucked.

TRANSIRE! Dammit!

Nothing...

Arcane sighed again and willed a cigarette into his fingers. There had to be a way through this barrier. He could not imagine where or why it had come from, but he had a few ideas. He had felt a... surge almost. It had been like a flare that had lit up the Astral Plane in a storm of white light that had sent his 'body' spiraling and shuddering for the duration. What that had been he had no idea, but it had left him shaken and weak for a time and sort of... detached as well. It was odd to say the least.

That stranger maybe, the Brit had been right about that one. He was a prick, but why would he block the way home, unless...

Unless he had some other agenda. Unless he had something else that he wanted Doctor Arcane to do before he got back home. But what? And, more importantly why? He had no idea of course, but it gave him something to think about, something to consider as there seemed nothing else to do at the moment.

His spells weren't working. No matter the force with which he cast, or the variation or concentration, no matter how loudly he yelled there seemed no way through the barrier. He had floated along the thing for a time- though of course time was a relative kind of thing there in the Astral Plane- but after awhile he realized that there was no end to the thing. It was blocking his way back from the aeyther in much the same way that the WALL at the End of the Universe had blocked off Chaos for so long. Well, since the beginning he supposed.

Arcane shook his head, floating there and taking a metaphysical drag on his illusory cigarette. He stared at his home as the Astral Plane flowed about him, wondering what he could do next. He had time to think he imagined, as he had set wards about his physical body back home before he had followed Strange, but had they held? He had all but expended his life energies when he and the other magi had been trying to repair the WALL. He hoped so. He knew however that back in reality there was a time limit before one's body would expire without the 'soul' within. Too, if the wards had fallen the body would be open to anything that might be looking for a new home. He had learned that one early on, and really didn't want to go through the exorcism shit again.

And maybe that was it. Perhaps he had strayed too long and now he had no body to return to. Maybe reality itself had shifted with what he and the other mages had done and was now shunting him out.

Arcane turned, scanning forever as he mumbled curses. He stared at the swirling waves of multi-hued light that washed continually through the void. It was quiet here, only the occasional crackle of synaptic energy from dreamers, a spark from those that had a bit of mental proficiency that blossomed like a blooming flower before slowly fading back into the backwash. He saw fires raging on the horizon, a cosmic storm of sorts and knew that that way led to the Afterlife in one form or another. To his relative south was the great swirling purple and gray mists of Nod, that 'land' somewhere between sleep and dream. Somewhere beyond was the great Crossroads, though he had no idea where, or how to find that nexus; or any other for that matter. He knew they were out there- hell, any dimension could be reached through the Astral Plane, but he was not one powerful enough to simply point and find.

He was a Hedge Mage, having learned the simpler spells and curses that drew energy from his very life force. It had been a quick way to get power, which was what he had needed and wanted at the time, but since it had bitten him in the ass time and again. He just did not know what...

"Hello..."

Arcane started at the slightest flicker of black in the distance. It seemed almost a flame the way that it flared and wavered, but in the world of dazzling, shifting shades it was definitely an oddity. He watched as it flickered again and again, then simply he shrugged. Tossing his cigarette into the void he drifted closer, having nothing better to do.

Somewhere Else

Dracula sagged against the blood-spattered wall, staring at his dry and withering hands as he slid to the floor. He fell hard, slumping with exhaustion, his violent outbursts having availed him naught against the damnable house and its secretive manipulations. He felt old, ancient, as though his age was catching up with him, surpassing him in great leaps and bounds. And in a way, he supposed that that was true. He knew the feeling; had experienced it many times before over the centuries.

He was dying. He needed blood to renew his strength and power, but of course there was none. And thus their plan became clear. Let him rot in the unending labyrinth that was their House of Shadows. Let him expend his powers uselessly in frustration, striking out angrily against the solid walls of his prison, futilely seeking an exit that did not exist. A simple solution, but of course the fools had no real idea with whom they dealt.

He had stymied far better than Doctor Bong.

He had defeated Satan himself, so what was his daughter to the Lord of the Undead? Strange... Doom... Sun... Thor... All fell before the TRUE Lord of Darkness! The ONE, TRUE GOD!

Dracula smiled, settling back and ignoring the pain and discomfort. His concentration wavered only for a moment, and then he focused, the room growing dim, the sounds of the house fading into the background. There were ways that his captors had not considered. There were always options.

Dracula had not survived the centuries relying on mere brute strength alone. There was still his mind...

Lambeth

"Oooohhhooooaaaahh!"

Nurse Virginia screamed her pleasure as her body shivered with new sensations. She could feel the bit of tightly bound leather deep up and within, touching those places that not even the most manly man might hope to touch on the best day, and under the finest circumstance. She gasped, trying to draw breath as she leaned in again, feeling the thick rod drive home over and over. She was sweating and hot. Her skin sparkled in the radiance of the lightning that flashed over the greater London and she churned harder with every peal of thunder, riding the wave.

"Ahhhhh!"

She heard the screams of the loons, making her skin crawl as she edged forward, settling into place. She hiked up the starched, striped blue and white material of her skirt as she shifted about, adjusting her position. Her long nails dug for purchase in the sterile gray sheets and clawed at the silky white stockings she wore now shredded and dangling from her garters, hanging in tattered bits about her long, lean legs. She did not care they were ₤10, it was worth it.

She licked her lips as she reared back, the long, hard leather bit thrusting deeper as she moaned in ecstasy. She could feel the warm breath on her legs, that sensitive inner part of her thighs as the man struggled to draw breath under her weight, what breath she allowed. She could feel his struggles as she shifted about on his face. She could hear his gagged and stifled cries, the other end of the bit driven down his throat and keeping him silent save the ragged gasps and grunts of pain that she loved oh so much. Her eyelids fluttered as new shocks of pleasure shot through her body and the world dimmed.

"Ooh yes, there's a good boy," she cooed, leaning forward and planting her hands into the stiff pillow on either side of John Doe's head. She smiled, staring down at the battered, shadowy form, her dark eyes locking on his wild, sparkling blues. She could see the panic and terror there, but that just made her all the more excited, all the more hot. She settled back, her hand drifting over the tight, damp material of her uniform, which barely held her breasts in check. She wiped away at the accumulated perspiration on her chest, watching Johnny watching her as she slid her fingers underneath the material and fondled her nipples, giving herself a little pinch. She shuddered. Johnny squirmed beneath her.

Ginny loved the nameless, mindless masses, those lunatics that shuffled endlessly through Bedlam; their past lives forgotten. They offered so much and craved so little. And even if they had the mind and will to complain, who would listen? They were simply numbers and papers to the Council; reams of data best forgotten in the bulk of charity, wiped from the necessity of day to day life. Left in her charge, and the others at the Royal Bethlehem, they were best and quickly forgotten save by a few of the special interest groups that thrived on saving humanity. Who cared about some 'John Doe' dragged from the Thames with not a whit of memory and no claiming family. No one but Virginia, and she simply loved her charges to death.

"That's right, ducky," she cooed, her lips full and pouting as she shifted forward again, feeling the hard leather bit drill up into her dark warmth. Her eyes rolled as she tried to focus, feeling the spark again. "You make Ginny happy, and Ginny will be good to her boy." Virginia held up her stun gun, a small hand held device that shot sparks when she depressed her stud. She giggled as Johnny squirmed beneath her and she moaned as he started to scream and writhe as she lowered the device and pressed it into his genitals.

Nurse Virginia felt the surge of electricity as Johnny struggled. She clamped her thighs together, riding the wave as he strained at the canvas straps that held him to the metallic frame of the bed. She reared back again as a new feeling of ecstasy raced through her loins, the bit surging deeper as Johnny struggled and she drove the shock into his balls.

She loved the way that he screamed.

And scream he did, gasping for breath as electricity coursed through him, making him squirm and writhe. Only his head was free, and as he jerked he drove the bit-gag deeper into the nurse's exposed womanhood, his thrusts making her writhe and squirm as well.

She called him Johnny, which had been fine. It was a good name at the time, though now he knew that there was more. It was not his real name he knew, but too, he did not care. He just did not want the pain, no matter what pleasure that she derived from it. It hurt...

But at the moment, gagged and bound to the metal bed in the stark, gray room there was little he could do but comply...

And remember...

Frank Drake remembered...

Somewhere Else

He settled in, sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunching over in shadowy contemplation.

He ignored the shifting of the house; the grinding of the walls, the settling of foundation and moaning that came from above. He ignored the flickering of light from the windows that faded in and out of sight, the sparkle of the overhead lights that winked on and off, the odors and smells of cooking meat and spoiling defecation. He ignored the shifting shadows and roiling darkness that seemed to flow through the ever-changing halls and corridors. He closed his eyes to the portraits and busts with scowling faces staring down on him, the pottery that melted and withering flora. He ignored the wavering of the floorboards, the molding carpets and yellowing tiles as he hunkered closer to the walls behind him, wrapping his cloak about his withering frame.

He could feel the essence slipping away. He could hear the clack of heels, death striding forward; Hela in all her glory, the nameless one, her azure skin cool in shadow, the chalk-white of Daniel's elder sister. SHE was just outside, walking the halls in stiletto perfection, each step measured and every breath a null of void denied. Her every movement was grace. Her eyes sparkled darkly as a gentile hand reached out to caress ancient brass...

Dracula heaved, shuddering as he drew close. He was not done. He would not be taken now, so easily. Death would have to wait.

He settled in, his mind slacking, going blank as he let his consciousness fade and expand. There were ways and there were ways. He had cheated Death in all her fashions before. She would wait.

Dracula would not be denied...

Somewhere Between

PAIN!

His eyes bulged and flickered as he tried to focus. His tongue lolled from chapped lips, tasting dirt and dust. His skin crawled rippling into place.

Eric Arcane moaned as he remembered the black flame. He had approached the sparkling darkling light, his eyes rolling over the queer flame as he pondered its significance, its importance in the grand scheme. Obviously it had been there for a reason, but was it meant for him? He did not know. It was there for a reason, but what?

Fuck it...

He remembered, reaching out and placing his hand in the flame as the world turned and flipped and shifted. He had wretched as all that he knew was ripped away and twisted, wrung and strained against reality. The stars blotted away, white to black, and the void blinked out as the world had rushed in with the tide. His mind reeled and he struggled for stability, feeling the warmth between his legs and in his confusion his bowels shot skyward. Newspaper taxis appeared on the shore and a girl with kaleidoscope eyes exploded about creation...

Lucy laughed and diamonds spewed from the marmalade skies.

Arcane sighed, bile drooling from his bitter, chafed lips. His eyes twirled, his sight trying to focus in the smoky dim. His stomach heaved as the world swam in discord, distorted obscurity. The stark, gray land stretched out forever, bits of flame spitting up in the distance. Closer, the shadows swayed, dark stone rising high and angling away with distance. He blinked.

He saw a rotted, decaying corpse off to his left. It was just skin and bones- emphasis on the bones as it stretched towards some unseen goal, pointing. To his right was a statue; a cold and gray demon etched in stone and trapped in repose, forever wanting. Arcane moaned, rolling to the side and vomiting; something slick and green mostly, pooling out beneath his mouth, such as it was.

He moaned again as his stomach churned, rolling back, noting that his voice was hoarse and gritty, like glass being crushed in a bottle recycle machine. He coughed, trying to focus in the fish-eye view of the world that he was seeing as shadows shifted overhead. He looked skyward-

Arcane screamed!

There was a woman standing over him; towering over him really. She was almost naked, her clothes in filthy tatters, her breasts heaving as she stared down over them, her golden locks sparkling in the queer darkness. A scar ran down her face as her look of disgust shifted to anger. Eric Arcane saw her raise her leg, her gargantuan booted foot hovering in the air above him as though she were about to stamp down and end his life forever...

"Nooo!"

His scream choked in his throat, some twisted snarl that he barely recognized as he raised dwarfed and spindly green arms to ward off the killing stomp. The vaguely familiar woman hesitated, her booted foot raised above him and blotting out the view as he stared at the dirt and grit trapped in the treads of her sole. She was huge- or rather- he was shrunken and obviously changed. His eyes flicked about as he stared at the sickly, reptilian green of his hands, altering his fish-eye view back to the woman as she eased her foot back to the dirt and leaned down curiously, tilting her head...

"You spoke," she said, and Arcane felt a surge of ecstasy wash through his body. He squealed and he barely saw something serpentine twitching in the distance. "Who are you?" she asked, and Eric felt his heart melt.

"I... uhh... ah... uhn..."

The blond haired woman smiled. There was a curiosity in her eyes though, a spark of interest. She looked familiar with her billboard face staring down at him; a giantess, a goddess in every sense of the word. Arcane could not think...

"My name's Rachel," she said, her voice booming as she stood tall and straight, her face fading into the shadowy distance above. "I've been here forever it seems," she continued, looking off into the distance, "ever since Logan ..."

"Ack..."

Arcane scowled, heaving as the serpentine thing twitched and writhed with his disdain. He stared in awe, realizing then that it was a tail- his own. What had happened to him?

"Wha..." he croaked, his voice slurring and hissing. He glanced up to see the woman looking down on him; Rachel... Van Helsing. Drake's wife! What was she doing here- wherever here was?

"You're not one of the normal creatures that inhabit this Dark Dimension. They're mindless, like lemmings. What are you?"

"Iiieee!"

Arcane grimaced, his long, sharp teeth gnashing as he bit down, gritting. What had happened? What had he become?

"I...Iieee... I...am... ack... Ar... Hack... cane..."

"Arcane? Is that your name?" Rachel leaned down again, a rough, dirty hand reaching out to touch him and he quivered to feel her fingers scratching at his ear. His arms shivered, his tail thrashing as she caressed, scratching lightly. His eyes went wide with pleasure! What was going on?

"Ack!"

Rachel stood, smiling, staring out into the darkness. Arcane turned and saw that there were others there, other creatures at the edge of the light. They were within the confines of a temple, Rachel Van Helsing and he- or Marlene Drake- he was not sure. He stared at the claws that were his hands, flexing his bony fingers.

His body was small and sleek, splotchy green for the most part. He had a long tail and two spindly arms with claws for hands. He could barely speak with an effort. His astral form had entered some sort of creature- a demon indigenous to this dimension. Entered and been trapped apparently, and strain as he might, Arcane could not escape!

"I'm glad to have someone to talk to," she said, looking down on him. She was dressed in rags, her clothes ripped and filthy, her golden hair a mass of mess on her head. The scar running her face glowed a dull red in the odd, dark light. "It's been so long. I've been fighting off the demons forever it seems, since I died the final death."

Eric Arcane looked to the creatures that hunkered at the edge of light. They were misshapen things not so different than he, and they seemed to want nothing more than to surge forward yet something held them back.

"Wha..."

Rachel Van Helsing followed his gaze and smiled again. What the hell she was so happy about he had no idea, but he knew that he had to make her understand, and hopefully explain what had happened to him. He flailed about her legs, his tail wrapping up about her dark leather boot, hugging...

"Ack..."

"What's that?"

Arcane's fish eyes bulged as he stared at the smudge of darkness that had appeared- suddenly appeared. It swirled and flowed, deepening and then paling, flickering...

"Oh, god," she said and he heard the catch in her voice. "It's a portal..."

NO!

"You've brought me a portal..."

Arcane watched as the woman reached out, her fingertips touching the swirling darkness. There was a flash, a bit of excitement that made the black spark a swirl all on its own.

This can't be good, he thought...

Somewhere Else

Dracula looked up as the wall sparkled then smudged...

He knew. He saw the fallacy in their plan, the discrepancy.

They were only human after all. Well, in theory anyway...

There was something beyond, something else. All that he had to do was focus on it.

He had to relax and concentrate. He had to focus on the magic. Focus...

It was there, if he could picture it- imagine it...

Right there...

He thought... focused...

Somewhere Between

Eric Arcane stared as Rachel Van Helsing touched the darkness...

There was no flash of light.

There was no crash of thunder.

The dark simply swirled, opening up, paling as another world took form. Arcane caught a glimpse of another place, a desolate room with four walls and a ceiling, a hardwood floor stretching to infinity. He tried to speak but his voice caught in his throat - a croak that died between syllables.

"Wha...?"

Her voice was soft as she ran forward, naive and young oddly, as though she had never seen a friend die. Arcane almost... almost hesitated...

The rotting hands reached from the dark...

Grasping her throat quickly, easily, clutching...

Squeezing...

"Oh this is too rich," the deep voice rasped from beyond as Arcane stared, watching as the hand gripped Rachel Van Helsing's throat and started to twist.

"Ack!" he said, his spell dying in his throat as Rachel Van Helsing squirmed and scratched for her very life. She kicked as he turned, looking into the dark and his bowels- such as they were- emptied on the spot...

"I live!" Dracula laughed as he flowed out from the darkness...

"DRACULA LIVES!"

Next Issue: What the fuck? Rachel Van Helsing alive and well in the Dark Dimension? Doctor Arcane a squirming lizard-thing? And just what's up with Frank Drake trapped in Bedlam?