For Mature Readers Only

# 2
August '06

Strange Tales Presents

DRACULA LIVES

"Return of the Master!"

Written by Curt Fernlun

The hand shot out of the darkness...

It was a gnarled and rotting thing, mostly skin and bone with decaying flesh and long split and jagged nails. It was fast though, and strong apparently as it locked about the throat of Rachel Van Helsing, clamping tightly and squeezing the life from her. It lifted her from her feet, clutching, leaving her gasping for breath, kicking and trying to scream.

Eric Arcane charged forward, scrabbling across the dirt and rock, the Words of Power coming to mind as the familiar cantrips swelled within and tingled on the tip of his tongue. He had to save the woman; Drake's wife as she seemed his best bet to get out of this twisted realm that he had been shunted into, and the deformed body that his Astral Form now called home. How and why she was there did not matter, but he recognized the man too, the thing that was attacking her, and he knew that the Lord of the Vampires had to die.

He spoke...

And the words died in his throat, choking, lost on his long forked tongue.

Arcane spat, cursing, even those words twisted and guttural snarls and mewling that he could not understand. Spittle oozed from his lips as he scrambled forward, not knowing what he might do, but knowing that he had to do something. Dracula stepped from the glowing portal and laughed.

He was alive then, and all of their sacrifice, all of those who had died to thwart his insane plans was for nothing. It was him, Arcane was certain, despite his feeble and emaciated appearance. He was skeletal, death warmed over. His skin was boiling, cracked and yellowed as he gasped, his crimson eyes scanning the bleak landscape of the Dark Dimension that he had stepped into. His clothes were rotting and loose on his gaunt frame as he staggered forward through the swirling black doorway to elsewhere. Still, he held himself upright and proud, the lord of all that he surveyed.

"Freedom..." he hissed, his voice weak, but gaining timbre with every word, each uttered syllable. He scanned the land about him, and Arcane saw a hint of a smile play at his lips, the flash of white as his sharp canines exposed. He turned to the woman that he held.

"And how fitting... that you should be here, sweet Rachel. Daughter of my greatest foe, and one of my most delicious victories."

Dracula twisted his grip as Rachel Van Helsing struggled. He smirked, a wicked thing as he watched the woman squirming in his grasp. His dark eyes were crackling as he seemed to peer into her soul, his body thickening even as Arcane scrabbled about his leg, his claws digging into the rotting material of his trousers and the dead flesh beneath. The Lord of the Undead glanced down with a hideous sneer.

"Away, creature," he commanded, kicking out and Arcane went tumbling away, hissing and cursing his new demonic form. It was useless. The spindly arms were too weak, and he was too slow slithering through the dirt. Eric arcane snarled, but Dracula had chosen to ignore him already.

Rachel Van Helsing kicked out futilely as Dracula reined her in, drawing her close. He hissed, his jaws gaping as he leaned in to meet his prize, his long, sharp teeth inching towards the woman's throat. Arcane started forward again, his voice spouting squeals and squeaks that should have been words. He saw the Dark Lord's eyes go wide then as he paused in seeming shock. He cocked his head, staring at the woman in his grasp.

"You are not..." he whispered, his eyes piercing as he stared at Rachel. She had stopped struggling and met his gaze in turn. There seemed no fear in her eyes, and Arcane would have sworn that she almost smiled.

Dracula raged, screaming as he tossed the woman aside. Eric Arcane winced as she flew through the thick, murky air and struck fully a jutting boulder wedged into the dirt. She moaned, crying out with the impact before she slumped to the ground, remarkably still conscious. The Lord of the Vampires stalked forward, gaining mass with each step, ire crackling and spitting crimson from his eyes. He hunkered over the fallen woman, hissing.

"I have known Rachel Van Helsing, woman, intimately. You, are not she. She was mine- one of mine! I cannot..."

Dracula turned, his glowing eyes peering into the dim and swirling distance. He seemed to be listening, ignoring Arcane and Van Helsing alike, before finally stalking away.

"There!" he shouted as he gathered his raggedy cloak about himself, storming off. Arcane stared after him, hearing the gasps and cackles as the Lord of the Undead struggled on, slowly diminishing into the shadow of distance.

What the fuck?

Arcane turned to Rachel Van Helsing. Her eyes looked almost glazed, her long, dirty blonde hair draped over her face, barely hiding the scar that ran across her cheek and forehead. She too stared after the Vampire King, her body twitching slightly as she struggled to rise. She braced weakly against the stone at her back, swaying on unsteady legs as Arcane scrabbled forward.

"Waa..." he gagged, spitting at his uselessness. Rachel Van Helsing barely glanced at him before pushing away from the rock. She bent low, extending her arm and almost stumbling in her stride as Arcane grabbed hold and wrapped his new tail about her forearm, letting her scoop him up as she staggered after Dracula.

"Come, my little friend," she said, her voice cold and sure. "That's our way out." She gestured after the retreating shadow, her pace increasing with every step as she ignored whatever pain she was feeling, regaining her strength.

Eric Arcane wrapped his slimy tail about her arm and held on, his bulbous eyes peering ahead to search the shadowy gloom. His mind wandered though as the woman hurried along, after her prey- their prey. So many problems, so many questions and no easy answers it seemed. How had Dracula survived? Where was he going? And just what did he mean... You are not she?

Eric Arcane stared up at the woman as she ran, her own pace increasing with the Dark Lord's gait. She seemed different to him, strange almost. Not that he had known the woman before, but in passing. Still...

There was definitely something.

Something strange...

Frank Drake stared at the tiny beam of jaundiced sunlight filtering through the smoke-stained glass of the small window set high in the wall of his room. The light played oddly on the wall overhead, moving slowly in a well-worn path, displaying the queer shadows of the thick and rippled glass laced with chicken wire. It was the only light in the room, and he succored it as best he could though it passed by high overhead and offered no warmth whatsoever.

Nurse Victoria had turned out the lights when she had left the night before, after she was done with him. She had left him lying on the floor, curled and aching and damp between his legs, his otherwise naked form strapped tightly into the canvas of his confining straight jacket. She had removed the phallic bit gag just long enough to give him a bit of acrid, recycled water as she relieved herself on his face, then strapped the thing tightly about his head again, driving the bit deeply into his throat until he was gagging at the intrusion. She had laughed and gave him a passing kick with her thick-soled shoes before slamming the huge and heavy metal door and sliding the outer bolts shut and locked. She had had her fun, and odds were she would again come medicine time.

He had laid there, watching the shadowy light moving along the wall, the dull glow of the moon lost for the most part in the passing storm. Shocks of lightning had shot through the tiny window, and when the thunder rolled it shook the whole of the old building. The ancient building, apparently an asylum. He had no idea where he was- England he assumed, by the accents of the staff- but just where he had no clue.

He vaguely recalled London, the fog rolling over the Waterloo Bridge as he stared at the gray waters below. Dim lights faded in and out along the span as the chill breeze had swirled the thick blanket of mist about him. He remembered King and Dracula, and the hell of the merging, that nightmare. That had been short and sweet, and thank God it had ended, but it had left him lost and hopeless when the three had finally separated again. Empty. He had struggled on a bit, as best he could, and for a time it seemed that he had been on the road to recovery once more, pitted and cracked as it was.

He recalled the conclave, vaguely. Drumm had been there, and the Montesi girl, others that were shadows now. There had been something about Morbius, and that had started the old familiar worries and terrors coming back again. Oh, not right away, and not all at once, but the seed had been planted, and the horrors had returned and all the foul and bitter memories to fuck with his head.

Rachel...

Marlene...

Dead- and gone- just like Harker and his daughter, Taj and Jeanie...

"Jeanie..." He had not thought of her in so long.

Something had happened. Something about Witches and Lilith, but it was a blurry dream. He remembered the loss and loneliness that followed again, and standing on the Waterloo Bridge as he had done years before. He remembered the cool embrace of the Thames as it dragged him down, the foul and sour taste as it filled his lungs...

He remembered waking here, void, a blank slate. Someone had saved him, pulled him from the waters and forced the life back into his lungs. There were faces and flashing lights, a wild ride strapped to a gurney as someone beat on his chest in the recesses of his mind.

And the days blurred. There had been doctors at first; Hindus in long white coats nodding and smiling and writing things on yellow legal pads. They had locked him away, forced needles into his arms and metal things up his ass. He took all that they cared to give with a glassy stare and barely a whimper. He did not care. It was over. He was done.

But the pain Nurse Victoria had delivered brought him back. And the storm, and that feeling that he knew so well. He had awakened in a new form of Hell last night, the old and familiar feelings creeping back, crawling through his suddenly cold and clammy skin. He knew that terror well, had lived it for far too long. Dracula lived. And again, so did he...

He had sat up finally, focusing on the only distraction in the otherwise bleak and barren cell. He watched the sunrise; the storm had passed at last sometime in the night. The tiny room glowed red with the dawn, a swath of blood scarring the peeling paint of the stone walls, which enclosed him and held him tight. Red faded to yellow eventually, and Drake watched the progression of the day. There was little else to do. Watch and think.

He paced the cell after struggling to his feet. He did knee bends to ease the ache and numbness. He counted; doing equations in his head, spelling words and reciting passages in his mind.

He remembered.

It was all that he could do, for now...

There!

Dracula paused, staring at the swirling black spot shining in the distance. He gasped for breath, winded and weak from his race across the blasted lands of the Dark Dimension. His body was swathed in sweat and all too mortal suddenly it seemed. His tattered clothes showing age in the musty smell that attacked his senses, the rot and reek of his body odor almost overwhelming in this foul land that made him all too human. He hissed, sneering as he drew breath after breath, glancing back the way that he had come.

He saw Van Helsing- or whomever she was- rushing along the path that he had chosen, chasing after him with the small creature entwined about her arm. It could be her, he supposed. The realm of darkness had changed him after all, and it could well have done the same to her. It could have driven the curse from her, after somehow raising her from death of course. Whatever, Van Helsing or not, he sensed the difference and more importantly, the lack of the sustenance that he needed and craved. Whatever she was, to drink of her would surely kill him now in his weakened state of being.

But he was surviving, growing stronger with every foul breath, which he was forced to endure. And at last the end was in sight. He gave a final farewell sneer at the woman and her ugly, demonic pet, then turned on his heel and hurried for the portal.

He recognized that telltale sign of course. He had used the Black Mirrors of Strangway- the Speculum Niger - to traverse the dimensions before, to actually travel back into time to try and alter fate. He had often contemplated using the mirrors to stay the senseless death of his beloved Maria, to alter history that he and she might yet live and be happy. But the mirrors were far too random, and even his knowledge of the magicks could not change that, or help him narrow the paths to be chosen through the Time Stream. The mirrors would take him back however; back to the land of the living and back once again to his right and proper place in it. He hurried on.

Dracula scrambled up the rocky incline, his desperation giving strength to his aged, weakened form. He was feeling the hunger now, even more with every step, every inch. He needed to quit this foul land of darkness and get back to the world where he reigned supreme.

Cursing, fingers aching and chaffed, finally he crested the summit of the outcropping. He heaved, his eyes watering from the heat and effort as he stared into the swirling maw of the portal that shimmered before him. He glared anxiously at the doorway, watching the sickeningly beautiful wash of violet and obsidian as the mirror-portal rippled like boiling tar, beckoning.

His mind was blank.

What were the words?

Dane Whitman slowly woke, a stupid smile plastering his face, result of a pleasant night's sleep. Despite the storm that had raged for hours; the great flashes of lightning ripping the sky and rolling waves of almost constant thunder, he had slept the sleep of the dead. Brandy tended to do that, help him sleep. Yawning and stretching he rolled lazily to his side, plastering his best smile more firmly on his face as he gazed happily at the woman that shared his...

The other side of the bed was empty.

Whitman felt the sheets and found them cool to the touch, though wrinkled a bit. Too, there was an impression in the down pillow, the silken case slightly folded from pressure, the lingering scent of perfume. She had been there, but had gotten up, woken before him at some point in the night.

He sat up, wincing slightly and raking a hand back through his brown, shoulder-length hair as he scanned the shadowy bedroom looking for any sign of the woman that he loved- at the moment. He scowled. That was hardly fair.

He swung his feet out of their bed, hissing as he touched the cool hardwood floor in bare feet. The weathermen had promised another muggy, dismal day in the city with a potential of yet more storms, but there was a definite chill in the empty, dark room now. The townhouse was a drafty old place, and hard to heat with simply old Victorian stoves and fireplaces scattered throughout the four floors. He had suggested gas heat several times, and it would have been easy to install what with the gaslight piping running through the halls, but Victoria had been against it. It would ruin the charm , she would say to most every improvement he suggested. It was her money though, mostly, and ultimately her decision. Nothing for it now but to bundle up however, so he stretched again and stood, then padded across the room towards the loo. There were priorities after all.

He slipped into his robe, belting it as he made his way out into the rich cherrywood hall and towards the lushly carpeted stairs. He barely glanced at Percy facing the head of the grand case, nodding in passing at the image of his ancestor, before heading down the sweeping staircase. He heard the hiss of the gaslight as he descended, the sconces turned low for the evening still. Light filtered through the draperies pulled across the multi-paned windows that opened onto Victoria's lush gardens, dust stirring in the streaming sunlight in his passing. He wondered at the time, and knew it must be early yet or Jensen would have had the curtains drawn and tied back to let in the sun and warm air.

He made his way across the main reception hall, debating shortly to stop off for coffee, but glancing at the grandfather clock near the entry he saw that Cook would still be asleep, at least another hour. Later for that, then. He continued on.

Dane Whitman grabbed the ornate handles of the study doors and slid them aside. The room within was dark save for the dim, flickering gaslight and a strange, surreal glow emanating from that damnable black mirror. He sighed to see the woman he loved standing before the thing, staring blankly and unmoving into the looking glass to elsewhere. She was transfixed, not even turning as he stepped inside and softly closed the doors behind him.

"Victoria..."

She did not move, nor even flinch as he whispered her name and started forward. He glanced at the showcase near the high wall of her musty books, taking in the armor that hung there on display, or in memoriam depending on one's point of view. The blackish tunic was a bit frayed, the crimson emblem of a winged horse in rampant flight a bit faded. Still, the dark chain shirt and leggings sparkled a bit in the room's glow, the black helm looking ominous if not a bit sad. The light sword hung locked in place as well, and he made a mental note to take it out for maintenance soon. It had been months, and the battery would need charging at the least. But later, as Victoria was his concern now.

She was dressed already in a simple violet skirt and long peasant's blouse belted at her slim waist with a band of wide, black leather. Her long, auburn-brown hair was done up in a loosely knotted bun at the back of her head, exposing the nape of her neck and her creamy white skin. She simply stood there with her back to him, staring into that mirror as he approached, though he did hear her whispering quietly, as though to herself –

Magic? Dane Whitman knew that she, nor he for that matter were strangers to the arcane. When he had given up the life of adventuring and avenging, he had assumed that she had given up her mystical fascination as well. In her he had always thought it simply a trend, a fetish for an idle rich mind, though she had actually sought out and spent time with the likes of Stephen Strange, and gotten into her fair share of troubles because of it. Was she pursuing old habits again, or was there really something about the damned mirror that she had bought at an estate sale?

"Victoria," he said more sharply, louder. He reached out to touch her bare shoulder, but finally she turned at the last instant. She had gone to bed with him, at the same time, but it looked as though she had gotten no sleep at all. The skin about her red-rimmed eyes was dark and puffy while the rest of her face seemed bleached of color in the dull morning light. Her gaze was blank, her dark eyes glassy as she looked at him seemingly without recognition, finally blinking only after several tense heartbeats.

"Dane..." she whispered with some effort, forcing a tight smile at the edges of her full, pale lips. "Good morning."

"How long have you been down here?" he asked, ignoring the expected exchange of decorum and pleasantries. He glanced at the mirror and the dark, swirling colors rippling like water on the surface of the glass. God he hated magic- and he was certain that the mirror was just that. It reeked of the arcane. Perhaps he should call Strange -

"I don't know," she replied wearily. She shrugged, turning away again. "I couldn't sleep."

"I noticed," he said, finally resting a hand on her bare shoulder. She was freezing to his touch. "You look a right mess. You should come back to bed."

"I will," she said, her voice soft and breathy. "I was just looking at my mirror. It's so... beautiful. It's like it was calling me, Dane. I just had to come and look at it again."

"I think you should leave it alone, Victoria," he said, his fingers rubbing at her shoulders. She was tense, hard as a rock and so cold. "In fact, I think we should contact Doctor Strange about this. It doesn't seem right, obviously. It could very well be dangerous."

She glanced back and flashed him a quick smile, her cool fingers brushing his hands. "Oh, don't be silly, luv. It's perfectly – "

Victoria Bentley gasped as the gnarled hands exploded from the surface of the mirror, grabbing her by collar of her tunic and pulling her into the darkness, right through the mirror's smooth surface.

Dane Whitman watched frozen in shock and horror as the woman he loved vanished, her image fading within the swirling mire held within the gaudy, gilded frame. He blinked, still feeling the coolness of her skin on his fingertips, her last gasp echoing in the now empty room. He felt the hairs on his arms and neck rise, a tingling making his body shiver involuntarily.

"Victoria!" he shouted, stepping to the mirror finally, too late. Its dark, shining surface was wavering like heat on a dark, desert highway, running like water in a filthy whirlpool. The glass seemed no longer solid, and he could hear something as well; a distant, rasping voice that sounded vaguely familiar, whispering words that could only be forgotten. Those selfsame words, which Victoria had been murmuring just moments before.

Magic! God he hated it.

Still, and with barely a heartbeat's hesitation he knew what he had to do. Like Alice he had to step through the looking glass. He had to follow- to save the woman that he loved from whatever foul horrors awaited him- her on the other side. He started forward, but...

Dane Whitman turned, grabbing an antique chair from a nearby oaken reading table and hefted it overhead as he charged forward. He swung the heavy chair, smashing the glass on the display case that held his abandoned armor. Casting the chair to the side, he ignored the pain as shards of glass crunched and slashed under his bare feet. He had no time to dress, but he scooped the contents of the case into his arms, bundling the chain mail, tunic and boots, helm and sword and hugging them to his chest before dashing back to the mirror and diving through...

Knightsbridge

Cap would be so proud...

Not!

Jack Monroe stifled a sigh as he eased as quietly as he could through the dank, sickening darkness. He tried to ignore the foul and slowly flowing waters that he waded through, a filter mask soaked with cologne against the odiferous smells of waste and sewage that threatened to overwhelm with every step.

Shit! He was wading knee-deep through shit and he hated it. Why did the bastards always take to the sewers? Hell, the Red Skull always made his base in a mansion complete with top heavy French Maids and snooty butlers, which of course were actually well trained Nationalist fanatics, but that was beside the point.

He gagged again, feeling his morning coffee roiling about in his otherwise empty stomach. Had he known that he and Skully would be creeping through the London sewers when he had woke up just a couple hours before he would have skipped breakfast altogether. He knew better. Cap had taught him better- both of them. He hissed and hawked, lowering the mask for a moment as he spit into the sludge, almost gagging again as his wad simply plopped atop the sewage and started floating with the current. He sighed, slipping the mask back in place.

"You okay, Jack?" Jim Skully asked, glancing back, his taut body glowing slightly in the methane gloom. Jack frowned but nodded, slogging on.

He hated Skully and his damnable belt. The thing gave the man super-strength and a force field that made him close to invulnerable. Apparently it made him impervious to foul smells as well, as the man simply grinned and nodded back before turning and heading on. Jim Skully had a checkered past as a hero in his own right, though like Nomad, Skull the Slayer had always been considered Third String at best. Jack didn't know the whole story, but the man had been trapped in some weird-ass alien time tower for years, fighting mechanical Egyptian warriors and cloned dinosaurs. He had been freed by the Thing eventually, somehow, and became a free-lance mercenary for a time. After awhile, for some reason his Belt of Power became grafted to him and changed him physically, the force field making his skin transparent down to his skeleton. He became the Blazing Skull for awhile then, and had battled against and beside Captain America for a time. At some point he had been cured of his ‘skin condition', and freed of his attachment to his belt. What it had taken to talk him into putting the thing on again, Jack had no idea.

Money probably. That's what drove Jack, in the end. It always came down to money.

And boredom of course. Hell, he had been a partner with two Captain Americas, first as Bucky and then as Nomad. He had struck out on his own after he had been cured of the madness that had taken over his head; a side-effect of the Super-Soldier Serum flowing through his veins not stabilized with a dose of Professor Reinstein's Vita-Rays. He had been a hero, which had been good and what he thought that he had always wanted, but it had been a poor and unrewarding life, brief as it had been. Sure he had helped take down the Red Skull and Viper, but on his own he had no money, could not hold down even a low-level job and quickly found himself homeless and without direction again.

Mercenary life had been better, but like always he had gotten caught up in someone else's bigger picture. He ended up doing the right thing nada grata. No pay meant no food, and despite the feeling of a job well done, his self esteem had plummeted. Let the Avengers fight for the glory, he needed to eat.

Which was why he joined the North Stars in the first place. A paycheck, insurance, dental and an IRA, hell, who could ask for a better gig? Granted for a guy with super strength who had been trained by the greatest hero in the world there was a whole shitload of grunt work, but he had a roof over his head and three square meals a day (when he had the time to eat). Too, business was good. There was always work it seemed, ranging from simple shit like following a faithless husband to tracking down a missing person.

Case in point; he and Skully were creeping through the London sewers on a tip to finding a young girl- a virgin mind- who had been apparently taken in by some cult. The family wanted her found- safe and sound of course. They professed to love her, they all did, but Jack knew that it was an embarrassment to the old Blue Blood money more than anything.

Creighton ... The name reeked of old money and power. Jillian was sixteen and apparently at that age where she needed direction. Guidance. Jack remembered that time in his life and actually felt a bit of remorse for the girl. Just a bit. She could not be too smart though to get involved with a cult; giving them money hand over fist and going off to some commune in Wales for a year. Why they had brought her back to London, and into the sewers for god's sake was beyond Jack's ability to fathom, but word was that she and the cult were here under Knightsbridge and the North Stars had been commissioned to find her and bring her back to her loving- if socially embarrassed- family.

Followers of the Eternal Bliss...

Jesus! Feeb by any other name. Jack had to stop himself though. He had been taken in too, once upon a time, though Doctor Faustus had been behind the National Front. Hell, Faustus had actually had a hand in his cure, mentally. But this seemed to be a cult just a step above the Hari's and the Bogwan's. Moonies, Sunnies, Bong Heads, the Lotus Club; they were all the same in the end. Money for nothing and the chicks for free...

Jack Monroe stopped to see that Skully had paused at a fork in the sewer tunnel. To the right the water flowed off, picking up pace and Jack could hear the distant gurgle of a whirlpool. To the left the water became stagnant and the smell seemed to treble, seeping through his mask. Skully gave him a look and pointed to a landing that ran along that left tunnel and ended at a heavy metal door.

"Looks like this is it," Skully said with a shrug and a grin. He looked clean and fresh, his smirk showing a mouthful of sparkling white teeth. He held up a roughly drawn map penciled with lines on a piece of typing paper. "That should lead to the Switching Station," he said indicating the door, "and if Dakota's info is on the money, the Feebs will be on the other side. You ready to do your bad ass bit?"

"I'm ready to get the fuck outta these sewers," Jack replied, and Skully chuckled softly.

"I hear ya, Jack. Let's do this."

Jack Monroe gave Jim Skully a couple steps to take the point. Not being stupid, he knew that Skull the Slayer was more impervious to harm than he was, though Jack was the better fighter and far more nimble. Let Skully take the brunt, if there was one, and Jack would wade through the rest.

Skully stopped before the door, testing the huge, rusty handle and of course found it locked. It was never easy. He looked to Jack and nodded before he leaned into the door and heaved. Jack crouched as old, thick metal screeched, throwing disks in hand as Skull the Slayer ripped the heavy door from its hinges and tossed it away, into the stagnant water with a splash and muffled clang. They charged forward.

There were probably twenty men and women in the room beyond, each seemingly naked beneath the thick woolen robes of black that they wore. With the sound of their intrusion, the cultists all turned in unison, their faces slack and listless as they stared. They seemed to be in a state of bliss- as by their name- and Jack immediately smelled the scent of smoldering opium in the closed quarters. They were getting high and losing inhibition, and in a second he knew the reason why.

Chained to a stone slab almost in the center of the room was a big-tittied girl stripped nude and etched with arcane runes. She had a pentagram crudely drawn on her belly In red- probably blood- and other sigils about her big pert breasts and about her crotch. She was gagged, and she was struggling slightly but Jack could see that the mist that choked the room had gotten to her and she was almost oblivious.

Skully was already wading into the cultists as Jack tossed his throwing disks. The cult members were slow to react, and so bunched up that his disks bounded and clattered from head to head without a moment's pause. Six fell with goose eggs growing before he had taken three steps into the room and leaped towards the slab. He flipped, catching one disk and letting the other fly by, spiraling over Skully and twisting to land beside the alter stone, smashing the edge into the chain binding the girl's limp left wrist. He vaulted over the slab and struck the right as the cultists started to surge forward and scream their annoyance.

"No!"

"Stop!"

"The Dark Lord comes!"

"Yeah, right," Jack said as he drove his fist into the face of a woman that had grabbed his arm. She crumpled even as two more grabbed at him. He flipped one and shoved his elbow into the other's throat, feeling bone shatter and ignoring the gagging and gasping as the ass-hole struggled to catch a breath that would not come. Fuck ‘em...

It was over in seconds. The rich and famous of London were apparently no match for a dinosaur slayer and a former partner of the Living Legend of World War Two. They collapsed like paper dolls under the onslaught, and before long both he and Skully were helping the Creighton girl off of the stone slab.

"Jillian Creighton, I presume?" Skully asked, but the teenager just stared at him in a drug-induced stupor. Her big blue eyes were glazed, and her hair was a ratty mess, bobbing about her shoulders as she licked her lips seductively. Jack felt himself stiffening as he tried to ignore her nakedness. She was just a few years younger than he was, or six decades depending on how you looked at it. Still, she was hot- and a virgin...

"Eyes up, Jack."

Jack Monroe jumped at the sound of the voice. He looked over and saw the shapely form of Dakota North striding forward. She looked fresh, her shoulder length auburn hair flowing loose about her neck as she sashayed on stiletto heels through the muck and debris of the Switching Station/ Cult Sanctuary. She strode right up without a care, knowing that he and Skully had cleared the room of hazards, her tight body rippling in the second skin black leathers that hugged her shapely curves. She smiled- almost cruelly- dominant rich bitch that she was, teasing as she struck a pose before the Creighton girl.

"Jillian Creighton?" she asked, and the girl actually turned in Dakota's direction. She blinked, uncomprehending, and Dakota smiled. "I'll take that as a yes. Good work guys."

Jack Monroe watched as Dakota North pulled a Blackberry from a pouch on her ‘situated just so' belt and began tapping in information. Dakota had been a simple PI for some time before she stole the idea of expanding into the ‘Super-Merc' field until then dominated by Silver Sable and her Rat Pack or Wild Bunch, or whatever they were calling themselves this week. Dakota North was all about the money- even though she was rich as God's lackey to begin with. She was ‘Old Money' herself, but had caught the adventure bug and played it to the max, taking a page from Sable's book and putting together an organization called the North Stars that consisted of Skull, Nomad, and a few others scattered about the globe. There was a lot of shit work as Silver got the prime jobs, but it paid the bills and Dakota North was a good employer. Money, food, a roof over the head; Jack was content in the least.

"He comes..."

The three of them turned with a start as Jillian Creighton gasped out her proclamation. She was staring off into the darkness, the shadows lining the corners of the stone-worked room. Her fit and well-tanned body was shivering, Jack saw, her nipples stiff and erect.

"What?" Dakota asked, lowering her Blackberry. She stared at the girl, but Jillian simply looked at the nearest wall, unmoving as she sat on the stone slab.

"Who's coming?" Skully asked, but Jillian did not answer. Jim Skully looked to Dakota, but she just shrugged and went back to entering information on her PA.

"Not our problem, fellas. We get her home, we get paid. End of story, and contract. Give her one of the robes, Jack, and let's get out of Sewer Central."

"No argument here, jefe'," Jack agreed, stripping one of the cultists of their robes and helping the girl into it. She did not resist in the least.

"Lord Creighton won't transmit the fee until he sees the goods, guys," Dakota said as she logged off and pocketed the Blackberry. "Let's get outta here. Cannes is calling."

Sure of herself, Dakota North strode towards the exit, the door from above that she had used that apparently had led her directly to the chamber and bypassing the filth of the sewers. Skully did not seem to care as he waited for Jack to gather the girl, holding her as they climbed the old, rusting stairs that led up and out of the sewers back into the streets of Knightsbridge. They would make a scene, but Dakota would have transport waiting. She was thorough and efficient, professional if nothing else.

"The Master comes..." the girl said again with a low and husky voice. Jack held her close beside, trying to suppress a shiver.

Maybe it was time for vacation...

Somewhere Else...

And into oblivion...

Dane Whitman dropped to his knees and vomited as the world spun away. You would think that after so many years of time travel and dimension hopping that he would be used to the after effects, but no. Every trip was new, and each took its toll on his stomach and head, driving him to his knees more often than not as he heaved whatever was in his stomach all over the ground. In this case, a belly full of brandy.

Dane reeled when the hacking fit ended, trying to regain his balance as he looked about the scene. He had learned long ago to survey the area and try to gain some form of assurity in his surroundings. Cap had taught him that, and his time as the leader of the Avengers. It was hard, but the old habits died hard.

It was hot and humid. That was the first thing that he noticed. The air was thick and dim. Mist swirled about him, and there was a bizarre sky overhead that seemed just vaguely familiar. It took a moment for him to realize and recognize, but he knew that he was in the Dark Dimension. And, he was not alone...

Victoria Bentley squirmed in the grip of her captor. Her eyes were no longer glazed as she realized just how deep in the shit that she was in. Dane realized it too, instantly recognizing the source of their sorrow.

Dracula!

Jesus fucking Christ!

The last time he had encountered the Lord of the Vampires, it had taken Strange, Wanda and a cast of thousands to turn him. Dane Whitman stared at the bundle of his armor and weapon that lay just out of reach, having tumbled away as he staggered and fell in the new realm. Out of reach, out of mind. Dane looked up as the Dark Lord caressed Victoria, his fangs bared, his eyes crackling with a crimson lust.

"I know you," Dracula said as his fingers caressed Victoria's throat. Dracula grinned. "The Knight, protector and warrior of the Avengers." Dracula laughed.

"Pathetic..." he hissed, his nose flaring. "You reek of alcohol, warrior... Hero!" He looked to the creamy flesh of Victoria's throat. She had stopped struggling, her head cocked to one side. The Dark Lord leaned in close. "Your charge, Knight? Your love?"

Dracula sank his teeth into the throat of Victoria Bentley and Dane Whitman screamed. Blood gushed from the wound as he drank, and Dane shriveled to hear the sucking sounds of the Dark Lord's feast. He struggled to rise, to be the hero but he was too weak, too slow. He reached out, groping for the light sword...

Dracula ripped away at the flesh, spitting and then licking his lips. Victoria slumped in his grasp, her eyes rolling back. He seemed almost to grow as he cast Victoria aside, forgotten and dead...

"Death comes for you, Black Knight," Dracula hissed, stepping forward. Victoria Bentley crumpled in his wake, her throat open and steaming, her eyes staring into infinity. Dracula strode up, his eyes flaring red and crackling with newfound life. He seemed strong, unbeatable as Dane groped for his sword.

Lightning cut through the darkness...

Thunder rumbled, rolling over the blasted lands of the Dark Dimension...

"I am become Death," he said, his foot driving down, his heel shattering Dane Whitman's hand as he reached for his sword. Dane Whitman screamed -

"Shatterer of worlds..."

And screamed again...

And again...

RETURN OF THE MASTER!

Next Issue: The Black Knight VS. Dracula, God bless him. The fate of Victoria Bentley, and more of the North Stars and poor Frank Drake as the cast comes together in...