For Mature Readers Only

# 5
October, '07

Strange Tales Presents

DRACULA LIVES

"Dark Passage"

Written by Curt Fernlund

Frank Drake sagged forward luxuriating in the plush, rich smelling leather of the chair. It was sooo comfortable, and even though he had slept solidly for the last two days, he was still finding it hard to keep his eyelids open. Still, he felt good, aches and pains and bruises aside. Freedom always had that effect.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, settling in as his mind started to wander in that half-drowsing state. It was nice and peaceful, such a total about face from the last – what – weeks or months. He had no idea just how long he had been imprisoned in the Royal Bethlehem Hospital, ever since he had been fished out of the Thames one dark and stormy night and filed away as a John Doe. Why they had labeled him insane was another question that he could not answer. Perhaps he was. After the hell that he had gone through being melded with Dracula and King, he would not have been surprised. The few lucid moments that he could recall were far between, and the madness apparently had led him back to Tower Bridge to take the big dive.

But of course he had failed in death just as he had continually failed in life. He had frittered away his inheritance. He had let his best friend and fiancée die. Hell, he had resurrected the greatest evil to walk the Earth, his own ancestor by a black stroke of fate, Dracula! And he had been paying for that ever since, along with so many others that came too close. Quincy Harker, Harold H. Harold, Rachel Van Helsing…

God, he still missed her.

After the hell of merging with Dracula and King, the last few weeks could have been considered paradise. But that was just a drug-induced dream. His time in Bedlam had been horror after horror. Restrained 24/7 at the best of times in a tight, canvas straight jacket, but at worst leashed or chained to the floor or wall in his cell or strapped down to an examination table at his nurse' whim, or locked into a 19 th Century torture device that was little more than medieval. He had been tied and gagged, beaten and raped, and pumped full of so many drugs that he could not begin to imagine, thankfully.

It all seemed a dream now, or nightmare with just lingering images standing out in his mind's eye, like Nurse Victoria, the sadistic bitch that was his main keeper, and of course the doctor in charge of the lunatic asylum. His name was Faustus…

“Mister Drake?”

Frank Drake looked up with a start, blinking. He had dozed off apparently, his blurry eyes struggling to focus. There was pain in his fingers and glancing down he saw a long dangling trail of ash hanging from the filter butt of his cigarette, the smoldering tip singing his flesh. He yelped involuntarily, feeling guilty as the ash fell on what was obviously an ungodly expensive carpet. He looked up sheepishly, finally shrugging.

“Sorry,” he said, actually meaning it just a little. “I must be more tired than I thought.

The woman sitting behind the dark, cherry wood desk smiled slightly and waved it away. She seemed totally at ease, cocked back in a chair that matched his own, though on spinners, with her leather clad legs propped on the edge of the immaculate desk top, her high heeled boots bobbing slightly as she thumbed through a thick sheaf of papers. The woman reeked of confidence and money, the latter of which was reflected in the décor of her office and inner sanctum as she had called it. The walls were paneled in a slightly lighter shade of cherry, the floors carpeted in a rich Oriental weave that offset the darker colors and gave the overall appearance a pleasant and calming effect. There were plants everywhere; tall and standing in ornate pots or hanging from filigreed chains that matched esthetically. The walls were evenly spaced with large prints and photographs, with the exception of a small square set aside for the various licenses of her trade, which was apparently Private Investigator of some sort. And aside from the décor, he could see the view through the huge windows of her corner office that displayed the northwest of London proper. He was not certain exactly where the offices were, as he had yet to venture outside, but he could see the building that had once been the GPO Tower spiraling upwards in the distance not so far away. One of the ritzier sections to be sure.

“No worries Mister Drake,” she said with a silken voice. “This is generally a smoke free office, but so many of my employees smoke that I tend to look the other way. Besides, you're a special case. Whatever makes you happy.”

“I'd be happy if you called me Frank,” he said, grinning. The woman was definitely attractive, and though he had never been into the leather set, she did fill out her form fitting jumpsuit perfectly and in all the right places. She was model pretty with her blue-gray eyes and shoulder length auburn hair, which oddly seemed to match the paneling and desk rather well.

“Only if you call me Dakota, Frank.” She had a huge, dazzling smile full of perfect white teeth. He wondered briefly just how much of the package was natural, and how much was plastic and enamel, not that it really mattered. “Besides,” she continued, “you've been through some major shit. Least I can do is try to help you get back on your feet. Just how are you feeling anyway?”

“Better,” Frank said truthfully. Hell, face down drunk in the gutter would be better than Bedlam. “Still a little frazzled I guess, tired, and I ache.”

“Understandable, after all you've been through.” Dakota North withdrew her legs from the desktop, crossing at the knees as she leaned forward and closed the file that she had been perusing. His file he assumed, or at least something related. She seemed to consider for a moment, tapping a French manicured nail atop the manila folder as she raised her eyes to take him in. He looked more presentable he knew, and oddly hoped that she liked what she saw.

After he had been rescued from Bedlam, and granted it was mostly a blur, he had been sped back here and whisked up into the offices of The North Stars ; that was their name. He vaguely remembered the two men that had saved him, though he had learned their names only later and met them again, for the first lucid time just last night. The big man Skully he had no idea, but the other one had called himself Jack Monroe, Nomad. Drake knew that name, as he had crossed paths enough times with the Marvels in his nocturnal vampiric expeditions. An Avenger he figured somehow connected with Captain America. Heroes fallen on hard times maybe, or simply looking for profit. Whatever, they had gotten the job done, and he was thankful.

“You've led quite the life, Frank,” Dakota North finally said as she leaned back in her chair, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “I have to admit that in my line of work I see some shit,” she shook her head, grinning, “but nothing to hold a candle to you. Are you really a descendent of Dracula?”

“Unfortunately.” Drake shivered, grabbing at the crumpled pack of Silk Cuts sitting within reach on his corner of the desk. He fumbled out a fag and sparked it to life before continuing, breathing deeply and trying to calm his anxieties again. “I didn't even know it really, though there were rumors in the family. No one liked to talk about it obviously. It was only when I inherited the family estate in Transylvania some years back that I knew for sure, and even then when my friends and I released Dracula from his torpor. That's when my nightmare began in earnest.”

“I have some of the highlights here,” the investigator said, again tapping the folder. “It's quite the fable, but I guess you put the truth to the fiction.”

“Where'd you get that?” he asked, taking another long drag.

“My research department is quite capable, and frankly, I'm rich. Anything can be found for a price if you know who to ask and where to look. And the woman that wanted you found provided quite a bit herself.”

“And just who IS that?” Frank Drake perked up, sitting up in the chair and suddenly awake and attentive. He vaguely recalled that they had discussed this already, but he was still close to oblivious, having just been inspected by the staff physician and almost hosed down, scrubbed and scraped. He had been near delirious, and knew that the name he recalled hearing could not be right.

“One Edith Harker.”

Frank Drake actually cringed, gasping in smoke and hacking. He had hoped he had dreamed that, but apparently he was wrong. He took another long hit on his fag before looking up again, blowing smoke.

“Edith Harker's dead,” he said coldly, trying to push the images of poor Quincy driving a stake through the heart of his turned daughter. It had been Frank and Rachel that had finished the ceremony, severing the head, stuffing the two halves with garlic and burning both separately before scattering half the ashes well away from the other half cast onto the Thames. He had seen the girl die. There was no way…

Dakota North shrugged. “That's the name she gave, and I did a background check. It might be coincidence, or someone assuming the identity, but like I said my research department is quite thorough. And she did know a lot about you. It is Edith Harker.”

“Don't suppose you have a picture?”

“Of course,” she said as her hand glided across the desktop, her slim fingers lightly touching the surface. He saw a dull glow and realized that she had a computer keyboard inlaid and touch sensitive. A second later he saw a slim panel open and a slender monitor rose from the shining desktop, barely a quarter inch thick and at least two feet diagonal. He watched as the woman eased her fingers over the touch pad and the monitor tilted to her command that they both might see. A moment later a viewer appeared on screen, cycling and flickering, finally showing a movie dated over two weeks prior.

Frank Drake stared at the screen curiously. He could see Dakota North there not so different than she was now in black and white. What was odd though was that she seemed to be talking and gesticulating at the empty chair that he was now sitting in.

“Hmm…” she said, her brow furrowed as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Very strange. Never seen that happen before. Picture's fine, except we can't see Harker.”

Frank Drake felt a sense of dread wash over him as everything clicked. “Vampires don't photograph,” he whispered, the filter of his cigarette snapping between his grinding teeth, falling to the floor and putting another stain on the carpet. Jesus…

“Just what are you saying, Frank? Edith Harker's a vampire?”

Drake saw the smirk of almost disbelief. Surprising that she felt that way in the line of work she was in. “Edith Harker's dead, and has been for years. Dracula turned her, and her father had to kill her. I disposed of the remains myself. No way it's her, unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless she was revived when the vampires were restored.”

“Quote – Hunh?”

Drake sighed, lighting up again as he told the long and convoluted tale of Doctor Strange and his mission to rid the world of Vampires. It was like a fairy tale involving a cast of thousands and magic out the ass, not to mention arcane relics like the Book of Vishanti, the Darkhold and the Montessi Formulae. It had worked oddly, and for a heartbeat the world was free of vampiric infection. But of course, injustice reared its ugly head and the followers of both Dracula and the Darkhold managed to resurrect the great evil and brought back not only Dracula, but seemingly every other vampire that had ever existed. Varnae, Frost, King, and maybe Edith Harker…

But what about Rachel?

“Hmmph,” Dakota North snorted, tapping a series of buttons to make the monitor descend within the desk again before depressing a new button that buzzed an intercom. After a moment a staticky voice crackled –

“Yes?”

“Helen, send in Jonathan please.”

“Yes, Miss North.”

Dakota North recrossed her legs and settled back into the contours of her plush chair. She considered Drake for a moment, her steely eyes cold and hard before finally speaking. “Up front, Frank, I've been paid half and got the job done. Harker wanted you liberated, and my boys did the job. Usually that would be it. You're cargo, and I deliver to get the rest of my fee, but something just doesn't sit right with this. I dunno, but it makes my hackles rise, sooo, I'm going to take a chance and hold back a bit. Maybe it's the P.I. in my blood, or maybe it's those huge blue eyes of yours, but I'm not about to pull you out of the frying pan just to drop you into the fire. I'm gonna have my boys look into Miss Harker a bit, and see just what she's about, but, I don't want you out there acting the ass either.” She raised her hand to wave off his protests. “Save it. I've read your file. You're like a step above Bad Luck Schleprock. I'm assigning you a bodyguard till I get to the bottom of this.”

And with that there was a knock on the door. Dakota North tapped the buzzer and Drake watched as a tall and handsome brown haired man strode into the room. He looked sure and confident, his chiseled features cracking only slightly with a tight smile as he nodded to North, then looked to Drake. Frank thought that the man looked familiar.

“Frank Drake,” Dakota North said, “meet John Jameson. He'll be your shadow until I say otherwise.”

“Charmed,” the man, Jameson said coolly, and Frank nodded hello, though his face was twisted in curiosity. Jameson sighed.

“I can see you recognize me. Yeah, I'm THAT John Jameson, son of J. Jonah Jameson, Publisher of the Daily Bugle.” Drake shrugged.

“Happy for you son, but I was thinking really that you were Colonel John Jameson, astronaut. You used to be my hero, and but for the blood disease I have thanks to Uncle Drac I'd be following in your footsteps. I always wanted to be an astronaut back in my carefree days of youth.”

Jameson oddly blushed, his finger dipping into the tight collar of his turtleneck sweater and stretching. Drake saw a queer pinkish glow for a moment, but blamed it on the lights in the office.

“One and the same, Frank,” Dakota North cut in, standing. Frank Drake followed suit, sane enough to know when his audience was at an end. “John has a few… unique abilities that should keep you safe until I do a little digging. I'm no hero, Frank, but I pride myself on doing the right thing. Before I hand you over to Harker – or whoever she is – I'll get the truth. Count on it.”

Frank Drake nodded his thanks as he stubbed out the butt of his cigarette. He wasn't happy about being under watch, but he would deal with it. Besides, he had some calls and inquiries to make, old friends to track down and no better place than where he was now. Free room and board, plus all the amenities.

Hell, it beat the lunatic asylum…

“You're kidding, right?”

Dane Whitman stared through the barrier at the hulking creatures running rampant beyond, just inches away it seemed. They were huge, their bodies seemingly chiseled from solid granite and each with a gaping maw that blasted a weird energy at random intervals. They were fighting one another, fist and claw and face beam, falling and rising in unending repetition. They staggered but did not die. There were three right before him, pounding on what was obviously a mystical barrier to no avail. God he hated magic.

“Not at all, Sir Knight.”

The Black Knight glanced back at the blonde woman, Rachel Van Helsing and actually shivered to see her cruel smile accentuated by the scar running across her face. She was all calm and poise, holding the ugly little creature that was a pet of some sort in arm and scratching at the bristling fur sprouting in tufts on its bumpy head. It seemed a bit perverse to him, if not disgusting. He tried to ignore the imagery, swallowing before he spoke.

“You want us to go in there, into that. Are you insane?”

As if on cue the thin and fragile path that they stood upon lit up in a crackling and fiery display as two of the creatures blasted at the barrier in a futile gesture. They were held fast within their area, and probably for good reason. Rachel Van Helsing had led them here though, with the intent of passing into the barrier, through the monstrosities for a possible chance of getting home. He had thought she was unhinged before, and now he was certain.

“No fucking way. We'll find another way home.”

“There is none,” she said with a sigh, allowing the little monstrosity to curl about her arm. “Do you think I'd still be here if it was so simple? Dracula sealed our route back, so this is the only other way. Hopeless by myself, but between the three of us – “

“Three?” Whitman stared at the ugly little creature that seemed to be humping Van Helsing's arm. It was a spindly monstrosity, all leather skinned and scaled with brillo pad tufts of hair and a tail that was the back half of its body. The thing had some magic in it, he had seen that, but what could it do against those mindless things he had no idea.

“Don't sell my little Eric short, Knight. He's slow, but with a little coaxing he'll be all the help we need to get through.”

“Through to where? You still haven't said.” The woman was a pain to be sure. She seemed to know more than she was letting on. He would not deny that she had been a major help just staying alive, killing the denizens of the Dark Dimension as they made their way to here, seemingly a dead end, at least to him. She had a mystical crossbow that never seemed to run dry, and more than a bit of knowledge in the lay of the land. She had led them to drinkable water in the days that they ran from the monsters. She had found shelter and food, though none of them seemed hungry at all. It was only now that he started to doubt, and the old fears and cravings resurfaced. Lord how he needed a drink.

The creatures continued to batter at the shield as she stepped forward. “Beyond is the realm of the Mindless Ones , imprisoned eons ago by you're… our reckoning by the Dark Lord Dormammu. Within that desolate and barren patch of land stands the remains of a temple wherein lies a doorway beyond. It is both cursed and blessed. Dormammu is a fool for sealing away his bane about the one true portal that led unerringly to your world, which he desires to conquer. Even he dares not face the Mindless Ones. They're brutes, killing machines, and their blasts of mystical energy would wipe him from existence.”

“And you're suggesting we go in there?”

“We are not of the Dark, Knight. With our skills and sweet Eric's mystical abilities, we will survive.” Whitman watched as the woman scratched behind the nub that was supposedly the ugly little creature's ear, seeing its tail flit about happily. He had his doubts.

“Okay… so just suppose we get by those things and reach the temple – if it exists – what then?”

“There is a well at the center, with an altar, straight out of a horror movie. We do our mumbo jumbo and dive into the well. Next stop home.”

“Sounds easy enough. Why am I worried?” Whitman jumped as the creatures slammed against the barrier. There were five of them now, and more shambling closer, obviously aware of their presence.

“I don't know,” Van Helsing said with a twisted grin. “We step through the barrier, run like hell and get to the temple. The Mindless Ones are slow and, well, mindless. They'll follow, but we can get by them, if we're careful.”

Dane Whitman closed his eyes, hung his head and sighed. He thought that he was done with all this, but he was wrong apparently. Not only did he have to get out of this little patch of Hell, but he had to find and save Victoria Bentley from the clutches of Dracula. He clenched and unclenched his fists, dangling at his sides before finally taking the metallic rod that was the hilt of his energy blade from his belt. He stared at the thing in his hand, sweat stinging his eyes as shivers raced along his spine. He was burning up in his mail and padding, but chilled to the marrow for some reason. Finally though he thumbed the stud on the hilt of his blade and his energy sword sparked to life, humming as it sizzled, burning the very air.

“Fine. Let's do this before I back out.”

The Van Helsing woman chuckled as she adjusted the creature in her arms. She cradled it now, cooing and scratching at its belly, listening to its guttural purring and sniffling.

“C'mon, baby,” she said softly, coaxing, “make Momma proud. Give with a shield.”

The Black Knight watched as the little monstrosity's eyes went wide and its beak like mouth began to work. It made some sickly gurgling noises at first, then clenched its eyelids shut as though trying to concentrate. It was intelligent to a point, and magical no doubt, but to put so much faith in a dumb animal…

And as though the thing had read his very thoughts, the creature's eyes popped open wide and red and staring daggers at Whitman. He heard it speak…

D- De- Defendere!

The Black Knight felt his hair trying to stand on end as his body tingled with electricity. His vision swam for a moment and everything was cast in a pale umber glow as magic washed over the trio. He looked to Van Helsing and the little freak, and the thing almost seemed to be smiling, and smugly at that.

“Quickly now!” Rachel Van Helsing said as she let the monster coil about her left arm again, producing the crossbow in her right. “The spell won't last long. We must get away before the Mindless One's gather on us en masse.”

He sniffed, staring at the things beyond the barrier. Ten now…

They were dead.

One way or the other, stay or not, they were dead.

“Avengers Assemble!” he shouted, and dove into the barrier…

Dracula settled back in his chair and sighed…

He had never been one for sexual gratification. Not since Maria at any rate, however, he could not simply dismiss the pleasantries off hand. True, his body did not work the way a lesser man's did. There was no drive in those nether regions, but occasionally and rarely it was a needed distraction.

He placed his hand on Victoria Bentley's head and entwined his long, bony fingers into her dark hair, curling a fist until she whimpered, her teeth digging in. He exploded, yanking back and spewing onto her simpering, slavic face. He saw tears in her wide brown eyes as she licked her lips, staring up at him with a pleading that he relished. He forced her head back between his legs.

“Clean me, sow,” he commanded, and she did, setting to task with a vigor.

Almost stupefied with pleasure he looked aside to hear the other Victoria laugh. The nurse stood at his back, breasts heaving within the confines of her starched white uniform, her tiny hat askew on her head. She was an evil bitch, the second of his new stable and totally dedicated to him and his cause. More so than the Bentley woman he felt, even though she lusted for his next command. Even turned he sensed hesitation.

“You laugh?” he asked and the nurse went silent and rigid. There was something wrong, though he could not quite place exactly what. His control was not absolute, even in his growing flock of mindless followers, now over two dozen strong. Varnae perhaps? He did not know, yet, but he would. He would deal with Varnae and all the other usurpers when the time was right. There were other matters to attend to first.

He had learned much in the short time that he had inhabited the Bentley Manse. She was adept, and apparently favored by Strange. All the better when revenge came about, but that was not the best by half. She knew of arcane and artifacts, and most importantly that one that might grant the ultimate power that he craved, without fault of repercussion.

The Star of Creation…

He had thought it lost, beyond reach in the shadow worlds, but he had been wrong. Strange had lectured her, and it was there, within grasp for any willing and daring to take hold. Any such as he.

And he would. He would find it.

Then let the Pillars of Creation tremble…

Dane Whitman gasped for breath, swinging his sword with abandon.

He had not known such nonstop assault since the war with the Kree and Shiar. Not since he had slain the Supreme Intelligence. It was madness. Total insanity…

He was reeking with the stench, dripping with sweat and gaining little to no ground. Granted the creature's shield seemed to protect them from the blasts of the Mindless Ones, and they were moving along slow and sure, but his blows seemed totally ineffective against their stony hides, his energy blade glancing off with little to no damage.

They sparked and staggered. They smoldered, but beyond that there seemed no effect whatsoever. What were these things made of?

“Wake up, Knight!”

Dane Whitman yelped as a crossbow bolt slid past, imbedding in the chest of one of the creatures. It staggered and stumbled, then started forward again, blasting away. He hacked to no avail, charging forward an inch at a time.

They were surrounded on the path, that queer and twisted walkway leading through the Dark Dimension. Mindless One's to every side as he swung his energy blade. The Van Helsing woman unleashed a seemingly never ending supply of quarrels into the mix, and even her little pet was mouthing spells now with some regularity. It was as though it were getting used to its tongue…

But no time to think as Whitman hacked at one…two…three of the hulks, making them smolder and stumble back. They charged forward.

“There!” Van Helsing shouted and pointed at a stone structure not so far ahead. Whitman looked up and shuddered. He knew that silhouette…

“No…” he whispered as Rachel Van Helsing darted past, rushing along the rocky path towards the entrance to The Well at the End of the Worlds.

“No!” he shouted again, but it was too late. The woman disappeared within the edifice. Whitman licked his lips as he looked on, knowing what must lay within. Knowing what was coming.

He screamed as a blast of energy seared into his back. Dropping to his knees he tried to focus, to hold his energy blade aloft for the meager protection that it provided. He felt the tremble under the path, the thunder of shambling feet coming closer by the score. He glanced aside and saw the hulking creatures moving his way, unified in their desire to see him dead, or worse. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the temple…

Through the broken stone he ran, the thundering of the creatures hot on his heels like an avalanche, a rockslide of stone in his wake. He had been in worse spots he was certain. His time with the Avengers and Strange had been harrowing to be sure. Hell, he had lived through the twisted Crusades at the beck and call of King Richard forever it seemed, thanks to the Defenders. He had fought Ymir and Surtur with the Avengers, such as they were at the time; Hawkeye and the Black Panther. Only the Wasp was missing that time. He had been beaten senseless by the Masters of Evil and survived. This was nothing…

Nothing, dammit!

So why was his heart pounding and rolling up into his throat? Why was he sweating like a pig? Why was he scared shitless?

Because he knew what was coming, and rounding that final corner, he was not disappointed.

Rachel Van Helsing was there looking smug and beautiful, caressing the sickly little thing in her arms. She turned and smiled, but Whitman ignored that, staring instead at the centerpiece of the great hall that he had run into.

It was a huge room, a hundred feet on a side easily, and twice that high, voluminous to say the least. He could hear the echo of his footfalls long after he had stopped running, his breathing magnified a thousandfold as he stared at the fountain that was centered in the room. Gargoyles stared down, etched in stone and ominous, knowing, as though they had insight and prophecy. They had been waiting for this, he was sure. His downfall, taking steps along that dark and lonely path once more.

There was an arm thrusting up from the crystalline waters of the fountain, female and swathed in shining mail. In that slim fist was clutched his dread, the bane of his existence, held high and outstretched…

Waiting…

Dane Whitman stared at the Ebony Blade. He heard its beckoning call, that siren voice both grating and soothing. Calling to him…

Take me…

Take me…

“No!” he whispered harshly, trembling only a little as the thunder of stone feet rumbled in the distance.

“It's our only chance, Sir Knight,” Van Helsing said, her gaze drifting towards the corridor behind him. “Take up the sword and will us home.”

“You don't know,” he whimpered, remembering the curse, the hell that he had gone through. “I can't.”

“Do it, you fool! Do it or we're dead!” she spat. He saw the creature wiggling in her arms, its mouth moving, trying to speak.

“I… Can't…”

“Then we die, Knight,” she screamed. “Here and now. We die!”

He watched as she cast the creature aside and drew up her crossbow, ready to fight to the last. Even the creature seemed ready to give his all, hacking and sputtering, trying to mouth a spell. But they did not know, dammit! Van Helsing did not know what she was asking of him. The Blood Curse…

The Mindless One's burst into the chamber, blasting away without hesitation, slamming stony fists against wall and broken décor in a fit of rage, coming ever closer. Whitman swallowed, licking his lips. Van Helsing fired her crossbow, and the creature sputtered and the room erupted in flame. They were trying, but it all hinged on him. Him and his balls…

He stared at the fountain, and the arm and the sword. The Lady of the Lake, even here. God…

His hand reached out, tentatively and trembling. The sword shimmered darkly as he approached.

“Damn you.”

The world exploded as he plucked the sword free. Oddly there was no fanfare, nor blasts of glory. Simply a seeping sensation of obfuscation as the darkness creeped back into his soul. He quivered, trying to hold the blade aloft, knowing that destiny had found him once more and made him a slave. He felt the curse, and the craving as he whisked the sword about, a forgotten friend, an appendage lost.

“Do it!” Van Helsing hissed, staring at the Ebony Blade. “Do it!”

Dane Whitman sighed, holding the sword surely in his right hand and drawing it along his left forearm. He winced as blood started to flow, but he ignored the pain as he focused on home. He ignored the oozing blood…

“Home,” he whispered, and the Dark Dimension faded away…

DARK PASSAGE

Next Issue: Good God! what the hell's happening now? Dracula getting head and dreaming of extra dimensional artifacts! The Black Knight taking up the curse of the Ebony Blade again? And is Rachel Van Helsing all she seems to be? And what about Edith Harker?

I dunno what's gonna happen next, and I'm writing the thing. Just be here next time and we will all find out together…

Okay, I don't have a title yet. Be here anyway…