For Mature Readers Only

# 3
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Vampire Tales
featuring Dracula

"The Dark Lord Triumphant!"

Written by Curt Fernlund

Frank Drake screamed...

Above his body, Nurse Victoria smirked, a strange trilling sound escaping her lips as she inched forward, scooting, her knees scraping along the padded floor. She was sweating in the heat and humidity of the tiny, enclosed room, and she smelled of days upon days of the unwashed masked by deodorant and cheap perfumes rather than soap. Frank gagged as she eased forward, struggling under her weight as she settled finally on his face, squirming into place for her own comfort, muffling his cries and making it all the harder to breathe.

He tried to buck her off, kicking his naked legs uselessly out and off of the soft canvas covered foam that lined the floor. He tried to rock from side to side, but her strong legs and thighs held him easily in place beneath her. He was simply too weak from his time spent in... wherever he was; lack of food and sleep, and no doubt that sickly sweet concoction that they made him drink three times a day.

He felt her hand on his head then, her fingers lacing through the grimy, sweaty strands of his long hair just before she made a fist and pushed his head to the floor. Tears welled in his eyes from the sudden shock of pain, and the vision of her above him became blurry and dark, silhouetted by the single flickering bulb encased and recessed within the ceiling. He heard her chuckle as he whimpered.

"You're a feisty one, luv," she sniggered, "n' I love that in me men. Love, love, love. Now you make Mama Vic ‘appy, an' this'll be a spot a' fun fer the both of us. Lick!"

Frank whimpered again, feeling the pressure, hearing the rush in his ears as the nurse squeezed her thighs together to get him to comply. He could barely hear her laughter through the fleshy folds of her skin, and soon enough even that sound dwindled as the torrent of his blood raging through his ears started to overwhelm him. Little flecks of black and gray danced through his cloudy, dimming sight, and soon he was gagging, choking for breath as he tried to hold out...

...he started licking.

"Ahhh... yeah..." Nurse Victoria cooed, moaning as she arched her back against his probing tongue. "Who's a good boy then? Mmmmnnn... My little ‘Johnny', thas' who..."

My name's Frank! He wanted to scream. Frank Drake!

They still considered him nameless and homeless since he had been dragged, half-drowned from the River Thames. The police had brought him here, after the hospital and a lengthy and unpleasant stay in the Devil's Dyke. Here was an insane asylum he imagined, by the lack of concern in the staff and the never-ending moans and screams that kept him wide-eyed and awake at night. He prayed that it was not Bedlam; the Royal Bethlehem Hospital, but Frank Drake's prayers usually went unanswered and ignored.

"Loverly..." Nurse Victoria moaned as she reared back, and Frank gasped for air before she settled in again. He hated this, but there was nothing that he could do, locked in his padded cell and bound in the constricting canvas of a straight jacket. He was even kept gagged most of the time, except for when they fed him, or when one of the staff desired ‘special' attention.

He had been singled out by most of the staff, both men and women alike, as a distraction on those cold and lonely nights in the asylum. Frank supposed that it was because he was considered a ‘John Doe', both nameless and amnesiac (or at least he had been), and that no one would come looking for him. He doubted that anyone official was still trying to find out who he was, and doubted too that even if he announced his name now, no one would listen or even try to help him. The party would be over then, certainly.

Nurse Victoria squealed as she reached ecstasy and fell backwards, her body draping over Frank's prostrate form like so much dead weight. Frank moaned, both from the sudden shift in pain as well as his own release, and the ability to breathe restored. For long minutes they both lay there panting and heaving, their sweat stained bodies intertwined in an oddly erotic shape that was both fascinating and disturbing at the same time.

Frank tried to think as he gathered his strength. He knew that if there was ever a time for escape, this was always it, when his jailers and keepers were spent and lazy from their lust. He knew that the door to his cell was locked, and god knew how many locked doors beyond that first, barring his path to freedom. But if he could just get up, take that first step...

Frank felt Nurse Victoria shift. Her legs draped across his chest and face as she kicked her worn, leather shoes from her feet, letting them plop by his head to the floor. He groaned as the foul and pungent smell of stale sweat and vinegar laced with the old battered leather assaulted his nostrils. He shook his head from side to side, trying to escape, knowing what was coming, but it was no use.

Frank Drake had seen things in his thirty-odd years of life that would have slain a lesser man on the spot. He had seen demons. He had battled monsters from Fairy Tales, myths made decaying flesh. He had slain vampires and had seen Hell itself, traveling the winding roads of Perdition and struggling through those crowded paths. Hell was a tiny, cramped place, swelling to burst, but he knew too that there was one tiny corner of that dismal land reserved for him, for all the sins that he had committed, all the commandments, which he broke.

As Nurse Victoria planted the wrinkled soles of her sweaty and smelling feet on his face, he knew at last that he had come home...

Elsewhere,
A Small Corner of the Dark Dimension...

Dane Whitman screamed...

Tears welled up in his eyes as he writhed in agony, as the man - the creature above him ground the hard heel of his shoe down with relentless force. Whitman felt the bones of his right wrist and hand cracking and snapping under the onslaught, like so many brittle twigs. He could feel his hand going dull and useless as his nerves shut down, numbing his body and mind from the initial shock and pain.

He heard harsh laughter from above and glanced up, his eyes blurry and squinting into the odd, queer light of the Dark Dimension. He saw the flare of red, glowing eyes, and the shining glint sparkling off long, white fangs. The man's face was cloaked in shadows, but Dane Whitman recognized the stance and pomp, the grandeur of his tormentor; that vile thing that was neither alive nor dead, and Lord of all that he surveyed...

"Scream again, Avenger!" Dracula hissed, grinding his heel into Whitman's hand. Even through the pain, that red wash that flooded his eyes he could see the contempt and disregard emanating from the Lord of the Vampires.

Dane Whitman had passed through one of the Dark Mirrors of Strang, chasing after Victoria Bentley in his nightclothes (as opposed to his Knight clothes), and now found himself at the mercy of the Lord of the Undead. He glanced left and saw the still body of Victoria, splayed in repose, her face blank and dark eyes staring vacantly into the darkness. Steam rose from the ragged wound in her throat, blood oozing down her neck to puddle on the dry and compact dirt beneath her prostrate form. She was dead, apparently, a victim of the Dark Lord; though why Dane had not a clue.

He glanced left and saw someone running towards him. Help? He doubted it. A woman looking just as burnt and defeated as he felt. She was blonde, dressed in raggedy clothes and carrying an animal of some sort; a creature, one of the denizens of the realm, probably. No help there -

Dane Whitman gasped as mangled, bony claws scooped him up by the collar and lifted him past his feet, holding him dangling and aloft. He stared into the face of evil incarnate; the twisted visage pale and sallow all at once. Dracula was gaunt, his skin creased and lacerated, small boils marring the long-dead flesh. He reeked of rot and corruption, a foul smell roiling from his mouth as he leaned close. It was as though he was dying - or reviving, Whitman could not tell which.

"The Knight..." Dracula hissed, his long, bony fingers wringing the neck of Whitman's collar. "Would that you were the Witch, or the Android. That would make this all the more sweet. Even the Soldier might be a victory worth my time. But you?

"You reek of fear and alcohol. You are nothing, now, despite past glories. Hardly worth my effort."

Dracula used the tiniest portion of his regaining strength to toss Dane Whitman aside. He tumbled through the air like a discarded toy, only to come crashing down again on the hard-packed, dry earth. He bounced, his body protesting until he finally rolled to an abrupt stop against a large, stony outcrop. The Black Knight whimpered, shaking his head as he tried to regain his senses, staring up into the dim.

Dracula had gathered Victoria into his arms, cradling her limp form as he stood near the shimmering portal that led back through the black mirror. His gaze seemed to stray, turning in the direction of the blonde woman for just a moment...

And the moment passed. Dracula turned to Whitman again, smiling ever so slightly as he eyed the ex-Avenger, a smug and conceited look of triumph.

"Would that all my victories be so easy..." The Dark Lord laughed, turning towards the portal -

As an arrow slammed into his back!

Eric Arcane's huge, bulbous eyes went agoggle as he craned his long, serpentine neck to stare at the woman that carried him. He did not know where the crossbow had come from (he was certain that she had not had it before), and he was amazed that she had hit Dracula from such a distance, on the run across the rugged, rocky terrain.

"Waa - " he spat, which meant ‘ARE YOU INSANE?' Rachel Van Helsing ignored him though as she ran on. He watched the crossbow fall to her side in stride, then a moment later she raised it again, fully loaded and primed to fire.

"Yut!" he snarled, which meant ‘HOW DID YOU...'

Eric Arcane cursed the dwarfed and spindly body in which he now resided. Since the transfer from the Realm Between, since his arrival here in the Dark Dimension he had been trapped, inhabiting the form of one of the regions' indigenous life creatures. His arms were withered and clubbed, with gangly claws instead of dexterous fingers. He had no legs, instead a long, sort of prehensile tail that often seemed to have a mind all its own, attached to a stunted and shriveled body that was all but worthless. He could barely move. He could not speak and his eyes saw things in a myriad of colors that he had never before experienced and quite often made him nauseous if he focused too hard.

He was screwed, basically. Trapped in a world - and a body he had never made. And now lugged about like a babe in arms by psycho-bitch from Hell (just down the block, apparently), who pulled weapons out of thin air like rabbits from Houdini's hat.

Yeah, okay, Houdini was an Escape Artist, but okay...

He could not speak beyond the guttural grunts of the creature's limited vocabulary and vocal cords. He could barely think, let alone conjure a spell. As a Hedge Mage he was a bomb. He might have a career in comedy relief, or even in cute, plush mascot in some twisted world's reprise, but in the here and now he was at the mercy of a big tittied bimbo that was out for blood -

And what blood...

He watched as the Van Helsing woman launched another crossbow bolt into the backside of the Lord of the Vampires. Remarkably she shot again, and even more, the prick screamed bloody murder. The Vampire Lord that he recalled (just fighting his undead ass not too long ago) could take a helluva lot more punishment than that. Just what the HELL was going on around her?

"Blat..." he said, which translated to ‘PUT ME DOWN, BITCH, BEFORE TALL DARK AND UNDEAD DECIDES TO RETALIATE!'.

And oddly she did. Eric Arcane unwrapped his tail from the woman's arm as she held it out and away, and he slithered to the dirty, hot ground, coiling as she charged forward again. She had forgotten her little ‘pet' for the moment, so intent on plugging a few more quarrels into Lord Drac's backside. But that was fine with Arcane. He needed to think, and try to cope in the least.

Arcane watched as she ran forward, doing that ‘Hero' thing himself, slithering along the hot and dusty ground to keep up. He saw Van Helsing firing, bolt after bolt, though she never seemed to reload. She simply raised the crossbow and fired over and over, her quarrels turning the Dark Lord into a pincushion even as they grew closer. How was she doing that? Magic crossbow? Arcane had no clue as he scurried along to keep pace and catch up.

He glanced at the man on the ground as they passed. A smarmy type by the look, and just a bit of a British accent. He reeked of alcohol too, though at the moment the pain in his crushed hand was emanating and overpowering everything else. Dracula had called the man ‘Knight' and ‘Avenger'. Looking at his pathetic ass, whimpering and writhing on the ground in his nightclothes like the poor man's Arthur Dent, Arcane could not imagine that he was either.

Arcane winced as Dracula gave Van Helsing a backhand. He heard the crack of flesh on flesh, saw the woman's head snap about and figured that that was it. He knew that the Lord of the Vampires had supernatural strength, and knew too that Rachel Van Helsing was just a woman. Oddly though, she was still standing, and even more, smiling...

The blow should have taken her head off. Dracula had not held back in the least, but she simply smiled, brushing the long, blonde hair from her eyes and revealing the long, vibrant scar that marred her face as she raised the crossbow once again -

"Damn you woman," Dracula spat, cradling the other woman in his arm with little care. "Who are you?"

"Your bane, Dark Lord," she said as she loosed another bolt into the vampire's chest. He screamed, staggering back and finally letting the woman in his arms fall to the dirt. Arcane blinked twice to see that the other quarrels were gone from Dracula's body, though his suit was tattered and holy from the hits.

"Victoria..." the man who was a Knight mumbled, his teeth gritted and his face twisted in pain.

"Ack - " Arcane gasped, meaning ‘GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER, BOY'.

He felt the wind then, a great gush of air that roiled over the scorched and blasted land. Dust stirred, rising up and swirling as lightning laced clouds thick and heavy rolled across the darkened sky. Arcane heard the rumble of thunder off in the distance as the freak storm drew closer and he shivered as the ground shook and quaked beneath his sluggish form.

"You tempt fate, woman!" the Dark Lord shouted over the rising tempest. Blood slowly oozed from his wounds, but he stood tall and proud before Van Helsing, defying her to the last. "And you presume much! I am Dracula!"

Lightning flared, striking the ground and ripping it asunder in one fell swoop. Rain loosed, moving across the barren land in a wave, sweeping unhindered across the rock and dirt. At first Arcane luxuriated in the downpour, but then felt the force and fury of the assault and curled about himself, huddling against the pelting, driving drops. He did not hear Van Helsing's response.

He saw the Knight straining to reach the bundle that he had apparently dropped; clothing of some sort, by the look of it, and made of metal. Eric Arcane ignored the man as useless, straining to see the monster and the girl, almost lost in the sudden deluge. He scrabbled closer, listening over the sudden din...

"It matters not who you think you are," Dracula snarled, shooting forward. "It matters not who you propose to be..." The Dark Lord reached out, his fist slamming against the crossbow and shattering it, sending the wooden debris flying from Van Helsing's hands.

"I AM DRACULA!" he shouted over the storm, his hand shooting out to grip Rachel Van Helsing about the throat. "I am your Lord... Your Master!"

Arcane saw Dracula flex, his long bony arms writhing with muscle as his fist closed about Van Helsing's throat. The vampire started to squeeze, intent on crushing the woman's throat, and snuffing the life (such as it was) from the woman's body. Arcane surged forward, his mind set, every muscle of his new body focused as he willed his tongue to work properly...

O...

Arcane hacked, spitting green puss that sizzled on the scorched earth. He felt sickly and faint as the world started to spin.

OBIRE!

He shouted, his voice ragged and rasping as he forced the word from his own twisted throat. The easiest spell he knew, and one that never seemed to work, it was so broad. Still he saw Dracula stagger, his skin flaking away as the air seemed to ripple, washing over he and his victim. He heard Van Helsing's gasp and knew that he had hurt her as well.

Dracula's eyes crackled with rage as lightning slammed down about them all. The very ground shook as thunder rolled through, knocking Arcane to his side with its ferocity where he scrabbled for purchase.

"You dare?" the vampire hissed, holding Van Helsing at arm's length, dangling, her feet kicking as she struggled for freedom. "Creature, you presume much!"

Arcane shrieked, his body arching and coiling as the rage of the Dark Lord came his way. His throat was raw, and he knew that he would not repeat the ‘Death' Cantrip in time to save what his life had become. He was done...

And a shadow passed by overhead...

Eric Arcane recoiled in terror as the smarmy man landed between the vampire and himself. His right arm was broken, his right hand crushed, but in his left he held a fucking light saber!

Luke Skywalker to the rescue!

London,
The Offices of the Northstars
D. North; LLC

Dakota North walked the lush and somewhat cluttered halls of the London offices. She had never really understood the British tendency to fill every inch of space with ornamentation, be it potted plants to archaic furniture. Not that it was not tasteful, mind, but had they never heard of Feng Shui for God's sake?

She shook her head, remembering the money that she had spent on the decorators and kept on walking. She ignored the armoire set to the south wall, knowing that it was empty. She barely glanced at the Ming vase standing on its pedestal just before the corner. The Louis the XIV chair and settee, flanked by the Henry the VIII table and the Katherine the Great Grandfather Clock that sat beside the elevator (lift, she corrected herself) made no impression as she passed, thumbing through her files and heading into the stairwell.

She smiled as she examined the payroll checks that she had endorsed for Skully and Monroe. They had done good work these past weeks, especially lately in the case of tracking down the missing Jillian Creighton. THAT had been a nice little bit of cash cow for the agency and the LLC alike. Old man Creighton almost came when she had arrived on his massive and expensive doorstep with his arguably insane if not brainwashed daughter in tow. He had been gushing in his ability to pay her, and now she was equally gushing to pay ‘Skull the Slayer' and ‘Nomad' their due. They had earned it, and then some; thus the bonuses.

It had been the best decision that she had ever made to branch out and hire some ‘Marvel' muscle onto her team. Screw Sable and her lawsuit, there was no laws against forming a paranormal detective agency, and while she had the coffers of a defunct country to back her legal team, well, Dakota North had Daddy, and that platinum haired bitch was not going to win. Fuck her...

Dakota North stepped into the hallway of the basement, her stiletto heels clacking solidly on the stone as she walked the dim corridor towards the gymnasium - such as it was. She had refurbished the cellar to accommodate her rather virile and over endowed employees, sparing no expense in keeping them in shape in their downtime by fitting her gym with the latest and best exercise equipment that money could buy. She put them up too, in a dorm like facility, but with rooms - flats that had all the amenities. She knew that if she kept the employees happy, they would perform better.

Right at the moment only Skully and Monroe were in house, but that was fine. The other dozen odd ‘heroes' that she had on retainer were on mission elsewhere. Paladin was in Brazil with his freelance ass, tracking a pornography ring for the Cuban government. Spider was in Tel Aviv, trying to free a journalist - slash - radical from jail, a reward pending from his family - his RICH family. Swordsman was in France, Batroc in South Viet Nam, the list was endless sometimes, but the jobs, and more importantly the money kept coming in.

She shoved open the doors to the gymnasium and struck a pose, gazing about the room. She saw Monroe on the free weights, shirt off and muscles rippling as he hefted easily half a ton on the weights. He was swathed in sweat and gleaming, his tanned skin flowing over the Super Soldier Serum enhanced muscles that held hi body in perfect form. Definitely doable, though she would have to work on the attitude a bit.

Jack Monroe had a chip on his shoulder that would not quit, and an inferiority complex to boot. Her psyche division suspected that he had suppressed feelings concerning his tenure as Captain America's sidekick, based on their sessions. Monroe was not too forthcoming about his past, so she hoped that she could give him a future to consider. Good pay and a roof over one's head could do that.

Jim Skully was another story. Of the two she would have expected him to be the one with the haunted past, but Skully seemed rather carefree and nonchalant after all that he had been through. As she had understood it, he had been trapped in some weird alien tower that was a little slice of reality askew. He had spent much time in that tower as he and a few others struggled to survive and get free, battling Egyptians and dinosaurs along the way. The Thing had eventually freed him and what was left of his group, and he had had some additional experiences afterwards, including being turned into a walking, glowing skeleton. To see him sitting there, talking on his cell, you would never believe it.

"Gotta go, Fay," he said with a grin. "The boss just came in. Love you too. Bye...'

Dakota smiled, strolling to the bench that Skully was seated upon as he flipped his cell phone closed and set it in his nearby duffel bag. Like Monroe he was shirtless and in great shape she noted, watching as he dabbed his brow with the white terrycloth towel about his shoulders while she sat.

"Que pasa, jefe," he said with a grin. "'sappnin'?"

"De nada, Jimmy," she replied as she shuffled through her papers. "Unless you think payday is special?"

"Yo, Jack," Skully called, looking at Monroe. "Soup's on, partner."

Dakota saw Jack Monroe lower the weights and curl five quick reps before dropping the bar back into the rack. He turned and scooped up his own towel, wiping as his throbbing quads as he strolled casually forward.

"Cool," he said, flopping onto the bench beside Dakota.

"Mister Monroe," Dakota said as she handed Nomad a thick envelope. "Payment in full - in cash as requested, minus the Federal deductions of course and the sum wired to your 401K, plus receipts.

"And Mister Skully," she continued, handing the other man a somewhat thinner envelope. "Your stubs, plus the NET printout of the various deposits to your prearranged accounts, and a little bonus --on me."

"Why thankee, ma'am," Skully beamed as he peered into the envelope, his thumb flipping through the fresh and clean bills within. "Quite a bonus," he said with a bit of hesitation.

Dakota shrugged. "You do me good Skully, I do unto you."

"Kay-o, boss," Jim Skully said as he dropped his envelope into his duffel as well. "Now, what's on the agenda?"

"Well," she started, shifting the manila folders on her lap, "I have another job, if you boys are up to it?"

"Keeps us outta trouble, chief," Monroe said, tipping back a bottle of Poland Spring. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "What's the dilly-o?"

"Another ‘snatch and grab'," Dakota said as she crossed her legs, scanning the file. "Little trickier than the last. Lotta red tape in this one, but I have Legal working on that."

"What is it?" Skully asked. "Or should I say who?"

"Guy named Drake; Frank Drake. Trouble is our ‘employer' says he's been committed to Bedlam - thus the red tape. We go in, grab him up and let Legal handle the bureaucracy when the shit hits the fan."

"He's nuts then?" Monroe asked.

"Not according to the ‘check'. Misunderstood she says, and maybe amnesiac."

"Been there, done that," Jack Monroe said with a smirk. "When's this happening?"

"ASAP - tonight if you're up to it. Our miss Harker wants Mister Drake free and clear and soon."

"I'm in." Monroe shrugged, tossing the empty water bottle aside. "Nothin' good on TV tonight anyhow. Darts does get boring."

"Me too," Skully added. "After ten anyway. I gotta make some calls."

"I pencilled in Midnight, boys. No worries, and thanks." Dakota North stood and shuffled her folders again. "Ops will have the usual field packs ready, along with transport to Lambeth. Do try not to bring down the house, fellas, and remember that the folks in Bedlam ARE sick. Senseless violence will not be appreciated by Legal."

"Okay, boss," Monroe said with a grin as Dakota North turned on her ultra high heels and clacked her way out the door. She could feel his eyes on her ass as she sashayed out, smiling to herself as she let the door close behind her with a gentle thoom.

Definitely doable...

Elsewhere,
Just on the far side of the looking Glass...

Dracula cursed, casting the thing that looked like Van Helsing aside as he danced back. Light flared before his face as the energy sword of the Black Knight swept passed, narrowly missing him and still catching the ratty and tattered trailings of his cloak. He heard the hum of the blade crackling past, the hiss and burnt smell of scorched air.

And for a moment, there was fear. Just a spark, as he knew that the Knight's blade could end his life easily. Concentrated sunlight of a form, and even the slightest caress could leave him rotting in this foul and clotted dimension of darkness. But the moment passed. He had seen the Black Knight, and more the man. He had seen the fool's measure and fallacy and found him pathetic and wanting. A dandy of sorts, a swashbuckler indeed, but hardly worthy of Dracula's consideration, rather his contempt.

Still, there was the damnable sword, and Dracula had learned long ago that Lady Luck did indeed thrive in fools and their quests. Far too often he had been defeated by lesser men, slain by sheer happenstance. The Knight may be skilled, but a lucky blow would end this obscene act as easily. That could not happen.

The Black Knight looked absurd in his robe; barefoot as he lunged forward, his flashing blade of light sweeping to and fro before him, driving Dracula back. Anger drove the Knight however, and the Dark Lord could see that the man was lax and out of shape. No longer the adventurer then.

But they were even, as the wounds inflicted by the Van Helsing bitch burned. The quarrels had faded as soon as they had struck, but the pain yet lingered, and Dracula had to wonder just what they had truly been. Magic of course, but deadly and powerful to cause such rapid damage and allow the after effect to linger so, festering even worse than cursed ash.

"Garrgh!"

Dracula spat, stumbling backwards as the light sword bounced off of his shoulder. His clothes sizzled and burned, acrid smoke roiling from the rent as pain seared through his very being. It was light made solid; energy that cut him to his very core.

"That's for Victoria!" the Knight shouted as Dracula clutched his smoldering shoulder. He snarled in return, spittle flying as he eyed his attacker, watching as his hand wrung the hilt of the blade awkwardly, his true hand crippled and useless.

"Sodden fop!" the Dark Lord hissed as he took a stance, his bearing set and his mind reaching out. "If that was your best for the woman, she is better off mine." Dracula raged forward then, his arm swinging high, his claw-like hands cleaving empty air as the Knight ducked and staggered back and away. But just as swiftly the Lord of the Vampires swung back, his elbow slamming into the back of the Black Knight's neck, sending him sprawling to the dirt.

Dracula spun and sprang forward even as the Avenger rolled, his sword up and slashing in a close arch to protect himself. There was a flicker and crackle of burning cloth as Dracula swooped by overhead, forcing his foe to spin again.

He landed softly, turning. He saw Van Helsing getting up again, the little creature that had caused him pain scrabbling about her feet. She had the cursed crossbow again, somehow, even though he had shattered it. Magic again. But Dracula was no stranger to the dark arts.

He raised his arms, grimacing as a fresh bolt of pain shot through his shoulder. He ignored it as best he could, wincing as he willed the elements to his cause, thrusting his arms out and down with a sudden ferocity.

He heard the dark and roiling clouds overhead grumbling in protest. He felt the shock and tingle as the powers beyond swelled at his beck and call. There was a sudden hush, and then light of his own making flashed down, cracking dirt and stone with a jagged precision. Lightning swept the hard-packed earth, the ground churning as thunder boomed relentlessly, churning on and on.

Dracula saw Van Helsing grab at her ears and drop to her knees. The creature at her feet writhed as though it was experiencing the sheerest form of torment. The Avenger was whimpering like an abandoned, starving babe. And still the lightning struck earth, and the thunder rolled.

Dracula swayed on his feet, clutching at his shoulder, smelling the rank decay still seeping from the bitch's bolts. That force of life, which he had taken from the woman - Victoria - was fading, waning away with these pointless exertions. He needed to away from this dark and blasted land, to revive his connection with the true earth.

He turned, his breath heaving suddenly, feeling weary, exhausted. The queer effects of this damnable dimension were draining him now, faster than ever. The wounds were pulsing and burning as he scanned the area, seeking. He saw the portal then, again, shimmering like a dark smudge in the air, wavering and calling with its siren's voice. There lay freedom. If only he had the strength...

Dane Whitman felt a dampness at his ears as the thunder slammed down like a jackhammer. He clenched his eyes shut against the glaring lightning, spots dazzling his sight, and when he opened them the shadow of Dracula was scurrying away, a blurry thing that melted into the dark distance.

"Lord," he whispered, struggling to his feet. "He's going for the portal."

Lightning slashed a ragged gouge in the dirt just a few feet away as he staggered, his sweaty hand rolling the grip of the light sword about his palm. His heart hammered in his chest as the thunder seemed to fall onto his shoulders like a ton of bricks. There was a flash of rain, torrential in its ferocity, sweeping sideways and ending just as abruptly, enough to stall his progress. The parched and blasted land soaked up the putrid water greedily, leaving the stench behind and making Whitman gag with every breath.

"Victoria..." the Black Knight whispered, and saw the dark blur that was Dracula pause, just long enough to scoop up the woman that he had come to love. He cradled the limp, lifeless form of Victoria Bentley in his arms, the lord of the vampires offering a final laugh as he inched away -

"Rot here, Avenger!" he shouted, cackled over the din of the storm. "Your crusade ends."

And Dracula stepped through the portal, and was gone...

And the Master of the Mystic Arts paused, his own troubles pushed aside for the slightest moment, just a heartbeat as a shiver of dread crept along his spine...

And a silver-haired woman gasped as she felt the sudden breech, as though the final barriers had been ripped asunder...

And a silver-skinned man looked to the stars, contemplating the sudden and unexpected shift in power...

And a witch cloaked in crimson clutched at her stomach and remembered her children...

And a man dropped to his knees on the side of a building, his head shrieking in pain and warning...

And somewhere a Bloodstone flared brightly...

And somewhere a wolf howled at the silver disc hovering far overhead and away...

And Edith Harker gasped and licked her lips, feeling that old, gnawing longing that ate away at her cold and empty heart...

And Blade spun his sword of blood, slamming the katana home as the hackles on the back of his neck rose up and started to dance...

Dracula sat in cool darkness, full and bloated, resting as his strength returned, slowly...

The old man, the butler by his appearance lay sprawled at the Dark Lord's feet next to the Victoria woman. His throat was ripped asunder, a wild, ragged gash that portrayed Dracula's desperation there near the end. His eyes strained to see beyond and upwards to that place for which he was doubtless destined. His prim and proper attire was splattered with blood, from the gash in his throat that still trickled, slowly seeping crimson into the plush and expensive Persian carpeting. His head cocked at an odd and twisted angle; he would not rise again.

The Dark Lord did not need ancients in his arsenal. The Victoria woman though...

She was rich, apparently, and her home a wealth of magic. It reminded Dracula of the old days, years agone when the world still glowed in candlelight and hissing gas filled the sooty air. The mansion was crammed with effects, personal keepsakes and treasures, not a few of which that were both functional as well as ornamental. Tapestries and gaudy portraits lined the cherry wood walls, vases and statuary littered every space that was not filled by armor or plant or antiquity. Dracula never understood the need to crowd one's world with novelties, yet the British had always been so, and to the extreme. They clung to the old ways and that was something that he could understand. Simpler minds and simpler times indeed...

It was perhaps the way he was reared, in a harsh country forever ripped by war. He had been nobility, so he knew luxury, but the constant turmoil left him unattached to objects. Not so of course to those that he had loved.

The Victoria woman - Bentley he had learned through simply glancing at her private papers - reminded him of Maria in a way. Not in appearance so much, but in repose. A nobility of her own type, apparently, and both she and Whitman, whom Dracula surmised to be her Knight Protector, were wealthy and important. He a Sir, and she a dilettante by the look, and all of that the Dark Lord could, would use to his fullest ideals. There were debts to pay, after all. Blood debts to be sure...

Strange...

The Defenders...

Blade...

And Drake of course. Always Drake...

But he would rest now. He had time. He was full, and the portal was draped closed and the dark of night had just cast out that last pale vestige of pitiful day, the waxing moon just loping skyward in its unending march across the black, star shot firmament.

He had time. Time to think and plan. Time to restore his legions and depose false gods. He had beaten the Defenders and their ‘House of Shadows', their death trap. He had returned to the world against all odds.

He looked to the cold and lifeless form of the woman and smiled.

First things first, then let the world tremble.

Let them learn to fear the night once more...

The Dark Lord Triumphant!

Story © Curt F 2006

NEXT ISSUE: Jack and Jim invade Bedlam, with the fate of Frank Drake in the balance. Meanwhile, Dane Whitman, Rachel Van Helsing and Eric Arcane remain trapped in the Dark Dimension! How will they escape? And just what is Dracula planning to celebrate his return to our Strange reality?

God I love Master Villains...

And isn't Edith Harker dead?

I dunno. Be here next time and we'll all figure it out together in...

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World...

For Mature Readers Only

# 3
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Vampire Tales
featuring Blade the Vampire Hunter

"The Devil's Dust"

Written by Ian Astheimer

Ancient arms, a-sway in gusts of autumnal urgency, strained skyward. From wrinkled palms sprouted knotted fingers, forever steepled in unanswered prayer. Brittle nails, whittled to fine points by eras of erosion, scraped fruitlessly against the base of heaven. The withered waited, with an immortal patience, for a sign from above, a symbol if not of His love, then assuredly of his existence.

Until, finally, it came, a falling star with deceptive grace. A sign. A messenger. An angel descending. His form quantified calm, his vision passing--without judgment--across the decrepit congregation. Their limbs felt the warmth of his ethereal glow. A crisp breeze passed their inaudible prayers through his blackened wings--alight with the Almighty's eternal flame--to hold him aloft, so that he might see the vast assemblage of the devoted and the converted. With contentment unspoken, he released his wings to flicker to dust and drifted effortlessly into the mass' outstretched arms.

Inspector Nigel Chelm hung, lifeless, from the branches of a Massachusetts elm.

A shaky eye narrowed its myopic focus. Its iris opened to suck in the scant light offered by the electric lamp that led the way through the submerged maze, so fabled for the beast that once paced its intertwining halls. An abrupt cough from the eye's beholder arced its vision toward the all-consuming darkness where ground ought to have laid. "Why--kagg--does it smell--kauff--like a Crayola factory blew up in here?"

The lantern paused. "Look up." Its body shifted to illuminate the corridor's ceiling, lined at inch-long increments by melted candles, clinging--in stalactite fashion--to their tarnished bronze holders. "Now, do try to keep quiet. We don't want to lose the element of surprise."

Ice-cold tendrils emerged from the darkness and coiled around the neck of the light's carrier. As undead fingers squeezed the last gasps from the throat of the blue-faced blonde, her jaw clenched, and her grip tightened. The lamp swung through the air, a time-lapsed sun that set across the gnashing teeth of a pallid beast. Sparks exploded from the collision, lighting the long-dormant--yet still fragrant--candles along the hall. The blonde syphoned a tornado of musty air through her nostrils, expanding her aching lungs, while the creature--hunched on all fours, nude breasts swinging like leather pendulums--hissed through shattered fangs. Licking black blood from lavender lips, the vampire lunged for her prey. A well-timed back flip ensured the blonde's brown boot cracked the beast's bald head. As the undead shook sense back into its mind, the live act shouted to the man behind the all-seeing eye--or, rather, the statue of fright, standing in a puddle of same: "Little help here!"

Acting on instinct, instead of anything resembling cogent thought, the youth flung the case in his left hand at his companion. On impact with the cobblestone floor, the container split open, revealing the sum of its contents: one acoustic guitar, two shotguns, and plenty of ammunition. The vampire leapt into the air, brandishing the remnants of its incisors and aiming straight for the girl's choker. The blonde, unimpressed, waited for the creature to near, then head-butted its exposed diaphragm. As the beast crumbled into the ground, clinging the dent in its abdomen and wheezing wildly, the young woman picked up the guitar, strummed the opening notes to a familiar song, adjusted the second peg on its head, hefted the instrument over her head, and named that tune: "London Calling...!"

A rough hewn hand cradled her slender body, as a calloused thumb massaged her exposed sternum, sparking her to life. The steady flame of the black Zippo passed over the tip of a Lucky Strike. The man took a sharp drag and held his breath. Nicotine shot through his vacant veins, and he sighed smoke and disquiet. "Fuck, I hate Boston."

To his left, his companion studied the road ahead through two layers of tinted plastic. Adjusting her silver Raybans, she ignored her well-founded sense of impending regret and acknowledged the lingering lament, so cloaked in carcinogen. "I'll bite."

"Heard that about you, you saucy minx." Loose embers plunged to their grave, a chasm of black plastic, waiting to be filled by debris and refuse.

The driver drew her amethyst lips into her left cheek, dimpling it. "What do you have against Boston?"

"Oh, you mean aside from the incongruous juxtaposition of the holier-than-thou, pseudo-intellectual rich, who grandfathered their way into the Ivy League, to the wholly ignorant working class that can't even pronounce 'chowder' properly?"

"Yes, aside from that."

The passenger smoothed back the sides of his dirty blond hair, bound in a loose bun at the nape of his pale neck. "I have no patience for historical bullshit." Snagging a quick puff of his smoke, he sat forward, resting his forearms on the dash, freeing his fingers to punctuate and emote with restrained flicks and waves. "The so-called 'Boston Massacre' was just a fucking snowball fight that got out of hand when a British soldier with an itchy trigger finger got hit in the face. A couple of kids died, but who gives a goddamn? A couple of kids die every day from huffing spray paint cans, yet the news has never gone ape-shit over an 'Aerosol Massacre.'For an honest-to-God massacre, you need an inbred Texan and a chainsaw."

"Uh...huh..." Her ears may have been listening, but her mind wasn't buying an ounce of that.

"And, the Sons of Liberty--led by a guy who's best known as a fucking beer mascot--were, frankly, a bunch of pussies. It takes no balls at all to chuck tea into the ocean. A half-retarded sloth with one eye and no legs could pull that feat off, if it ever got off its lazy, amputated ass. Had those bastards stormed the British barracks, muskets ablaze, they may have deserved some clout. Instead, they decided to play dress up and didn't even have the common decency to offer lemon. Liberty should've had a abortion."

"And, that's why you hate Boston?"

"Well...that and, the last time I was here, I had some bad blood." The man slumped back into the cloth-covered seat.

"How bad?" The woman checked her mirrors before changing lanes.

"Sickle cell. Ever run afoul of that nonsense?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Consider yourself lucky." He snubbed his spent cigarette into the ashtray. "That shit shredded my throat. I couldn't speak for a week."

She took her turn. "Can't imagine what that must've been like."

Alder and ash splintered against ghoulish gristle. A moist yelp escaped the blood-filled lungs of the alabaster monster, as its head ceased to exist.

"The Lamia? Well, they got the lame part right..." Sarcasm sputtered from the mouth of the youth, watching the last digital frames flicker to dusk, while he stepped into the in-house theater.

"Quite." Her nail, chipped at the tip, dragged across the mouse-pad on her MacBook Pro, an action repeated a moment later on the oversized screen that draped the far wall. The pointer clicked an isosceles triangle, turned on its side, and the clip began anew.

"How many times are you going to watch this?" He fell into the unoccupied recliner, lined with velvet and stuffed with goose down.

"As many as it takes to learn from my mistakes." She paid him little heed, honing, instead, on the dimly lit video.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "What mistakes? You vanquished the evil, didn't you?"

Hers furrowed in concentration. "She caught me off guard."

Astonishment parted his jaw. "That was my fault. I distracted you."

Annoyance kept hers tight. "No. I should've been listening more intently."

His hands swept over his spiky hair, jutting haphazardly from his scalp. "No offense meant, Else, but you're coming off as kinda...narcissistic."

Hers remained at the keys, ready to restart the Quicktime file as soon as it reached its inevitable conclusion. "I'm the daughter of the world's foremost monster hunter, Tomas. I'm entitled to a little self-involvement."

"Yeah, I get the whole 'following in your father's footsteps' thing. Well, actually, I don't, since my dad's a pushover and his dad's insane, but..." His voice drifted a moment, as thoughts were recollected and revised. "Look, there's a fine-line between family pride and egotism."

Her gaze finally broke, in the guise of a sideways glance. "Where do I fall?"

"On the pithy side."

"Pithy?"

"Yeah, man." Tomas Dluga began to beam, aware he captured his friend's interest. "No one likes the pith. It's bitter. It's coarse. It ruins a perfectly good piece of fruit. If you can stomach fruit in the first place. Which I can't. Because of the acid reflux. But, if I could, I'd hate the pith because it's...you know..."

"Pithy," Elsa Bloodstone concluded.

He smirked. "And, they called you slow in school."

She did not. "What did they call you?"

"Absent." Tomas leaned back into soft support. "I Ferris Bueller'd my way through my entire elementary education."

Elsa remained steadfast, perched on the edge of her seat. "Yet, you managed to pass with no trouble."

"I've got a way with words." He shrugged.

"Do you insult them often as well?" she grilled.

"Hey, I meant no harm. No foul." His hands found the air. "Truth be told, I like pith. I admire the pith. If it weren't for the bitter, you'd never know the sweet."

Her eyes chuckled, when her throat refused. "If you can stomach fruit."

"Well...yeah." Dluga rubbed the nape of his neck. "I speak only in the hypothetical."

Bloodstone allowed a slight laugh to escape. "You're a terrible liar."

"Trust me: it doesn't stop at lying."

"Your camera work is pretty shoddy, as well."

"Oh, you wound me." Leaning forward, he reached into her lap and slapped the spacebar. The picture paused. "Even without a guitar."

She closed the lid of her portable computer and placed it on the cherry table between the velvet chairs. "I do need to find a more portable weapon."

"Like--what--drumsticks? A tambourine?" Tomas served.

"Actually, Davy Jones," Elsa volleyed. "I was thinking more along the lines of...daggers."

He built upon her base: "With wooden tips."

She provided the capstone: "And silver hilts."

"I can dig it." Dluga swiped his nose with the flat of his thumb. "But, uh, where are you going to get your hands on those?"

"Eh..." Bloodstone pulled her ponytail tight with both hands. "I'm sure my father has something laying about."

The charcoal grey Honda Civic unhinged its doors, like the jaw of a bulimic, to purge its passengers. Two bodies stumbled out on stiff legs.

"Let's make this quick." The woman's head rolled to relieve the kink in her neck. Her alternating locks of amethyst and onyx spun through the air, a hypnotic pinwheel.

"Not the first time a lady's told me that." Plastic gloves snapped into place across the man's wrists. His hips thrust forward, as his back arced, forcing trapped air from between vertebrae.

"We're about to become a threesome." The hood of her jumpsuit, the color of a starless midnight, came to cover all but her two-toned bangs. Clipping her silver sunglasses to her collar, her irises--clear, save the slightest sliver of cyan--acclimated to the dim light offered by canopy.

"Or that." Golden goggles straddled his nose and sucked his face. He threaded his arms through his jumpsuit's jacket and zipped it to mid-chest, revealing a triangle of his white undershirt. The hood remained folded against his back, below his bun. "So, who's going to turn our dynamic duo into a full-fledged party? I'm not lucky enough for it to be a bi-curious sorority girl, whose dad just bought her a new set of tits for her twenty-first birthday under the impression that showering his only daughter--that he's willing to acknowledge, anyway--with gifts adequately compensates for never showing her any real live while growing up. And, he, of course, was dead-on in that supposition."

"Where do you come up with this shit?" Her mouth handled the talking; her feet, the walking--through untamed overgrowth, waiting--with the patience of a monk in his thirteenth year of silent meditation--to ensnare the foot of an unannounced guest and to bring the interloper's body tumbling into the ground, to suffocate under a pillow of slipshod soil and fall-flavored foliage.

"On the toilet." His boots struggled to keep apace with her harried strides. His lungs struggled to provide sufficient oxygen to the rest of his organs. "Seriously, who's it going to be? The pizza guy? The pool boy? Not the plumber..."

She shifted her weight to her left leg, then swung her right across the width of a felled elm, and hurdled the log. "A motorcyclist with a leather fetish."

He admired the view from behind and took the long way around. "That narrows it down substantially."

Her glassy eyes peered over her right shoulder. "Can't you feel his intense stare, studying your every move?"

His whole form tensed with realization. "I wish he'd stop undressing me with his mind."

"You'd prefer he used his hands?" A grin parted her lips and bared her sharpened fangs.

"Well played." His hands stuffed into his side pockets, his shoulders still ill at easy. "So, where's the guy we shot out of the sky?"

"Straight ahead." She offered a directional nod. "Dangling like a meat pinata."

"My favorite kind." His tongue traced the edge of a pointed canine, slicking it with saliva.

As the pair of hunters eyed their prey, held aloft by nature's noose, a mechanical roar of delight flooded the forest. Branches broke. Roots blistered. Leaves mulched. Dirt ascended into opaque clouds. The man set his jaw. The woman clenched her fists. And, he appeared. His trench-coat billowed behind his crouched body. His wild eyes devoured every detail of his surroundings. His lips creased in perpetual scowl. His fingers flexed. His bike...stopped.

"Holy crap, it's Mr. T," the blond man mocked.

The rider revved his engine and peeled out. His chest pressed against the bike, as the distance between both parties narrowed. As he neared, his eyes never wavering from his targets, his right arm lashed out, snapped off a low branch, and launched it at the male. It tore through the blond's goggles and impaled his left eye before he could so much as blink.

"Fool," the cyclist spat, halting a mere five feet from his adversaries.

"Fuck, I hate Boston," the blond bemoaned, as he wrapped both hands around the organic projectile and yanked it from his face. His eye hugged the end of the stick, a bloody marshmallow ready to be roasted.

"How'd you catch our trail?" his companion's voice quivered slightly, poking a glaring hole in her otherwise stern facade. Her clenched fists never moved from her sides.

"I followed the scent of fresh blood." His larynx charred the words. His tongue flayed them. His teeth stripped them to the bone.

"Knew I should've gotten a to-go box for that waitress." The man in the jumpsuit plucked his eyeball off the tip of the twig with his thumb and forefinger. Staring at it, he applied force until it burst open, spewing cornea and retina, nerves and blood vessels, rods and cones.

"Or sealed her in the trunk of flopping her in the back seat," the woman--stuck in her static pose, for a reason she couldn't quite define--added as an afterthought.

The blond nodded. "Or--"

"--I'll cut your tongue out and make you clean every decaying inch of that dead man's body with it, if you don't shut your mouth," the man on the motorcycle barked. He turned his gaze to the distaff hunter. "Who's in the tree?"

"Inspector Nigel Chelm, of Scotland Yard." Her voice was hollow, emotionless.

"Why kill him?"

"He has information we were sent to collect."

The man in the leather cocked an eyebrow.

The woman in the jumpsuit gulped. "In a letter."

The motorcyclist threw a curt nod her way. Then, in one smooth motion, he flipped back his coat, drew twin glocks from their side holsters, and fired. The barrage nearly sawed her in half across her abdomen. Her partner lunged to stop the gunman, only to get clipped in the throat and both lungs. While the duo busied themselves with dying (for a second time), their hitman flipped through the air, kicked off the trunk of an elm tree, unsheathed his namesake, and sliced the inspector out of his harness.

Nigel Chelm's corpse crumpled. His head lulled to the side, into a pile of trampled leaves. His jaw unfurled. And, a balled up envelope fell out.

Blade landed in a crouch, on two feet and one hand, in front of the deceased. After slipping his sword back into the scabbard on his back, he picked up the document and smoothed it against his bent knee. On its cover was a solitary word:

Bloodstone.

A chiseled hand clasped the jaw of a gargoyle, forced fingers through its snarl, and smashed the demon's mandible twice into solid oak. The mouth hung loose, awaiting the next knock, as the door swung open.

The sum of a lifetime spent studying archaic tomes in the gloom of medieval dungeons and hidden libraries hunched in the entrance. Affixing thick spectacles behind his hairy ears, the historian took stock of the man outside: a stoic behemoth, clad in black, with eyes that spoke insanity and determination. Fifty-seven years of wrinkles--so few born of laughter--seized with awareness, then forcibly slackened. A dry cough mobilized tired vocal chords. "Blade, I presume?"

The vampire hunter nodded. "Indeed."

"Do come in." The historian side-stepped to allow easy passage through the seven foot high frame, lined with iron ivy, into the manse.

Blade marched inside and turned to stare down his feeble, bald host. "Where's Bloodstone?"

"Ah, I'm afraid Ulysses is otherwise occupied at this time." The fifty-seven year-old held the door's silver knob firmly in hand, refusing to let it go or shut.

"When will he be back?" The Daywalker skewered the historian with a glance. Daggers of sight pierced into spine, birthing goose-bumps.

"Just as soon as someone resurrects him," a female voice, marked by boarding school refinement, interjected from the mouth of the dark corridor that led deeper into the heart of Bloodstone Manor.

Blade's head spun in her direction. "Who...?"

"Elsa." The blonde Brit offered her hand. He refused to shake. "Bloodstone's daughter."

The human-vampire hybrid pivoted the rest of his body to face the girl of questionable lineage. And, question he did. "Proof?"

She tapped the crimson gem at the center of her black choker. "His business is my business."

Blade eyed the stone and let his gaze linger on her exposed neck. "Fair enough."

Footsteps--light and quick--echoed up the hall. "Sorry I'm late." The young man stopped at Elsa's side, panting slightly. Breath caught, he acknowledged the noted vampire hunter. "Richard Roundtree called. He wants his schtick back."

"Ya damn right," the youthful Bloodstone mumbled under her breath.

The Daywalker sneered at the boy, whose patchy stubble placed him at twenty, roughly the same age as Bloodstone's offspring, if far less mature. "This doesn't concern you."

"You antagonizing my father does." The twenty year-old clenched his fists and took a step in the hybrid's direction.

"Easy, Tom." Elsa rested a hand against her friend's chest, ready to restrain him at any moment.

Tomas Dluga stepped down and hastened toward his father. "You cool, dad?"

"I'm fine, son," the elder Dluga assured, easing his grip on the door. "I'm merely curious as to what brings our guest here at this late hour."

"We all are," Bloodstone concurred, cocking an eyebrow at their so-called 'guest'. "Let's have it, then."

Fishing into the trenches of his coat, Blade retrieved the envelope, marked with Elsa's surname. "I found this on the corpse of a man named Chelm."

Tomas' father gasped. "Nigel's dead? You didn't--!"

"No." The Daywalker shook his head, from left to right and back, a single time. "A pair of vampires shot him out of the sky. I followed them to where he landed." He handled the epistle to the blonde.

She noted the unhinged flap. "It's been opened."

"I checked it before coming here," Blade admitted, albeit without any sense of wrongdoing. "Couldn't make sense of the numbers."

Bloodstone unfurled the folded piece of paper inside the envelope, read over the typed text, and passed it to her friend. "It's too long for an address or phone number."

The younger Dluga shrugged. "Could be some kinda code."

"It's a path," his father revealed without so much as looking at the series of digits. The historian took a deep breath and headed for the hall. "Follow me."

A throbbing thumb, glazed in sweat, traced the single line of text, stopping at the seventh integer in the set of thirteen. Anxious eyes glanced between the page in hand and the twisting passage ahead. "We should take the next left."

"I'll take your word on it, Mister Dluga." Elsa Bloodstone steadied her flashlight, in effort to illuminate both the tunnel and the letter her companion held.

"Please, call me Edgar," the bald historian requested, keeping his gaze on the path. "We've known each other for too long to continue with such formalities."

"All right, Edgar." The blonde smiled to herself since he couldn't be bothered. "When were these pathways built?"

"The late sixteen hundreds, I'd say, given the natural erosion evident." He checked the text again. "They form the northern hub of the underground railroad. If you were to continue ahead, you'd eventually cross the border and finally arrive in Quebec, just outside Montreal."

"But, we're taking the next left."

"Right. Correct, that is."

"That's west, isn't it?"

"Right again. Or correct, rather." The historian came to an abrupt halt at a cross-section, no more than ten feet across. "Here we are, then." Moving his thumb over to the eighth digit, he continued apace down the corridor to the left.

"Christ, if I never see another underground tunnel, I'll die a happy man," his son groaned, carrying a Panasonic DVCPro at chest level at the back of the pack.

"You'll die anyway," Blade promised, two steps ahead, his body submerged in shadow. His vision remained carefully attuned to the contours of Elsa's figure.

"Hey, man, could you quit eye-humping my best friend? I know her body's lithe and nubile and her accent's irresistible and her skills are formidable, but we could do without the lawsuit."

"I don't follow."

"Allow me to spell it out for you, then." Holding his AG-HVX200 at arm's length, Tomas spun it one hundred and eighty degrees to shoot him in the face. His free hand flipped the viewer window over to check the framing of his head and adjusted the F-stop to account for the lack of light. "You're into Else because of the aforementioned. She's into you because you're tall, dark, and damaged. The two of you form an unshakable bond, based largely on lust. And, after the shit inevitably hits the fan, you crazy kids hook up. Things go well because, hell, how couldn't they? And, you achieve a moment of pure happiness that strips you of your soul and turns you into the blood-sucking monster you constantly fear becoming. Through the magic of the internet and horny bloggers around the globe, if not the cosmos, word--and a grainy video, shot in night vision--gets out about your hot, steamy, secret rendezvous. And, twenty-four hours later, Elsa and I get slapped with a copyright infringement suit, dig?"

Blade blinked. "No. Not at all."

"Probably for the best." The videographer flipped his camera back around and zoomed in on the black void where a vampire hunter might have lurked. "Just keep your inner demon in your pants, okay?"

"Don't worry." The Daywalker peered over his shoulder, revealing only the whites of his eyes through the consuming darkness. "I'm chaste."

"And, mothers everywhere breathe a sigh of relief."

Bloodstone crossed her arms below her bust, as a smirk played across her lips. "If you're quite through defending my honor, Tomas, we're here." Her right index finger pointed toward a stainless steel ladder, leading into the top of the tunnel. "I'll go first to ensure everything's on the up and up. Edgar, you're next, since you're the man with the plan. Tom, you'll follow your dad. And, that leaves Blade for last. Understood?"

A series of affirmations were uttered, while Elsa latched onto the ladder. Crouching low on the barely visible ground, Tomas Dluga recorded his partner's ascent from a dramatic worm's eye view--the kind of angle that would accentuate certain assets to ensure high traffic at their site. At the end of her climb, the blonde felt for the roof and shoved a smooth panel upward. A blistering ray of white light flooded the pathway, and the trio of men recoiled, temporarily blinded.

"I'll never get used to that," Edgar admitted, as he grasped for a rung with an unguided hand. Finally feeling something smooth, his fingers ensnared a bar. While the elder Dluga scaled stainless steel, the younger stowed his high-definition camera in its carrying case. After latching it shut, he followed his father.

Tomas poked his head through the hole and was immediately hit with a fist of familiarity. Pulling the rest of his body out of the tunnel, he surveyed the room with a look of pure bewilderment. Row after row of locked boxes stared back, indifferent. "We're in...the post office?"

"You seem disappointed," his father noted, unsurprised.

"Well...yeah." Instinctively, the cameraman's reached for their device of choice, flipped open the viewer window, and pressed record. A pan started on P.O. boxes and ended on...Blade's chest. "Jaysis!" Tom stumbled backward. "Scared me half to death, man."

"Remind me to finish the job later." The Daywalker brushed past the youth to address the historian. "Which box?"

The bald man looked down at the paper one last time. "2465, according to this."

Blade repeated the number aloud and began stalking the rows.

"Um... It should be this way." Edgar motioned in the opposite direction with his cranium, and his legs headed down a path they knew well. The twenty year-olds followed in his footsteps.

Tomas adjusted a ring on his Panasonic to keep his father in focus. "So, maybe I'm missing the obvious here--"

"Maybe?" Elsa winked at him.

"Ha. Ha," the videographer forced out. "But, seriously, why a post office?"

"No other venue offers the same level of accessibility and anonymity. And, should something need to be sent hastily, the level of convenience cannot be topped," the historian explained patiently, his eyes scanning laser-etched numbers all the while.

"What all is stored here, then?" the son followed up.

"Specifically? I haven't a clue. Generally? Any object or piece of information that is either transient in nature or better left in the hands of no one." Edgar slowed his strides, as they neared the box of interest. "At last estimate, sixty-four percent of these mailboxes contained items related to the occult. The rest are vacant or used by the public or both."

"Adam isn't going to believe this." Tomas turned his camera toward the rows once more, allowing the eventual viewers to gaze upon them with new meaning.

"Why wouldn't he?" It was the father's turn to inquire. "He's been to this location and others countless times while under the employ of the Bloodstones. Why do you suppose he and I carry so very many keys when so few of the doors in the manor have locks?"

His offspring stood still, stupefied. "I'll be damned."

"As if you weren't already," Elsa chaffed, not at all stunned by the recent revelations.

"Ahem. You may wish to record this." The elder Dluga retrieved the crowded key-ring from the right pocket of his tweed jacket, thumbed through the volley of steel replicas, held a slitary key between his forefinger and thumb, and inserted it into the rather unremarkable lock on the face of box 2465. Pulling open the thin cover, the old man peered inside. As his eyes strained, his hands moved to procure the unknown. They emerged, gripping an obsidian vase, no more than three inches in height and five at the base.

"There's an inscription," Bloodstone noted, refusing to hide her growing excitement. "Can you decipher it?"

The historian ran his fingers down the engraving. "It's an archaic form of Turkish, with a Arabic and Persian undertones." He took a sharp breath in through his nose. "The language of the Ottoman Empire." Staring over the rim of his spectacles, he began to translate. "It reads: 'Contained within is the essence of evil.'" Edgar gulped before concluding.

"The Devil's Dust," Blade rasped, as he approached with determined strides.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Elsa stood to face the vampire hunter.

"It means you're in over your head, little girl." He stopped an inch from her face, staring square in the eye.

"The Devil's Dust is believed to be the ash of Varnae, the first vampire, collected after he sired his successor, Vlad Tepes, and walked into the sunrise," the historian explicated from memory. "Legend has it: if a mortal were to inhale the contents of this vase, he would be granted the abilities of a vampire without suffering a death. If a vampire were to inhale the contents, however, his every weakness would vanish. He would, in essence, become Blade."

The Daywalker snarled at Bloodstone, who refused to back down.

"We need to get that to a safer location immediately," she commanded, glaring at the hybrid.

"Agreed." Blade's hands slowly slid back his coat, his gaze unwavering.

"We'll take it back to the manor and house it in the basement, under Adam's watch." Elsa narrowed her eyes, attempting to read the Daywalker's next move from his static facade.

"One small problem." The vampire hunter slid his twin glocks from their holsters and fired. Slugs minced the knees of Tomas Dluga. Who fell to the floor. Onto bloody stumps. Before slumping backward. Into rows of post office boxes boxes. The camera never stopped recording. "Your friend needs medical attention."

"Jesus Christ..!" Elsa Bloodstone screamed, as she lunged for her collapsed friend.

"My...my god..." Tears streamed down Edgar Dluga's face, filling the creases of his fifty-seven years like a hurricane rampaging over long-dormant riverbeds.

Blade snatched the vase from the historian's limp hands and dove into the underground.

The cloven hand of dawn flayed black flesh from the sky. Taut straps of iridescence snapped across the earth, striking at the overwhelming darkness, casting it into submission, however temporary. The sun flexed its arms, victorious, and beat own upon Boston with a renewed vigor. With a new day, so, too, came new opportunity.

Taking shelter in the shade of an indigenous elm, a pair of poachers--cloaked in midnight, save their naked mouths--exercised their patience, stretching inactivity to its thinnest limit. As restlessness threatened to break free from its staid cage, birds began to clamor, singing not the melody of morning but issuing a harsh warning. The flock fled. Twigs snapped in an all-too-familiar utterance. Foliage ruffled under frantic footsteps. The labored breath of a marathon runner, a quarter mile from the finish line, mocking him in the distance, thudded ever closer.

Drawing upon his last ounce of adrenaline, Blade leapt the iron rod gate of the manicured estate. A fist met his crotch on the other side. A foot found his face. His weary body slammed into the fiberglass fairing of his awaiting rod, the motorcycle that broke his fall and cracked his back. Fuming, the Daywalker twisted his neck to view his assailants.

"Miss us?" The man in the golden goggles extracted a blinking device, the size of an newborn's palm, from the side pocket of his jumpsuit. Aiming its pincers at the felled slayer, the poacher pressed the strobe. The taser shot into Blade's neck and released its lethal charge. Agony pinched every nerve in the Daywalker's dermis. Smoke poured from the point of impact, instantly cauterized.

The hybrid howled. "How...!?"

"We followed the trail of fresh blood," the shooter parroted, grinning maliciously.

"Our blood." Neon blue sparks arced across the tinted plastic of his associate's silver sunglasses. "Your bike picked up quite a bit when you left us to rot."

"It takes more than bullets to kill a vampire." The intensity increased, forced to the maximum dosage.

"Even if they are filled with oak shavings." The woman swept her two-toned bangs out of her eyes, as she approached the slayer. Holding her left palm toward her partner, she spoke in pacific tones. "That'll be enough. For now." Her hands roamed over smoldering leather, scalding to the touch, even behind a protective layer of rubber. Shuffling through the countless compartments, hidden within the vampire hunter's jacket, she felt a bulge. A smile traipsed across her amethyst lips.

Delicately fingering the vessel, she traced the inscription that disrupted its smooth surface. Her smile spread. Eager hands wrapped around the vase and brought it into the light. Her companion retracted his electrode and dropped the device back into his pocket. "Is it...?"

"It is." Anxious energy shook her core, as she fumbled to uncork the obsidian container. With a soothing breath, she steadied her hand and unscrewed the lid.

Removing his protective eye-wear, the man came to stand beside his colleague. "Shall I?"

She nodded her affirmation. "Please." He gently plucked her sunglasses from her face. Her clear eyes met his hazel.

And, the Officers of the Night inhaled the Devil's Dust.