Contents
Cover
Novels of the Marvel Universe by Titan Books
Title Page
Leave us a review
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Act One: City of Shadows
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Act Two: Arena of Blood
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Act Three: Dark Fire Rising
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
The story continues...
Caged Carnage
A Brief History of Blood Ties
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A NOVEL OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE
BLOOD TIES
NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS
Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr
Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett
Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore
Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland
Captain America: Dark Designs by Stefan Petrucha
Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe
Civil War by Stuart Moore
Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha
Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha
Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid
Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Omnibus by Jim Butcher, Keith R.A. DeCandido, and Christopher L. Bennett (forthcoming)
Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus by Diane Duane
Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore
Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck
X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine
X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore
X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden
X-Men & The Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox
ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS
Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies
Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies
Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak
Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed
The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas
The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas
Ant-Man and the Wasp: The Official Movie Special
Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special
Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special
Black Panther: The Official Movie Companion
Black Panther: The Official Movie Special
Captain Marvel: The Official Movie Special
Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years
Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special
Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special
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MORBIUS: THE LIVING VAMPIRE – BLOOD TIES
Hardback edition ISBN: 9781789094855
E-book edition ISBN: 9781789095661
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First hardback edition: March 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING
Jeff Youngquist, VP Production and Special Projects
Caitlin O’Connell, Assistant Editor, Special Projects
Sven Larsen, VP, Licensed Publishing
David Gabriel, SVP of Sales & Marketing, Publishing
C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
© 2021 MARVEL
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
This book is dedicated to Roy Thomas and Gil Kane, the creators of Morbius;
and to Don McGregor, Rich Buckler, and Pablo Marcos,
the creators of Amanda Saint.
I’m guessing the latter three gentlemen never imagined that a random
supporting character they created in 1973 would return,
co-starring in a novel, forty-seven years later.
PROLOGUE
JOHNNY SWEAT was nervous.
He’d followed instructions. He always followed instructions, at least when there was a payday promised at the end of the job.
When there wasn’t anything in it for him? Not so much. That attitude had gotten him in trouble his whole life, but he got by. At least that’s what he had always told himself.
He’d been troubled since he was a kid… emotionally and sometimes even physically abused by a single dad who couldn’t hold down a job and kept searching for happiness at the bottom of any given bottle. Johnny had fled their tiny Midwest town when he was fifteen and had never looked back. New York City looked great on TV and in the movies. All those people and opportunities. He knew he could make something of himself in a place like that.
Or thought so, at least.
His entitled attitude didn’t serve him well, though. He followed orders when he was slinging French fries at a burger joint, but he sometimes did it with a sneer. And one night when his manager told him he had a bad attitude, Johnny rewarded the guy with a right cross to the nose. He was promptly fired and arrested, in that order.
Once he had a criminal record, Johnny could no longer find legitimate work. Which, when he thought about it, was just fine with him. When he took on his first illegitimate job, working as a bagman during a convenience store robbery, he knew he had finally found his calling.
As time passed, he
did his best to keep his deep-seated anger in check. It was a little easier when surrounded by other low-level criminals like him. They were all angry.
Johnny started making some money. Not insane amounts, but enough to enjoy life a little bit. Buy a nice steak dinner now and then. Buy a bottle from the top shelf every month or so. Go on a date with a pretty girl. There was almost never a second date.
That’s fine, he would tell himself. I didn’t really like that one anyway.
He did what he had to in order to survive in an increasingly crazy world. Had worked for some of the biggest names in New York City crime. Owlsley. Lincoln. Russo. Even Fisk. Sure, he’d only been a grunt, following instructions—but he did his work to the letter, doing his best not to talk back when his bosses talked down to him. As a result, the work was steady.
Until it wasn’t.
With all the super freaks swinging and flying around the city, the jobs had started to thin out. Steak dinners were replaced with greasy fast food. He could only stare longingly at the top shelf before buying a handful of those airplane-size bottles of booze. And there were no more dates.
He’d let himself go. Hair was longer. Stomach was bigger. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a real shower. His hot water had been shut off weeks ago. So, when Johnny Sweat heard from a friend of a friend about an easy score, his ears perked up. Things had been hard for a while. At this point, Johnny deserved a little “easy.”
The instructions were simple. Weirdly simple, but still…
Go to the Second Avenue subway stop at 72nd Street, at 3 a.m. Head to the front of the platform—the north end. Wait until everyone gets on a train. When there’s no one in sight, walk down the stairs and into the tunnel. Keep going for a quarter mile.
“There aren’t a ton of trains at that time of night but walk fast anyway,” the guy said. “You never know. When you come to the third door on your right—make sure it’s the third one—open it and walk down another long set of stairs. Then wait. Someone will meet you.”
It seemed pretty bizarre, but in the last five years, Johnny had done stranger. Had seen things his father wouldn’t have believed. Gods flying through the air—at least they called them gods. Robots walking through walls. A guy made out of orange rocks—and that was when Johnny wasn’t drinking.
He entered the station, went through the turnstile.
He’d heard stories about the subway tracks. About homeless people who lived underground. Sometimes nine-to-fivers caught glimpses of them on their way to work or home or wherever the hell nine-to-fivers went. He’d never seen any of those tunnel dwellers himself, but he’d heard the rumors. Had heard that some of them could get crazy, could get violent… That some of them were even mutants.
So he brought his favorite knife with him when he headed toward Second Avenue at 2:45 a.m. on a Sunday night… or Monday morning, or whatever the hell it was. He couldn’t afford a gun, but he figured the knife would do just fine. It always had. Johnny knew how to handle a knife, especially this one. It was the only thing he’d stolen from his father when he’d left home all those years ago.
Even so, as Johnny hit the bottom of the stairs and waited for the train to arrive and pick up the few people scattered across the platform, he was nervous.
He’d forgotten his flask on the small table by the door of his run-down, dingy apartment. There wasn’t much left in it, admittedly, but even just a swig right now would have calmed his rattled nerves. He didn’t like this job already. He didn’t even know who he was working for, or what the job was, but he needed the scratch. Bad. He was late on rent… very late… and he hadn’t had a decent meal in a couple of days.
This gig could change everything.
Finally, the damn train came screeching into the station, the conductor a dark shadow behind smudged glass. The people got on board and, after the train sat there for what seemed like forever, the doors let out their telltale two-note ring and then closed.
The train didn’t move.
“Come on,” Johnny said out loud.
As if in response, the train lurched forward, then picked up speed and headed down the tunnel into the growing shadows until it was gone, its echo reverberating and then fading away entirely.
The subway station was silent.
Johnny looked around. During the entire five years he’d been in the city, he had never been totally alone like this on a train platform. Lights flickered on and off silently overhead. Rats emerged and scurried along the tracks, hunting for discarded food.
Taking a deep breath, Johnny stepped over the small chain that ostensibly kept people from entering the tracks, and walked down the several metal stairs that led into the subway tunnel itself. A cool breeze wafted toward him from the darkness, carrying a smell of garbage and urine that almost made him gag. Suppressing the urge, he trudged forward.
After a few minutes, Johnny stopped and looked back. The subway station wasn’t that far away but its lights already looked dim, as if he was looking at them through gauze. He realized that his eyes were watering from a combination of the smell and fear, and he cursed himself. Then he turned back around and continued walking.
He passed one graffiti-covered door, and then a second a minute or so later. He glanced back again. He could barely see the subway station at all anymore. He fought the urge to bolt, go home and figure out another way to make some money.
And that’s when he noticed it.
Headlights. Heading toward the 72nd Street stop behind him. Squinting, he quickly realized it wasn’t a regular train. It was one of those “Out of Service” cars that blasted through subway stations. And it would be on top of him in no time at all. Even if he wanted to go back to the platform, he’d never make it in time.
Johnny whipped around and sprinted. He had no idea how close that third door would be, but figured he didn’t have much time. He could hear the train rumbling closer behind him, louder than a normal engine. Never a religious man, not even close, he nonetheless prayed out loud for God to save him as his feet pounded the damp and uneven concrete strip that stretched next to the tracks.
The train hurtled closer, its horn blasting repeatedly, its brakes beginning to screech. Its light filled the tunnel, throwing sharp-edged shadows against the ground and walls. The conductor must have noticed a crazy person running along the tracks. Even with the brakes activated, though, there was no way the train could stop in time. Johnny felt the wind from the oncoming train swirl against his back just as he spotted the third door up on the right. He pushed himself harder, moving faster than he thought possible, and threw himself toward the door.
If it was locked, he was a dead man.
Johnny Sweat closed his eyes.
His shoulder hit the metal door.
It slammed open and Johnny fell forward, landing with enough force to knock one of the sneakers right off his foot. The train barreled past, brakes still screeching even though there was no longer a need. The door slammed shut again on its own.
He lay there on his back for several minutes, panting, eyes screwed shut, his chest on fire. Then he turned over and roared vomit all over the metal on which he was lying.
A few long moments passed, the sound of the train receding and then disappearing completely. Johnny caught his breath, swallowed, tried to ignore the terrible taste in his mouth. He suddenly realized how quiet it was. Opening his eyes, he got to his feet and took in his surroundings. Or attempted to.
It was dark in here… wherever he was.
Johnny blinked against the darkness and, after a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom. He was standing on a small metal platform with a single bar at waist height, presumably to keep people from falling. If Johnny had moved a little farther forward while he was puking…
Peering over the metal bar, Johnny’s stomach turned as he realized that all he could see from where he was standing was inky blackness. He wasn’t a fan of heights… never had been. He’d worked plenty of rooftop jobs where h
e’d had to hide his terror, but it was always there, like some kind of childhood monster come to life.
Off to one side, a rusty metal staircase disappeared into the shadows. He glanced over his shoulder at the door through which he’d just come. There was still a chance to walk away from this. To head back to his tiny apartment and figure some other way out, maybe even try to get a legit job again. It had been something he’d been thinking about for a while… Maybe even go home and look up his dad? He’d been having dreams about him lately… realized maybe he even missed him.
Johnny shook his head, willing the emotions away. No. This was a good opportunity. The friend who’d told him about it said the pay was good and the work was easy. Johnny spit a wad of phlegm and leftover vomit into the darkness. Then he headed down the stairs.
They seemed to go on forever.
He felt like an idiot, tromping down the metal stairs wearing only one sneaker. His foot was cold, and wet. No telling what he had stepped in. He should’ve opened the door and looked for his other shoe, but the experience with the subway train had freaked him out too much. He didn’t want to risk having his head lopped off while he crawled around looking for a sneaker that had holes in its sole anyway.
So he continued down. Fifteen steps, then a small landing, turn a hundred and eighty degrees, and then another fifteen steps. Over and over again. The railing was rough against his hand, occasionally shifting under his grip where it had almost rusted away. Every now and then he could hear a train rumbling past overhead, but even that noise began to fade into the background after a while.
Finally, twenty—forty?—minutes later, Johnny reached the bottom. He was out of breath, even though he’d kept an even pace. Yep, there was no question about it, he’d let himself go over the last year or so. Too many cigarettes, too much booze. Not enough exercise, except when he was beating someone down on a boss’s orders, or running from the cops.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, hands on his knees, bent over and sucking in big breaths of air. After a while he felt his heart stop hammering and resume a reasonable pace.
Morbius Page 1