“Thank you, Amanda. I…”
She looked up at him and saw that he was struggling to speak. She had never seen him like this, and fought back a laugh, didn’t want him to think she was making fun of him. This was a new side of the living vampire, and she liked it.
“You what, Michael?”
“I’m sorry that you lost your job because of me. I know you liked it.”
“Oh,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “It’s okay. I mean, yeah, I did kinda like it, but I only took that job to help you in the first place. Besides, this will give me more time to research Demon-Fire. I’m starting to feel like the trail has gone cold. Maybe New York City was the wrong place after all. We can always move on. There was that note someone left us back in Maine about Las Vegas. And I’m sure Liz will be happy to get us out of her hair.”
“She’s kind,” he said quietly. “Like you.”
“Yeah, she’s a good one. We go way back. Hit it off immediately, the second we met. We were freaks. Guess we still are.”
“I like freaks,” Michael said.
“Yeah, me too,” Amanda replied, sitting back in the chair and closing her eyes. She was tired, but surprisingly content. In a couple of hours, when the sun rose, she would resume her search for mother and her father. But for right now? Amanda Saint was happy.
* * *
LIZ GREEN wasn’t happy.
It had been a long night. There had been some kind of corporate function at a hotel near her bar, and a gaggle of black-suited jerks had descended on the Dive Inn, taking over the place with their loud drunken voices and flailing arms and expensive haircuts and big stupid faces, driving her regulars out. They were too drunk to tip well and overstayed their welcome, until she’d been forced to turn off the music and turn on most of the lights to get them to finally leave.
One straggler had tried to convince her to go home with him, but she laughed in his face and literally shoved him out onto the sidewalk. He stood there for a minute, pouting, looking like she’d ripped apart his favorite stuffed animal, until he finally got the hint and grabbed a passing cab.
It took her a long time to clean up the mess they left behind. Fabian was supposed to stop by around 2:30 a.m. with another package of blood, but that time came and went, and still no Fabian. She called him, but it just kept ringing and ringing. He had never been the most reliable guy, but she was annoyed anyway. Amanda had told her about the effect it’d had on Michael—how they both saw it as a potential cure for his… well, murderous personality.
Sure, the broken window had been annoying, but if they really had cured a vampire, then Liz figured having to clean up some broken glass was a small price to pay.
At 3 a.m., the bar was finally in reasonable shape. She tried Fabian one last time, but he still didn’t pick up. She growled inwardly. What else could she do? Maybe he’d call later, and Amanda could pay for a car to bring him to the apartment, deliver the blood directly to the vampire. Besides, Michael had been sleeping all day, apparently the soundest sleep Amanda had ever seen him get. Maybe he’d sleep all night, too.
The trip back to her apartment wasn’t much better. Her train broke down between stations, and they were stranded there for twenty minutes, the lights flickering, the air system off, and a weird odor getting worse and worse every second that went by. She tried to move to another car, but neither door on either end would open.
“This is a fricking coffin,” she whispered.
Finally, the fans came back on, then the engine, and with a lurch the train finally lumbered forward. After a few more starts and stops, it deposited her at the station closest to her apartment building. She ignored the random guy cat-calling her a block away from her place, and then dragged herself up the four flights of stairs. She was ready for a huge glass of water, a couple of aspirin, and about four hundred hours of sleep.
* * *
“WHERE IS it?” Morbius demanded the instant she entered the apartment.
He looked terrible. His already pale skin was whiter than usual, and there were huge bags under his giant eyes. His long black hair was greasy and messy. She’d never thought of him as particularly monstrous looking—she’d dated a few guys with a similar esthetic, after all—but he sure looked like a monster right now.
Amanda stood nearby, her eyes wide with fear.
Liz had seen terror in her best friend’s eyes when they were teens. Hell, the two of them had been afraid of almost everything. But since Amanda had showed up again, Liz had been amazed at her friend’s newfound confidence. She might even credit it to Morbius. Hanging out with a vampire—one who left you alive out of pure friendship—had to have a profound effect on your sense of self-worth.
But that was gone now. Amanda looked like the scared teenager Liz had known so well.
“What’s… going on?” Liz said quietly, leaving the door unlocked in case things went south.
“Where is it?” Morbius repeated, taking a couple of unsure steps in her direction. “I need that blood!”
Liz fought to keep herself from turning around and running, calling the cops or the Avengers or whatever. She had convinced herself that Morbius would never hurt her, or maybe Amanda had convinced her of that, but right now she wasn’t so sure. But no, she couldn’t leave her best friend alone with this bloodthirsty lunatic.
For a moment, she wondered what her dad would do if she was found dead, two bloody holes torn in her neck. Who would take care of him? She forced the image away and instead held up her chin, staring directly into the vampire’s bloodshot eyes.
“I’m waiting to hear back from Fabian,” she answered, managing to keep her voice steady. “He told me he could get it, and I believe him. He probably just got busy or something. I let him know it was important.”
She held her breath, waiting.
Morbius moved away from her, a low rumble sounding in his throat. Liz released the breath. He reached the window and tore away the cardboard, a cool wind immediately pushing in and causing his hair to undulate behind him. Liz almost yelled at him, but she checked herself.
Pick your battles, Lizzie, she told herself.
Amanda looked over and her eyes said “I’m sorry.” Liz shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.” The two of them had these kinds of silent conversations all the time when they were kids. They smiled at each other. Despite the insanity of this situation, it was nice to have each other again.
“Michael,” Amanda said, stepping toward the vampire, “I know you’re in pain but you’re doing great. I’m sure Fabian will—”
“Shut up!” Morbius yelled, turning and facing her. Amanda recoiled, surprise etched onto her face. “I am so sick of your constant sniveling. You’ve dragged me halfway across the country, searching for your father, and what do we have to show for it? Nothing! I should have minded my own business when I saw you on the street.”
He stopped. Amanda’s eyes went wide with shock, then narrowed in rage. Silence filled the room, seeming to press against each of the three people within, and no one spoke for a long moment, didn’t even seem to breathe.
“You really are a monster,” Amanda whispered, then she turned and walked into the apartment’s extra room, slamming the door with enough force that the walls shook.
Liz looked at Morbius, and saw a range of emotions playing across his features, from rage to confusion to… sadness?
Enough of this, she thought, anger growing within her. She went to the table, grabbed a pad of paper, and started to write. When Morbius turned to look at her, she tore the sheet off the pad. Stepping closer to him, she glared and held it out, refusing to show any fear.
“Take it,” she said.
“What is it?” he growled, though clearly intrigued.
“It’s Fabian’s address,” she said, her eyes wide and angry. “He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t mind a pop in, and he owes me one from last New Year’s Eve. Even if he doesn’t have the blood, he can let you know where he got it. Tell him I sent you
and that we’re even. He’ll know what you mean.”
“I—” Morbius said.
“One more thing,” Liz said sharply.
“What?” he snapped back.
She stepped even closer, surprising both of them. He looked hungry.
She was pissed.
“Don’t ever come back here.”
His lips curled back, revealing his sharp fangs. They stared at each other for a long time, and then without another word, he turned around and dove out the open window.
The tension went out of Liz in an instant. She wobbled over to the kitchen and poured herself a huge glass of whiskey. After drinking it down in one slow, smooth gulp, she headed across the room and tapped lightly on Amanda’s door.
CHAPTER FIVE
MORBIUS GLIDED above the city, trying to ignore the growing ache that gnawed at his stomach.
He was hungry, there was no denying it, but some of the pain came from an overwhelming sense of guilt at treating Amanda so poorly. She was his only friend. He needed her.
“No!” he bellowed into the wind, shaking his head, angry with himself. He was Michael Morbius. He had gone toe-to-toe with super-powered humans and mutants and monsters, and he had never allowed anything to stand in the way of his goal. He wouldn’t start now.
Pushing the image of Amanda’s crestfallen face out of his mind, he continued toward his destination. He was close to the apartment building where he would find the man called Fabian. He would acquire more of that strange blood—as much as possible, slake his thirst for as long as he could—and then deal with the matters he’d left behind.
After a few more minutes, he descended and landed on top of a five-story brick building like so many in Hell’s Kitchen, that part of Midtown Manhattan infamous for drugs, prostitution, gangs, and violence. But Hell’s Kitchen had its own defender, and he had to be careful here. Even monsters like him were wary of the devil.
Morbius walked across the rooftop, gravel crunching underfoot. It was still dark out and there were a few hours before dawn. Plenty of time to take care of business. Reaching the door that led down into the building, he noticed that it was padlocked; an impressive lock that must have cost the building’s landlord a pretty penny. Morbius tore it off with barely a thought, dropping it to the ground where it clanked noisily.
Then he ripped the door open, nearly pulling it off its hinges. He was in no mood to proceed gently or with caution. Fabian was somewhere below. Fabian would make things right again. Or there would be hell to pay.
The old wooden stairs led into darkness, and Morbius slipped into the shadows. Creeping down, he could smell the helpless humans sleeping behind the closed doors, heard their soft murmuring as they stirred, could almost feel the blood pulsing through their veins. He experienced a momentary vision of going apartment to apartment, draining the blood from all who lived there. Every neck would be different, each person’s blood having a slightly different tang. The thought thrilled him, sending goosebumps all along his flesh.
Amanda’s face appeared in his mind, and he quelled his hunger.
Yet he couldn’t erase the look on her face. The fear, and betrayal. Even though he possessed great strength, and often reveled in it, deep in his heart, in a part of himself that he barely recognized anymore, he hated what he’d become. His hunger showed him no mercy, yet every time he fed, he would sink into a period of self-loathing. Often, he contemplated ways to end his suffering, and thus everyone else’s.
Until the hunger rose again.
It was a vicious cycle. One that had seemed endless… until now. If he could get his hands on more of this wondrous fluid, discover more about it, perhaps even learn to synthesize it, he might cure himself of his hunger, yet retain his incredible powers. Perhaps the name “Morbius” could come to represent… a hero.
He nearly laughed out loud as he continued down to the third floor of the dilapidated apartment building. Michael Morbius was no hero. He had killed too many people, had fought against real heroes, had nearly killed them, too. The best he could hope for was to stop being a monster.
One thing at a time, Michael, he told himself.
He reached the third floor.
The one working bulb was flickering, casting elongated shadows along the dirty walls. Morbius crept down the hallway, his other senses making up for the lack of light. He could smell cigarette smoke and sweat and fried food. The nighttime noises were louder down here, snoring and coughing and quiet conversations among other nocturnally minded people like himself. Morbius, however, was silent.
He reached the end of the hallway and stood in front of apartment 3D. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d simply knocked on a door, and just as he was about to do so, he noticed that it was slightly ajar. He glanced back down the hallway.
It was still empty.
Morbius put his clawed hand against the door and pushed. It creaked open. An unpleasant mix of smells grew stronger, as did the sound of a television, and the scent of blood. His body tensed, and he entered the gloom of the apartment.
Inside, it looked as if a bomb had gone off. He couldn’t tell if Fabian was naturally messy or if someone had ransacked the place. Cautiously, he made his way through the kitchen, past a sink filled with dirty dishes and counters covered in fast food take-out wrappers and bags, and then into what could only generously be described as a living room. All the lights in the apartment were off. Across from him, a TV blinked imagery across the room, the only source of luminescence. The noise was distracting.
The back of a reclining chair faced him. At this close proximity, Morbius could smell body odor and bad cologne and still the slight scent of blood.
“Fabian,” he said over the sound of the television. “Liz sent me.”
The TV continued to flash its images, but otherwise there was no movement. The shadows appeared and faded, a surreal tableau as Morbius made his way around the chair. First he noticed an arm, covered in black hair, and then a hand wrapped around a television remote.
Morbius continued around and then finally faced the chair’s occupant, who stared glassily at the TV in front of him, eyes wide open. He was unmoving.
And quite dead.
There were no marks on him, but Morbius heard no heartbeat, and the man’s face was unnaturally pale. Morbius fought his urges, his hunger.
Fought, and lost.
He surged forward, sinking his fangs into the dead man’s neck. The skin was still warm, and so therefore was the liquid that lay within. The flesh gave way easily and the blood filled Morbius’ mouth, running down his chin as he drank greedily. With the heart stopped, he had to work harder to extract the fluid from the veins.
The taste of the blood told him that this man had poisoned himself for much of his life, with alcohol and drugs and nicotine. As a result, it was highly unpleasant.
Morbius didn’t care.
His hunger was so great that any distaste was overwhelmed by the pleasant sensations that spread out from his stomach and toward the rest of his body. He drank his fill, and then kept going—but as his hunger disappeared, the taste became more evident. The blood, while satisfying, was incredibly bitter, and while Fabian’s questionable lifestyle could account for much of it, there was another flavor present, subtle but undeniable.
Without warning a wave of agony ripped through Morbius’ stomach. He belched bloody vomit all over the corpse. Then he blinked at the gory body, slowly realizing what had just happened.
“Idiot!” he growled at himself. He’d been poisoned. In his desperation for sustenance, he’d ignored all the warning signs and let himself be tricked into consuming his own defeat.
At that moment, something was shoved into his back. There was a crackle, and he was wracked with pain as electricity blasted through his body. Morbius attempted to remain on his feet, but another burst of agony shot through him, this one emanating again from his gut. As he collapsed, the person behind him began raining blows onto the side of his face and the back of his
head.
As he threw an elbow at his attacker, connecting viciously and hearing a cheekbone crack, his lips actually curled back in a rueful smile. Whoever had planned this, Morbius was impressed. But the smile disappeared as he gasped from another spasm of pain.
A second assailant came rushing from the shadows and kicked him in the face, sending him flying against the wall. Morbius left a trail of his own blood across the floor. He recognized the irony, but clenched his jaw as a third attacker landed another blow.
His head was spinning, black spots forming in his vision, but he fought to remain conscious. If he could just get his fangs into one of these men… get their untainted blood into his system, there was still time to save himself.
As another foot came toward his face, Morbius used all his remaining energy to grab it and twist. A loud cracking sound filled the air and the man screamed, pulling himself away and curling into a defensive ball on the floor. Morbius pushed himself against the wall, barely getting to his feet, trying to get his bearings, to figure a way out of this trap.
One of the men—or a new one—appeared in the flashing shadows created by the television. Morbius was unsure how many people were attacking him, but there were at least three. He landed a powerful haymaker across Morbius’ face and blood exploded from the vampire’s already deformed nose.
The same attacker, a huge slab of muscle with a buzz cut and a nasty look in his eyes, threw another devastating punch, but Michael was able to slap it away, the blow slamming into the wall, leaving a hole where before there was only paint and plaster. The man struggled to remove his fist, his body nearly pressed up against Morbius as a result of the deflected blow.
Morbius could smell the man’s sweat and the iron of his blood, which was completely unlike Fabian’s. This man was healthy, clearly took good care of himself. Michael blinked as his enemy grunted and tried to free himself. His jugular vein pulsed in his neck, as if in invitation.
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