“Bottoms up,” Liz murmured.
“You okay?” Amanda asked, picking up the glass but not looking at it.
Liz smiled again, sadly, and placed the bottle down gently on the table, as if it was the most important thing she had ever done. Then she quickly downed the liquor in her glass.
“Yes? No. I don’t know.”
Liz looked at her friend.
Amanda had been right. Liz’s mascara was a mess. She’d been crying.
“What happened?” Amanda asked, reaching out and putting her hand on her friend’s.
“It’s… it’s my dad,” Liz said, her eyes wide and filling with tears.
“Geez, is he… did he…?”
“He’s okay, Amanda,” Liz said looking away and pouring herself another drink.
“Oh thank God,” Amanda breathed, taking a sip of the bourbon. She wasn’t the biggest fan of alcohol, but after the day she’d been having she decided a sip to calm the nerves was in order. “So, what’s going on with him? You can tell me anything.”
“He always liked you,” Liz answered, looking over and staring dreamily at the mirror on the wall. “He thought you were a good influence on me, and he was right. After my parents split, I acted out. Probably just trying to get attention. I remember being in so much pain, and causing other people anguish made me feel better. At least for a little while.”
“I remember,” Amanda said, smiling sadly.
“But you loved me anyway. Never judged me. Always had my back. I’m not sure I ever told you how much I appreciated that.”
“Liz. You never had to.”
“I—” Liz started, a single tear rolling down her face. “I had to say it now.”
She inhaled the shot in front of her and then stood up, wobbly. She’s drunk, Amanda realized. Liz could hold her alcohol, had always been able to. Whatever was happening, it was serious. Amanda stood, too.
“Whatever’s going on,” Amanda said, walking around the table and putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I can help.”
“That’s just it, Amanda.” Liz looked at her sadly. “You’re helping just by being here.”
“What? What do you mean, Liz?”
A noise from behind her caught Amanda’s attention. She turned, trying to remember if she had left the door open. One of Liz’s neighbors was incredibly nosy and pushy.
“Sorry,” she started to say, “now’s not a good time but…” The sight of a silhouette by the open door made the words dry up in her mouth. The shadow, definitely belonging to a woman, was impossibly familiar.
The woman’s hand was on the door and she closed it, the faint clicking sound reaching Amanda’s ears, filling her with dread despite the relative innocence of the action. She could feel the hairs on her arms standing on end. Suddenly, her final night at the hospital, when she thought she was seeing things, started to make sense.
“Hello, Amanda. I’ve missed you.”
The voice was like a knife to the gut.
“Ca… Catherine…?” Amanda managed to get out, unable to catch her breath, feeling like she might vomit out the one sip of alcohol and whatever else was in her system.
The silhouette strode forward and Amanda’s “dead” sister Catherine appeared in the eerie light emanating from above the kitchen table. A cruel smile was etched onto her face. Her hair was down, a style she’d sported for most of her life—though the last time Amanda had seen her, when her sister called herself Poison-Lark and tried to feed her to a demonic spider, it had been pulled up into a severe-looking bun.
Amanda still couldn’t catch her breath. She looked over at Liz, who was staring at the floor, her face flushed.
“Liz…?” Amanda asked quietly.
“I’m so sorry,” her friend whispered. “I am so, so sorry. I had to. For my dad…”
The truth of the situation washed over Amanda and her stomach knotted immediately. She had been betrayed.
Again.
She locked eyes with her sister. The smile was still there. Resembling a smile she used to love, to emulate. Now it just filled her with terror.
Without even thinking about it, Amanda threw a punch and it landed on her sister’s cheek, hard. Catherine staggered back but then righted herself, fixed her hair, and stood motionless, still with that infuriating grin on her face.
“I’ll kill you,” Amanda whispered.
“Oh, sweetie, I know,” Catherine replied and then she looked past Amanda, into the shadows of the apartment, and nodded.
Men in red robes emerged from the darkness, swarming around Amanda and binding her. She screamed but it was a small sound as the rain increased and pelted the windows like bullets. One of the men placed a strange-smelling gag into her mouth. She fought them, but within moments darkness encroached on her brain and she passed out.
* * *
“YOU SAID there’s a fire exit, correct?” Catherine asked.
Liz nodded, still looking at the floor. “Yes, out in the hallway, to the left.”
Catherine’s eyes flashed at the men and they carried Amanda past her and out into the hallway. Liz heard the door slam shut, and she suddenly burst into tears. Catherine appeared next to her and gently ran her hand down Liz’s hair.
“Shhh,” she said quietly. “It’s okay. You did a good job. You were always my favorite of Amanda’s friends growing up. You had such a spark, even as a little girl.”
“You… you won’t hurt my father, right?” Liz choked out between sobs.
“Of course not,” Catherine answered, still smiling. “We were never going to hurt him in the first place.”
Liz looked up into Catherine’s face, confusion wrinkling her features.
“You weren’t? But you… you said if I didn’t… didn’t help you get Amanda, you would kill him.”
Catherine continued to run her hand along Liz’s hair, slow, even strokes with a rhythm that was in time with the beating of the rain against the window. The shadows in the apartment seemed to grow, now that it was just the two of them.
“You’re right, Elizabeth, I did say that, but I knew the threat would be enough to get you to do whatever I asked. I never once suspected that you would do anything stupid, and that I would be forced to slit your father’s pathetic throat. I remember how much you idolized him when you were young… how you looked at him with so much love in your stupid little eyes. Sad, really.”
Liz looked at Catherine’s face, the tears having dried up but her chin still trembling.
“Thank you, and I promise… I won’t say anything. To anyone. Ever. It’ll be like this never happened.”
“Why, you took the words right out of my mouth,” Catherine said, raising up her other hand from the darkness.
Liz gasped.
Blinking against a sudden burst of pain in her stomach, she glanced down. Catherine had slipped a long knife into her gut. Small rivulets of blood began to leak out in several places around the blade.
Liz looked back up at Catherine, utterly astonished. Her mouth opened and closed several times, like a dying fish.
“But…” she managed to get out.
“Shhh. It’s okay.” Catherine continued to rub her hair. “It’ll be over soon.”
She withdrew the blade and then reinserted it, just above the previous wound. Liz gasped again but didn’t scream. Catherine was impressed. Blood poured onto the kitchen floor, rolling out and across the old, cracked linoleum.
“As you slip into that beautiful darkness, Elizabeth, know that your death is in service to a much greater good. You won’t be here to witness my transformation into Amaymon, the truest and most powerful servant of Satan, but this moment has been an important step in bringing about my coming change. So, from all of us…”
Catherine withdrew the knife a second time and then plunged it directly into Liz’s chest.
This time, she screamed.
“Thank you,” Catherine finished.
She took a step to her left and dislodged the knife fo
r a final time. Liz collapsed onto the floor and shuddered for several seconds. Catherine walked across the kitchen and cleaned the blood-covered blade on a dish towel.
Taking a deep breath, she caught her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. For the first time in a while, she noticed the imperfection on her face from where she had fallen asleep on the Lemegeton all those years ago. The book of spells had left its mark. She would have to work harder to keep it covered. At least until her own transformation was complete. Then it wouldn’t matter anymore.
For the briefest of moments, Catherine questioned what she was doing. She had just murdered her sister’s best friend. Yet another death on her hands. She glanced down, clenched her teeth, and then looked back up. Her eyes looked different.
Powerful.
Determined.
This was the way it had to be. Throughout history, great people had to make very difficult decisions in order to accomplish important and essential things. In this case, some people had to die, unfortunately. But Catherine Saint was going to save the world.
Even if it meant burning it to the ground.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MORBIUS HAD inherited Amanda’s nightmare. She had been talking about it since the night after he had saved her, when she awoke screaming. Over time, he had gotten used to her late-night agonies.
But her trauma had made its way into his subconscious.
He stood in a dark hallway in some unknown building. The fluorescent lights overhead blinked, creating a strange, unsettling strobe effect. The walls seemed as if they were breathing.
He was alone there.
Until he wasn’t.
Martine stood at the other end of the long hallway. She saw him and a sad smile crept onto her face.
“Michael,” she whispered. “Martine!” he cried out in response. Morbius sprinted forward. A part of him knew this was only a dream, but he didn’t care. As he ran, the hallway grew longer and longer, and he screamed in rage. Martine continued to stare at him, her eyes filled with confusion. Why did he refuse to help her?
Morbius felt a crawling on his face, and he slapped at whatever it was, feeling something moist explode onto his palm. He pulled his hand away and saw a dead spider, its blood and guts splayed out on his pale skin like an expressionist painting.
More crawling sensations, more spiders on his face. He swatted at them and saw that they were climbing all over him. The floor was covered with them and they were dropping from the ceiling. Thousands and thousands of spiders of all shapes and sizes. Biting him, entering his mouth, his nostrils. Covering his entire body.
The weight of them caused him to collapse onto a knee. Martine was closer, but he couldn’t stand. He raised a spider-covered arm, reaching toward her.
“Martine…” he whispered, spiders running along his tongue and teeth.
“Why won’t you help me?” she responded.
She disappeared into darkness.
* * *
MORBIUS WOKE up screaming.
Slowly, he caught his breath and looked around. He was still in the cell. His body hurt less but he was hungrier than ever. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone this long without a meal.
“You okay there, buddy?”
For a second, the voice confused Morbius, caused him to tense and ready himself for an assault, but then the memories returned to him.
Jake. His fellow prisoner.
“I’m fine,” Morbius said, more harshly than he’d intended.
“Glad to hear it,” Jake replied, appearing to ignore Morbius’ bad attitude. “Trust me, you’ll hear a lot of screaming down here. Plenty of nightmares to go around.”
Morbius grunted and stood, stretching his arms over his head. He walked around the cell a couple of times, getting the blood flowing in his legs and examining the walls, looking for weak spots.
There were none.
After a few minutes, he sat back down on the stone slab and stared at the floor. He wasn’t sure what was going to kill him first: the hunger or the boredom.
“Pretty awful, right?” Jake said, as if reading his mind.
“What do you do to pass the time?” Michael asked.
“Well, I used to talk to the blob—you know, before you got here. But he… she?… never said anything, probably didn’t have vocal cords, now that I think about it. But it was good even to just talk at a living creature, you know?” Jake laughed, then sighed. Something he did often, apparently.
“Other than that? Talk to myself, I guess. Do pushups. Sleep. Scream. The usual prisoner stuff.”
Morbius grunted again. Jake laughed.
“What?” Michael asked.
“You’re a man of few words. I respect that.”
“It’s… it’s been a long day. A long year, really,” he said, adding, “I just don’t know how to talk to people anymore. I’m so angry all the time. I have trouble controlling myself, can barely stand to look at myself in the mirror. When I do, all I see is a monster. And then I start to think, maybe the monster was there all along…”
Jake started to respond when a noise silenced both of them.
The man with the beard stood motionless at the door to the cell, on the other side of the bars, still wearing the same blood-red robe. His eyes were fixed on Morbius, hatred burning out from them, but a saccharine smile adorned his face.
“Good morning, Michael.”
With lightning-like speed, Morbius sprang from the slab and rushed toward the metal bars and the man just behind them.
“Michael, don’t!” Jake yelled but it was too late.
Morbius got one hand through the bars and his claws found purchase on the man’s face, three jagged lines ripping open almost immediately. But as soon as Morbius’ shoulder touched the metal, a burst of electricity lanced through his entire body, throwing him back onto the ground, his skin bubbling and smoking from the contact.
He lay there for a few seconds, blinking, then rolled over and stood up, nearly falling over in the effort.
The man’s smile was gone. Morbius was in incredible pain but he took a small pleasure in having rattled the cultist. The three cuts in his face were deep, extending down his cheek and into his beard. Blood poured out, dripping down and darkening the already red robes he wore.
“I hope that was worth it,” the man growled.
“It was,” Morbius responded, a rare smile appearing on his pale face. He was enjoying the moment and licked at what little of the man’s blood and skin had ended up on his claws. While it tasted good, so good, it only made him hungrier.
“Then I’m going to enjoy this next part even more,” the man replied. “Do you know who I am?”
Morbius stared at him, looking more closely at his face, and searched his memory. As far as he knew, he had never seen this man before in his life. Then again, since he had become a living vampire, many incredible things had happened—things beyond the imagination—so it was possible that he had forgotten, or had encountered the man and simply never registered his existence.
“No,” Morbius responded. “Should I?”
“Perhaps not,” the man said, “but I know you. My name is Thaddeus. And I’ve been waiting for this. To do to you what you’ve done to me.”
“And what exactly have I done to you?”
“You took the most important thing in my life away from me. You killed my son.”
Morbius swallowed. He had killed many sons since the accident that had turned him into a bloodthirsty monster. After he fed, after the lust for sustenance faded, he would often berate himself. That person was someone’s child. And here, at last, was that very renunciation in the flesh. He could hardly blame this man for his anger.
“It’s certainly possible,” Morbius answered, doing his best to keep his voice level. He had no interest in showing weakness to his captor, despite any guilt he might feel.
“Oh, you didn’t kill him yourself, Michael,” Thaddeus said, anger flashing in his eyes. “You didn’t drin
k his blood, like all those others who you’ve murdered, but your actions were responsible for his death. And for that, you must pay.”
“Who was your son?” Morbius asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“His name was Justin. He seduced Amanda Saint and was on track to join me as a high priest of Demon-Fire, but your actions destroyed everything. All for a pathetic woman you had just met!” the man screamed, his face turning red.
“Ah yes,” Morbius answered. “I remember your son now. The last time I saw him, he was running away. Like a coward. Like his father.”
At that, the anger built in Thaddeus, and Morbius was counting on it. Then the man’s demeanor relaxed, and he smiled.
“You are going to die slowly, Michael. I’m going to make sure of that—but not today.” He spoke calmly, and looked to his right. In response, two more men in red robes appeared, and quickly opened the cell door. The action so surprised him that Morbius didn’t have time to react as they shoved something inside, then closed the door again.
Not something. Someone.
It was a woman, unconscious but alive. Her long hair was strewn across her face, so Morbius couldn’t see what she looked like. But he could see one thing.
Her neck.
The carotid artery pulsed as she breathed slowly, and it was like a beacon calling to him, insisting that he come closer. His stomach rumbled. His hands trembled.
He had been so good. He hadn’t killed.
He had made Amanda proud.
But Michael Morbius hungered.
Laughter filled the cell. Morbius pulled his eyes away from the meal—from the woman—in front of him, and looked up. Thaddeus was laughing, his hand pressed against the gashes in his face. Blood leaked between his hairy fingers.
“What’s the matter, Michael? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Morbius ignored him. Tried also to ignore the body on the ground, and failed. He looked at the woman again. She murmured softly in her sleep, or her unconsciousness, or whatever it was, and Morbius nearly screamed in agony. For what he wanted to do. For what he knew he shouldn’t.
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