This time, Morbius was nowhere to be found, but Amanda was no longer the person she had been the last time Catherine and her goons had taken her. Amanda was stronger. More determined.
Pulling herself to her feet, she was shaky at first, but got her bearings and scanned the room. She needed to get a sense of her surroundings and then figure out how to escape.
She was surrounded by concrete, and there appeared to be no way out, no secrets to be found in the walls or the floor, other than the single door. She put her ear to it and still heard nothing. Slowly, nervously, she placed her hand on the doorknob and turned, expecting it to be locked.
It turned.
Clicked, and the door moved at the slightest pull.
Amanda only opened it a crack and peered out with a single eye. She was met with a long hallway that stretched out and into shadows. She couldn’t see any other doorways, just a hanging light fixture outside of her cell, shadowy walls, and a low ceiling. There were more bulbs farther down the hall but they threw off very little light.
Amanda looked back into the room, and then at the hallway again. Neither option was particularly appealing. She could wait here until someone showed up and then try to fight her way out, or she could strike out into the hallway and hope for the best.
Old Amanda would have stayed put.
Stepping into the hallway, she shut the door quietly behind her.
Her shoes made no sound on the hard floor as she walked. The hallway stretched on and on, naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling every few yards or so, creating small pools of light. After walking for a number of minutes, Amanda looked back. She could no longer see the room from which she had emerged. It was as if it had been swallowed by the darkness.
Her steps and the minutes dragged on. She lost all sense of time and fought back tears of frustration and exhaustion. Finally, just as she was about to give up and turn back, she saw something in the distance.
A door.
Amanda bit back her fear. It looked like the door through which she had just walked. Exactly like it. Amanda peered around. She hadn’t seen or heard anything, or anyone. Perhaps she had imagined the entire incident at Liz’s apartment? Maybe it had just been a bad dream.
Maybe this was just a bad dream.
She reached the door and entered.
The room looked exactly like the one she had just left. Nothing within except a metal table. Amanda was confused. Had she somehow gone in a circle, returned to the place where she had awoken? No, that was impossible. She had walked in a straight line. She was certain of it. How could a straight hallway turn her in the opposite direction?
As she reentered the hallway, thinking it would make sense to go back the other way—perhaps she had missed an exit or a staircase—the lightbulb over her head began to flicker. Then it blinked out entirely. Amanda was consumed by blackness.
The darkness was so complete that she even lost her sense of up and down, and had to reach out to the wall to keep her balance. Fighting back the terror that was rising in her throat, she decided her best course of action was to go back into the new room—or the old room, or whatever it was—until the lights came back on. If the lights came back on.
Yet after taking a few steps in what she thought was the right direction, she realized that she may have been turned around, and took a few more steps in the opposite direction, keeping her hand on the wall. Despite walking multiple steps in both directions, she couldn’t seem to find the room again.
She stopped moving.
There had been a sound.
Whispering.
Or was it? She wondered if it was just her imagination as the whispering suddenly stopped.
She could feel something on the back of her neck. Breathing. Someone was standing right behind her. She turned around slowly, terrified, ready to fight. Just as she clenched her fist to throw a punch, she felt something on the back of her neck again, a similar sensation. Warm breaths. Someone was standing in front of her, and someone was behind her, too.
A light abruptly clicked on somewhere in the hallway and Amanda screamed. She was surrounded by people in red robes. They encircled her, smiling, staring at her as if they had been able to see her through the darkness this entire time.
Amanda’s scream turned from one of fear to anger, and she pushed against them, but there were too many. They began to laugh as they pushed her back and forth between them, their mirth louder and louder as she was battered about. It bounced against the low ceiling and grew in volume. Still she fought, but there were too many opponents in an extremely cramped space. Their shoving grew more violent as the sounds increased.
Then the lights flickered on and off, a strobe effect that turned their shadowy faces into demonic snapshots as the pushing became blows to her head. Finally, the lights went out altogether, or perhaps Amanda was slowly slipping into unconsciousness.
She wasn’t sure which.
As her face hit the floor, painfully, her only thought was how cool the concrete was against her cheek.
It’s so refreshing, she thought, and she actually laughed. Her laughter mingled with the laughter of her tormentors, and then there was nothing except silence and darkness.
* * *
“AMANDA? AMANDA, honey, wake up.”
It was her sister’s voice. For a moment, she imagined she was back in their childhood home, and that Catherine was waking her gently to get ready for school. Amanda always had such trouble in the morning, while her older sister had jumped out of bed every day with an envious determination. While Amanda struggled to get dressed and force some cereal down her throat, Catherine would already be decked out for the day, sipping at a coffee and helping her younger sister gather her books and untangle her hair.
The moment passed quickly. That beautiful, painful memory was decades old.
Amanda’s eyes fluttered open again. She surfaced fully from the nightmare of the people in the hallway, and then came to realize that it was no nightmare at all. She could feel the bruises purpling on her face.
Sitting up again, she half expected to be back on the metal table, but she was on a couch now in a small room full of religious symbols and paintings on its walls. Catherine sat on a chair nearby, smiling at her sister.
“Welcome back,” she said. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was told that you would be unconscious for much longer. I would never have left you down there in our tunnels beneath the church, if I thought you would wake up so soon.
“My acolytes got word that someone was moving around down there,” she continued, “and decided to pay you a visit. They’re not used to seeing outsiders, and got a little overzealous. I apologize for their dramatics. They have been properly chastised.
“However, the next time you wake up in a strange room, I recommend staying put until someone in authority comes to get you. Then again, you were never the best at following directions, were you?”
Catherine stood and walked across the room, stopping in front of a painting that depicted dozens of small human figures falling into a fiery cavern. The painting was done in shades of red, orange, and yellow, and was highly disconcerting. Amanda found herself unable to pull her eyes away from it.
“Where’s Liz?” she said finally.
“Your best friend betrays you, and your first words are about her? Your loyalty is impressive.”
Amanda pulled her eyes away from the painting and stared. That damn smile. Amanda wanted to lunge and smack it off, but after everything that had happened, she decided discretion would be the better part of valor. Something her father always said.
Her time would come.
“What happened to you, Catherine?” she said. “How could you?”
The smile faltered, then reasserted itself. Catherine walked back across the room and sat beside her on the couch, as if they were two normal sisters who were catching up after some unexpected time away from each other.
“I know it’s confusing, Amanda,” she said. “I remember how difficult it wa
s to comprehend when Mom first approached me about Demon-Fire.”
Amanda’s mouth went dry.
“M-Mom? Is she here?”
“Are you hungry?” Catherine asked, ignoring the question. “You must be hungry.”
Amanda was about to respond “No” when she quickly took stock of herself. She was hungry. Starving, actually.
“A little,” she admitted, hating herself for doing so.
“Of course,” Catherine said simply. She stood up, walked to the door, opened it, and muttered a few words to someone who was standing on the other side. After a moment’s hesitation, Catherine closed the door again and turned.
Silence filled the room for a few long moments. She seemed to be in no rush.
“I thought you were dead,” Amanda said finally.
A darkness fluttered across Catherine’s face, and then vanished. She smiled, but there was menace there. Not the smile from a few seconds earlier, the smile of a loving sister. This was a predator’s grin.
“I almost was,” she said coldly. “No thanks to your friend, Mr. Morbius.”
Amanda felt goosebumps run up and down her arms at the mention of Michael’s name.
Where is he?
“When he interrupted the ritual, when he murdered Arachne—”
“He didn’t murder that disgusting spider, Catherine!” Amanda shouted, the blood rising to her face. “Michael saved me, and Arachne killed itself by attempting to feed on him.”
“Perhaps,” Catherine said coolly. “Regardless, in its death throes Arachne brought the temple down upon us, and many of my acolytes were crushed beneath the falling rock. But somehow I was spared, and ever since I clawed my way out of that unintentional grave—ironic, considering we were beneath a graveyard—I’ve slowly become grateful.”
“Grateful?” Amanda echoed.
“Yes,” Catherine confirmed, walking back over to the couch and sitting down again. “While I believed wholeheartedly at the time that shedding your virginal blood would serve our mission to Satan, I’ve realized in the time that has passed since that I may have… underestimated you.
“Seeing you now,” she continued, “that realization is confirmed. You are stronger, Amanda. I can feel it. Your death would have brought about great things for Demon-Fire, but I think your life can accomplish even more.”
“My life?” Confusion swept over her. “What are you talking about?”
At that moment, the door opened and a man in a red robe entered, carrying a tray full of food—cheese, bread, and fruit. He placed it on the desk and then exited without saying a word. Catherine stood and plucked an apple from the tray, then returned again to the couch.
She held out the piece of fruit. It was bright red, gleaming in the light that cascaded down from the ceiling. There were no filthy bulbs here.
“I want you to join me, Amanda,” she said. “Your rightful place is by my side. Together, we can rule Demon-Fire. Everything you’ve ever desired can be yours.”
Amanda took the apple. Considered Catherine’s words. She had always looked up to her sister, had always wanted to be more like her.
“Where’s Mom?”
Catherine looked down for a long moment, and then back up. Her eyes were filled with tears. The sight caught Amanda off guard, yet how could she possibly feel sympathy for someone who had tried to murder her? But still… she felt it.
“She’s dead,” Catherine whispered.
“What?”
“Murdered. Violently. Horrifically. An ax to the head.”
Tears sprang to Amanda’s eyes as well. She hadn’t witnessed the act, but the image was easy to conjure, and seared into her mind. Her mother’s surprised face as a blade entered her skull. The blood arcing out into the air. Her small body collapsing to the ground.
“By… whom?” she asked, gripping the apple even more tightly. On some level, she already knew the answer.
“Morbius,” Catherine hissed.
Amanda stared deep into her sister’s eyes. She had always thought she could tell when her sister was telling the truth, but given the events of the previous weeks—Justin and Poison-Lark and the Demon-Fire cult—she didn’t know what to believe.
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
Catherine didn’t blink.
“I know I have lied to you about many things,” she said, “and for that, and so much else, I apologize. I was wrong about you, Amanda. You are my sister, and you are a Saint, and you are strong. Like I am. Like Mother was, and I am not lying to you. Morbius killed her. I assumed he had told you, and I’m sorry he didn’t. That you had to find out this way. I wish it wasn’t true.”
Despite herself, a part of Amanda believed her. Morbius was, after all, a killer by nature. Could she have been wrong about him all this time? She knew there was some goodness within him, but was that enough?
Why hadn’t he told me?
A single tear ran down her face, but she wiped it away. She was sick of crying. She was done with it.
Amanda Saint bit into the apple.
It was delicious.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“DID YOU ever fight Spider-Man?”
Morbius blinked and refocused. He had been lost in a daydream about Martine. Or was it a memory? He wasn’t sure, but it had been beautiful. He wished he could live within that fantasy forever, but his mind returned to the cold, dank cell. He was getting hungry again, yet feared that another feeding might be imminent.
“What’s that…?” he asked.
“I know, I know… it’s a weird question, but I feel like I read in the Daily Bugle one time about the web-slinger fighting a vampire. Was that you?”
Morbius thought back to his many battles. He regretted some, if not all.
“Yes,” he said finally.
“Wow,” said Jake. “What was… what was that like?”
“I don’t like to talk about it,” Morbius responded, “but I will tell you that he is annoyingly fast. And those jokes? The worst.”
He smiled then. Despite his protestations, it felt good to talk about this. He had never opened up quite this way to someone—not since the experiment. Since his life had been destroyed. By his own hand.
“Really?” Jake said. “I saw him once on the Upper East Side, after he’d beaten up Doc Ock and a bunch of his goons. His jokes were actually pretty funny.”
“Well, some of them are humorous, I suppose,” Morbius admitted. “The man is still annoying, though.”
Jake laughed. It was a good sound. Michael had always been able to make Emil laugh, too. He missed him a lot. Was haunted by what he had done. Murdered his best friend in the world.
At that moment, there was a noise at the door to his cell. He looked up and his face filled with rage. It was Thaddeus. A smile on his face. The jagged claw marks on his cheek had healed somewhat but were still red, a painful reminder of the hatred they shared.
“Good evening, Michael,” he said, disdain dripping from each word.
“Is it evening?” Morbius replied, not looking away. A primal part of him was excited; was it really feeding time again? Yet he had no desire to murder anyone else for his own survival. The human part of him wished he could just kill himself and save everyone the agony of his existence. He shook these thoughts away. This was no time for pity or weakness.
“It is indeed,” Thaddeus replied, “and today is your day.”
“I have no interest in feeding again,” Morbius growled. “So you can get your sick pleasure elsewhere.”
“I plan on getting immeasurable pleasure today, Michael,” the cultist replied. “It’s your turn again. In the arena. You’ve caused quite a stir among our customers.”
Michael looked down. Somehow, he hadn’t considered that another battle might be imminent. Perhaps because he had no interest in fighting another tragic prisoner for the enjoyment of hundreds of unseen humans—if they could be called that. Still, on some level he was excited. He was sick of sitting around, rotting away in this
cell.
When he looked back up, Thaddeus was flanked by half a dozen cult members, their faces hidden within the shadows of their hoods. Each held one of the electrical prods.
“I won’t do it,” Morbius said. Boredom was better than senseless battle. Nothing could make him want to kill.
Thaddeus’ eyes widened, yet there was excitement there, as if he’d been hoping for such a response. He withdrew a small device from his robes and pushed a button. The metal collar around Michael’s neck clicked again, and electricity shot through his entire body. He screamed and fell off the stone slab, writhing on the floor for several minutes as Thaddeus kept his finger pressed against the switch. Finally, he relented.
“That was the lowest setting,” the cultist said. “Do you feel like trying the next one?”
Morbius caught his breath and rose slowly to his feet. Thaddeus watched him, silent. Waiting. The vampire stared into his tormentor’s eyes. He had no choice. It was fight or be killed, and while there was breath in his body, there was a chance he could escape. Exact his revenge.
Find Amanda.
He approached the cell door. Despite the living vampire’s proximity, Thaddeus held his ground. Morbius wanted desperately to give the man a matching set of claw marks on his other cheek.
“Get on it with it,” he growled.
“Michael…” A voice came from behind him.
It was Jake. Morbius could tell that his friend was sitting near the hole that connected their two cells. Could feel the man’s eyes on his back.
“Good luck,” Jake continued. “I’ll see you back here after you win. We can swap more Spidey stories.”
“How sweet,” Thaddeus said, staring daggers. “Now let’s go, Michael. It’s time for you to dance like the puppet you are.”
* * *
THE HOLDING area was freezing.
Morbius didn’t experience cold the way he used to, before the experiment. Something about his mutated blood made almost any temperature bearable, but he shivered, nonetheless. He had been in any number of battles since becoming a living vampire, had seen creatures and worlds he’d never imagined possible, but something felt off about this impending combat.
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