Morbius

by Brendan Deneen

  Escape.

  He sprinted forward as a hidden door along the hallway burst open, sending multiple red-robed forms spilling out. They saw him and screamed. Morbius ran toward them, then leaped into the air, sailing over the acolytes as they clawed the air, attempting to grab, electrocute, or stab him.

  When they failed, they turned to follow him, but it was too late. Morbius was already climbing the exterior of the metal staircase at incredible speed, ascending out of what felt like Hell itself. A grim smile spread across his face as the first hint of vaguely fresh air reached him. He could hear the far-off rumble of a subway train and he thought it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. The beautiful normalcy of it was almost overwhelming.

  Moments later, he reached the top of the metal stairs and touched down. Ahead lay the door that led to escape. Behind and below there were incoherent shouts and the sound of multiple people stomping up.

  Let them come.

  He would be a bloody memory by the time they reached the top.

  He kicked out and sent the door flying off its hinges. It smashed into a pylon across the tracks and lay crumpled on the ground, like a distorted metal corpse. A bizarre echo of everything he’d just experienced.

  A train was approaching to his left. The rush of air whipped his long black hair and he raised his nose, reveling in the scent. Despite the undercurrent of urine, garbage, and decay, it was a beautiful smell, heightened no doubt by the remnants of the monster blood still coursing through his system.

  He opened his eyes as the train bore down on his position. He could hear the cult members behind him. They were getting close to the top. He was vaguely impressed by their speed, but their laboring was for nothing.

  Morbius had a train to catch.

  As the subway blasted past him, he jumped. Dug his claws into the metal and felt himself jerked violently forward, the sudden change in speed nearly pulling his arms out of their sockets. Still he held on, allowing the train to speed him away from this horrendous hole in the ground. As the train shot through the darkness, Morbius closed his eyes.

  He had escaped.

  But the night was far from over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE APARTMENT was as dark and silent as a sepulcher.

  Morbius crawled in through the still-broken window, not expecting Amanda to be there but still hopeful, nonetheless. He knew he didn’t have much time. The cult would know where he went, but he had rocked them back on their heels. Still, he had to be quick.

  As his feet touched the floor, a scent instantly hit his nostrils. One he knew all too well.

  Blood. A lot of it.

  He crouched down and scanned the stark shadows of the room. He had been attacked too many times in recent days, taken by surprise far too often, to assume that there was no threat here.

  His senses were starting to normalize as the effects of the monster blood cocktail waned. Rather than reasserting themselves, most of his wounds had healed. He looked around the dark space, his eyes adjusting to their usual preternatural state.

  Something had gone horribly wrong here. Furniture was overturned. The front door was slightly ajar, and dark liquid had gathered on the floor nearby, sending up a heady aroma. A pool that was very large. From it, a red trail streaked off into Liz’s bedroom. Quietly, cautiously, Morbius stood and walked toward the doorway.

  Liz was face down on the floor, one arm stretched up onto her bed, as if she had been attempting to get up there but failed. The trail of blood led directly to her body.

  Morbius walked over to her and kneeled down, cautiously placing two fingers against her neck. He felt the slightest pulse there. Somehow, despite all the blood on the floor of the apartment, she was still alive.

  Gently he lifted her and placed her, face-up, on the bed. The jagged holes in her stomach continued to leak blood, so Morbius took one of the multiple pillows strewn across the bed and placed it against the wounds as softly but firmly as he could. He had seen many knife wounds in his life, and these didn’t look good.

  “Liz,” he said quietly. Then, louder, “Liz.”

  The woman’s eyes fluttered open and she attempted to focus. Finally, after flicking about the room, they found Morbius. Tears began to fall down her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, choking back sobs.

  “It’s okay,” he said, unsure why she was apologizing. “What happened? Where’s Amanda?”

  “I thought… Catherine… was going to kill my dad. I had to…” she gasped.

  Catherine. The name startled him. She could only mean Catherine Saint, Amanda’s sister. Poison-Lark.

  But she was dead. Crushed to death in the catacombs beneath Ravenwood Cemetery—or so they had assumed. If Poison-Lark had survived, she must have been the architect behind everything that had transpired over the past few days. Who knew how long she had been tracking them… hunting them.

  Morbius peered over his shoulder, back at the bedroom doorway, painfully aware of how unsafe this was. Then he turned back to Liz.

  “Where is Amanda?”

  “They took her,” she said, still crying. “I don’t know where. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, please make sure they don’t… hurt my father.”

  Demon-Fire had threatened Liz’s father. Liz had betrayed Amanda, and now the cult had her. Again. After Morbius had abandoned her. Liz wasn’t to blame.

  He was.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Morbius said, but the light was leaving Liz’s eyes. The world was collapsing around her—and yet, his curse remained. He had killed innocents before, and in this moment he thought about draining her blood. But she had housed him, had been kind to him. His heart was full of pity for her, despite the betrayal.

  “Thank you, Michael… thank you.” It was the only time she had ever called him by his first name. “And please,” she continued, lifting her head slightly, struggling to get the words out, “tell her… that I’m sorry.”

  Liz’s head dropped back and her body slowly went slack. Her eyes were still open, but she was gone. Morbius stared at her for a moment, silently cursing Demon-Fire for the swath of destruction they continued to cut, then gently reached down to shut Liz’s eyes with his bloodstained fingers. It was the least he could do.

  An instant later, he was gone.

  * * *

  CATHERINE SAINT took a long sip of red wine, a slight smile crossing her face.

  Everything was going according to plan. Morbius was trapped below ground in Demon-Fire’s arena and would spend the rest of his short, brutish life battling other sub-human creatures. Amanda was starting to crack—she could tell. The bloodsucker’s part in their mother’s death was enough to drive a wedge between her and her bizarre protector. And Catherine’s grand plan, thanks to the genius of Franklin Lattimer, was about to come to fruition. It all hinged on the sacrifice of the Thirteen.

  She had approached it from the wrong direction the last time, with Arachne. Catherine had put all her hope in a spider demon, trusted her mother’s word, when she should have taken matters into her own hands. She loved Myrna with all her heart, but the elder Saint had been wrong.

  Another read of The Lesser Key of Solomon had opened Catherine’s eyes to what was truly possible. She would correct the mistakes of her own recent past. Her mother would have been so proud—if Morbius hadn’t killed her.

  Her smile faded as she thought about the living vampire. No one really knew what had occurred, but Morbius was the last person to see Catherine’s mother alive. When they found her, she had a hatchet imbedded in her head. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what had transpired. Morbius had destroyed everything—again—and now, finally, he was paying.

  The vengeance was bittersweet but she would take it.

  As she finished her glass of wine, a soft knock came from the door of her office.

  “Come in,” she called out, placing the glass down. She tried to keep the annoyance out of her expression. Apparently she couldn’t even have five minutes
to herself, to contemplate her next steps. The process would be very precise, and required finesse.

  She tried not to be distracted by the fact that her sister was close by. Catherine prayed to all the darkest powers that Amanda would choose to join her—that she wouldn’t do anything stupid. They could continue the work started by their mother, build upon it, exceed her wildest expectations. Perhaps even rule the cult together. The thought was invigorating.

  The acolyte who entered the room had a worried look on his face, forehead wrinkled and eyes wide. This was not good.

  “What?” Catherine demanded, standing up, wondering if she should have chugged the whole bottle.

  “There’s been… an incident. At the arena.”

  “Morbius,” Catherine whispered.

  The man nodded. He looked terrified. Of what had happened in the arena or of Catherine, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both.

  “Apparently he, he broke out of the pit and… killed a number of the guests. As well as many of our brothers and sisters.”

  “Thaddeus?” Catherine asked quickly, the wine turning to acid in her stomach. She knew the answer even as she said his name. The man swallowed nervously.

  “Slaughtered.”

  Without even thinking about it, Catherine snatched the glass off the desk and threw it across the room. It connected with the cult member’s face, shattering, blood instantly appearing in multiple cuts. To his credit, the man yelped but didn’t move, didn’t even wipe away the blood, just stood there, waiting for her next instruction.

  “Where is the vampire?” Catherine asked through clenched teeth.

  “Just… gone,” he responded, wincing, waiting for the next punishment.

  “Find him!” she screamed, slamming her open palm onto the desk. The man nodded and escaped from the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Catherine collapsed back into her chair and took a long pull from the bottle of wine, her nose going tingly, tears filling her eyes.

  Thaddeus had been her lover. They hadn’t told anyone. Under different circumstances, she might have even called what they had love. Despite what her mother had told her about that emotion and its place within the cult. Yes, she had met him through his son, poor stupid Justin, but he was only a boy, while Thaddeus was a man.

  They had spent many nights in her bed, whispering about the world to come, how darkness would reign and they would be rewarded for their work, for their sacrifices—both figurative and literal. He had lost a son, she had lost a mother. They bonded in their pain, and it didn’t hurt that they connected on a physical level, too.

  Thaddeus understood her on a level that no one else ever had. And they both hated Michael Morbius with a passion that transcended words. They had looked forward to watching the vampire fight for his pathetic life until, little by little, he was reduced to a fraction of his former self, until he was begging for death.

  Slaughtered, the acolyte had said. Horrible images filled Catherine’s mind. Of Morbius feeding on the love of her life. She would get her revenge on that disgusting pale-faced monster, even if it took an eternity. As she took another long swig of wine directly from the bottle, there was a second knock at the door.

  “Damn it, what?”

  Another cult member entered, a woman this time, looking similarly terrified.

  “What?” Catherine repeated.

  “Your sister, sh-she, she…” the woman stuttered.

  “Spit it out, you moron!”

  “She’s escaped.”

  Catherine was tempted to throw the bottle this time, but reined in her anger. After a moment of silence, she actually felt an incredibly calm feeling overtake her. This could be played to her advantage, she realized.

  She had made mistakes—falling in love with Thaddeus, believing her sister could change. And now her mother was gone. Her lover was dead, her sister a fool. Catherine was alone. Perhaps as she was fated to be. So much easier to be alone when confronted with this kind of crucible. Yes, this was better.

  Catherine sat down and smiled at the woman.

  “Assemble a team,” she said. “Go get her. She’s somewhere inside this building—has to be. There’s no way out. And if you don’t bring her to me in the next thirty minutes, I will personally cut the heart from your body. Do you understand me?”

  Pale before, the woman’s face went white.

  “Yes, Poison-Lark,” she said with a slight bow. “She will be found. Immediately.” The woman left in a hurry. Catherine closed her eyes for a long moment and then opened them again, her mind clear. Everything was so much simpler now.

  She opened the drawer and pulled out two items, placing them on the desk. Slowly, methodically, she pulled her hair up and back, into Poison-Lark’s telltale style. Then she carefully clipped the veil to her face, obscuring most of her features.

  Catherine was gone. Perhaps forever. Poison-Lark sat in her place. What little love had remained in her heart was gone. She would burn the world down if necessary, sacrifice her own life if it came down to it.

  But not before she personally watched Morbius draw his final breath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AFTER A time, Amanda heard the voices of cult members coming closer, and she slipped into yet another room with old and dusty religious trappings. This place was a maze, but at least she had figured out what it was.

  A church.

  Or a former church. It was in such rough shape that it was obvious no one had worked here in a long time. There was a fine layer of dust over everything. Why would Demon-Fire be here? They had the resources to acquire a much better, much nicer facility. Then again, she had given up trying to understand the motives of this bloodthirsty cult. They had, after all, tried to use her as a sacrificial virgin.

  As the voices came closer to her hiding spot, Amanda moved as far back into the room as possible, and found a vent. She pried it open, and was just small enough to shimmy inside. As she pulled her feet in after her, the cult members entered the room. She stayed still, crammed in, and held her breath.

  After a few minutes of angry arguing, the cultists left. Amanda exhaled, and then decided to see where the cramped metal shaft would take her. Her mind raced. Was she even in New York City anymore? What would she do if she managed to get out of this building? She didn’t have any friends, still didn’t know where her father was.

  Where Morbius was.

  Did she even want to find him?

  Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself forward through the narrow crawlspace, leaving the knife behind. She couldn’t crawl while holding it. She hoped she wouldn’t regret the decision.

  The farther she got from the room, the darker it became, until she was in complete darkness. The duct felt slimy, and on more than one occasion her hand slipped out from under her. She couldn’t let that stop her, though, had to focus on one thing at a time. Get through this shaft and then find a way out of this hellhole. Go to the police, and then resume her search for her dad.

  He was all she had left.

  If he was even alive.

  No. She couldn’t let herself think like that. There was too much at stake.

  Amanda kept moving. She had never been a fan of enclosed spaces, and worked hard now to keep her breathing even. Having a panic attack wasn’t her best option in the world.

  After a few minutes of shimmying forward, she saw light up ahead and let out a breath of relief. For all she knew, it was going to lead her back into the belly of the beast, but she couldn’t take much more of the metal walls that were pushing against her.

  Finally reaching the source of the light, she looked down through a grating to see a large, shadowy room. The grate was held in place by screws but she was able to work them loose, slowly, one by one.

  She grabbed for the grate but it fell too quickly, clattering loudly on the carpeted surface far below. Amanda grimaced and froze, waited for yells or footsteps, but none came. Still she waited. Part of her just wanted to stay there forever, hidden, relatively safe, but she kn
ew that was ridiculous. She had to keep moving. Her father had always told her that a rolling stone gathered no moss, another quote that always made her roll her eyes. But she would give anything to hear him say it now.

  Crawling just past the hole in the shaft, she dropped her legs down, then her waist, her stomach, until finally she grasped the metal at the edge of where the grate had just been. Taking a deep breath, Amanda dropped and surprised herself when she was able to hold on, hanging about twenty feet above the ground. She was fairly athletic but this drop was going to hurt, there was no doubt in her mind. People always talked about “rolling with the impact,” but that just seemed like an easy way to bust your head open.

  “You got this, Saint,” she whispered to herself, and then she let go.

  Her feet touched the ground before she even fully realized she was falling, and she surprised herself again when she rolled instinctively. It wasn’t pretty, though. The roll was off-center and she landed on her uninjured arm, hard, the impact sending a shock of pain across her body. For a moment, she saw stars.

  She lay on the ground, catching her breath, doing a mental inventory. Nothing was broken. At least it didn’t feel like it.

  Get up, Amanda, her mind commanded, and she did.

  Climbing to her feet, she looked up and around, turning in a circle. The room was even bigger than she had thought. This was the nave of the church. Ancient-looking pews stretched back into the darkness. She had just missed smashing her head into one of them by only a few inches. She thought about saying a little prayer of thanks but then noticed that an eerie light was coming from behind her, from the sanctuary. And a sound like liquid going down a drain.

  Slowly, she turned.

  The pulpit had been transformed into a nightmarish scene. Demon-Fire had erected thirteen large crosses, and strapped to each one was a woman, unconscious or maybe dead, tubes leading out of their arms, blood running through the tubes and into a large glass box in front of the altar. The blood bubbled in the container.