He’d be poor again—at least for a while—but eventually, he’d work his way back up. And he would return to his experiments. Somehow. He would never have to see Michael Morbius or the Demon-Fire cult, ever again.
As his hand touched the doorknob, he was tackled from behind. His face crashed painfully against the wood, smashing his nose, blood bursting out and causing him to cough uncontrollably. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Franklin gasped for breath as he was flipped over, the back of his head smacking painfully against the floor. He saw stars again and slipped into unconsciousness for a moment, beginning to slump downward, but then came roaring back to lucidity as Morbius’ face filled his vision. The vampire’s fangs glistened in what remained of the candlelight, saliva dripping down onto Franklin’s chest.
“Puh-please, d-d-don’t…” he stuttered, tears rolling down the side of his face.
“Where is the blood?” Morbius demanded, his eyes hidden in deep shadows, black buttons in the darkness.
“O-over there,” Franklin responded, lifting a shaking finger and pointing to the kitchen.
Morbius lifted the shaking man with a single hand. Franklin struggled to find his balance as he was placed on his feet; his head was swimming from the blows he’d just received, front and back.
“Show me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CATHERINE SAINT poured herself another glass of wine, filling it nearly to the top.
She had been drinking a lot lately, perhaps too much, but these were trying times, and she had lost so much. Her mother. Her lover. And now her sister. She had wanted so badly for Amanda to join her, to become a true Demon-Fire disciple. The things they could have done together!
Catherine was alone now. Just like she always had been, she supposed. At least, ever since her sister was born. Those first early years with just her and her parents… in many ways, that was the only time Catherine felt like she belonged to something. She missed those days so much that it literally made her ache.
She pushed away the memories, drained most of her glass, then refilled it.
No. Nostalgia was dangerous. It had no place in Poison-Lark’s life. She was powerful now. Strong. And she was going to change the world.
Catherine stood up and took a deep breath. Despite the setbacks, everything was back on track. Midnight was fast approaching. The day the Lemegeton had prophesized. The Sacrifice of the Thirteen, performed on November 18th, and during a blood moon.
She downed the wine and placed the glass back on her desk. She felt the effects of the alcohol, but it didn’t matter. Her father had struggled with addiction to alcohol. He was weak. Always had been. But she was in charge now. She was Poison-Lark, and she was so much bigger than the shadow he had cast over her life.
Once again, she affixed the veil to her face and tied her hair up, transforming with these simple gestures into a creature of power. Where Catherine Saint was burdened with the trappings and failings of humanity, Poison-Lark was a symbol of everything Demon-Fire could accomplish. Tonight, she would bring about the terrestrial victory of Satan, and she would do it using her own body—as well as the blood of her sister. She had been a fool to try to do it any other way. She laughed at her previous naiveté, and that of her mother.
Arachne was nothing compared to what Catherine would become.
Grasping the Lemegeton, she stalked across the room and threw open the door. The cult member on guard straightened to attention, gripping the blade in his hand more tightly. She didn’t even look at him, just kept moving forward, heading toward the center of the church.
Along the way, she passed several more guards, all of whom tensed as she approached. Their fear, their reverence was as intoxicating as the wine. She was addicted to that. The terror she inspired. It filled her with a euphoria that she could never truly explain, not even to Thaddeus. When he was alive.
The thought of him shifted her emotions to rage.
Morbius.
She had never hated anyone as much as she hated the living vampire. He had ruined her plans, murdered her loved ones. Again and again, and there was no doubt in her mind that he would be coming to save Amanda. Inevitably. Stupidly. She didn’t know how he would manage it, since she had kept secret the details of the ceremony, but Morbius had proved to be an inexplicably smart and dangerous opponent. She almost admired him.
Almost.
But time was running short. If he did arrive, he had no idea what was in store for him. He would wish he had just stayed in the arena, fighting other monsters and being fed innocent victims as a reward. He should have thanked her!
Catherine cleared her mind as she entered the vestibule. Thinking about Morbius wasn’t good for her. She could feel her heart racing, and she needed to be calm for the ceremony. Everything needed to proceed precisely as planned, or all her careful preparations would be for naught.
Those preparations stretched back years, back to when her mother had appeared in her apartment that night, handing her the Lemegeton and changing her world in an instant. That night felt like a thousand years ago. In many ways, it was a different life altogether. It was the night that a version of Catherine had died, and that Poison-Lark had been conceived.
Her acolytes had followed her instructions, lighting the entire nave and pulpit with candles. Moonlight streamed in through the windows. It was a cloudless night and the full moon hung in the middle of the clear sky, just as the book had predicted. The Earth’s shadow had already begun to cut into it, and within an hour or so the eclipse would be complete. The disc would turn red—a blood moon.
Everything was perfect.
Beneath her veil, Catherine smiled.
She strode up the center aisle and toward the altar, holding the ancient book in the crook of her arm. It was the first time she’d carried it in a long time. It felt so good in her grip. So natural.
The thirteen crosses still stood, throwing huge shadows across the floor and the first several rows of pews. The sight sent shivers of pleasure up her spine. Tubes snaked out, tendril-like, from each sacrifice, blood slowly pumping from them and into the tank in the center of the pulpit. At the end of the row of victims, Amanda was lashed to one of the constructs, her eyes closed, unconscious.
She looked so young up there, like the little girl Catherine remembered from when they were growing up. Even though they hadn’t always gotten along, they’d had some good memories. Interspersed throughout the fights, there had been moments of tenderness, of raucous laughter, of teaming up against their parents during arguments that seemed absurd now. There were even several years when they had become all but inseparable.
Regret crowded in around her heart, but she hardened herself again. This was her sister, yes, but Amanda had made her choice. It was her own fault. Her own responsibility.
Demon-Fire acolytes milled about the church, preparing the space and the equipment for what was to come. Only an hour or so away from the ceremony, their timing had to be precise. Catherine had butterflies in her stomach, felt like a child again, in many ways. As if she was going to her first dance or a job interview.
This particular life event was going to involve a lot more blood.
Catherine stepped up to the pulpit and got the attention of a cultist who was checking on one of the unconscious victims tied to a cross.
“Yes, Poison-Lark, how may I serve?” he said, carefully avoiding eye contact.
“Wake her,” Catherine responded, nodding toward her sister.
“At once,” he responded, and he stepped over to Amanda. Withdrawing a syringe from within his red robe he plunged it quickly, efficiently, into her arm. The task completed, the instrument disappeared back into his robe and he turned away as Amanda’s eyes began to flutter open.
“Wake up,” Catherine said in a tone she might have used decades earlier, on a school day. The bus is almost here, Amanda, her memory whispered. Tie your shoes, get your backpack.
No, it was a lifetime ago.
T
hat girl didn’t exist anymore.
“Ca-Catherine…?” Amanda said groggily, trying to focus her eyes.
“I’m here,” Poison-Lark replied, stepping closer.
“You… you don’t have to do this,” her sister said, her voice sharpening much more quickly than Catherine expected. Once again, she was impressed. Amanda was made of sterner stuff than she’d anticipated.
“You’re right,” Catherine said, reaching up and brushing her sister’s hair out of her eyes, “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want—but I want to do this. So very badly.”
Amanda’s eyes flitted to the glass case. The blood within continued to churn and bubble.
“What… is that?”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Catherine answered, following her sister’s gaze. It had taken her a long time to decipher the Lemegeton, to understand what she must do, and finding Franklin Lattimer had been key to the completion of her plan. His formula was essential, was so much more than just a device to create monsters for the amusement of the rich. Yes, that was an advantageous benefit, there was no denying that. The money that had poured in as a result of the fights in the arena had made possible their preparations.
His formula would allow Catherine to take full control over her destiny and the future of Demon-Fire. The blood of thirteen virgins, combined during the blood moon with a very specific mixture that only she possessed, would yield her magnum opus—her greatest achievement.
She was a high priestess, but that didn’t mean she told her superiors everything. Not since her mother’s death. They would interfere, attempt to take control of the ceremony. Most certainly they wouldn’t allow a woman to ascend to the highest level of power.
Not even Thaddeus had known the full extent of her plan. She had wanted to tell him, had almost done so more than once while they lay in each other’s arms after hours of passion. But no. Through Myrna—Sister Saint—Catherine knew the cult’s history of misogyny. They would try to keep her from her birthright, and that she would not allow.
The power was hers to possess. No man—or woman, or even her sister—would hold her back.
“That?” she replied to Amanda’s query. “Let’s just say I’ll be taking a midnight swim.” She had no interest in explaining her plan. However, she wanted her sister conscious for a reason.
“Please, Catherine, listen,” Amanda began. “I—”
“Catherine is dead!” she shouted into her sister’s face. Then she blinked several times and smiled beneath her veil. “I am Poison-Lark, and you won’t be talking your way out of this. Tonight, you will take part in something glorious, something far more important than you realize. I woke you because I want to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Yes. By betraying me this final time, by slapping my hand away when I offered it to you, you made me realize that I am truly alone, and how much power that solitude gives me. If you had joined me, I think it would have made me weaker.” She stepped even closer and looked up into her eyes.
“As you fade into unconsciousness for the final time,” Catherine murmured, “I want you to know that you helped bring about the end of all that is wrong with the world, and the beginning of all that will be right and just. I am going to burn away the weak and the corrupt, and your blood will help make that happen. In many ways, yours is the most important blood of all. So yes, Amanda, yes. Thank you.”
Tears began to fill her sister’s eyes.
“But Dad, he’s out there. He’s still looking for Mom—for us.”
Poison-Lark burst forth with laughter and pulled back, shaking her head.
“Still worried about Daddy, eh, Amanda?” she said. “What a waste—so pathetic!” Her eyes blazed. “After tonight is over, he won’t need to find me, because I will find him. When I do, what I do to him will be a hell of a lot more painful than what you have coming. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”
Before Amanda could protest, Poison-Lark turned away and approached the cult member who was still busy preparing the machinery.
“Shall I put her back under?” he asked, reaching into his robe.
“No,” Catherine responded. “I want her awake for this. Now get back to work. We have less than an hour until midnight.”
“Yes, High Priestess,” he responded.
Standing at the pulpit, Poison-Lark slowly turned in a circle, taking in the entire church, its dark beauty and promise. Beneath the veil, she smiled once again. The time was nigh.
Less than an hour before everything changed.
Forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MORBIUS WANTED the mutated blood. Needed it.
Each time he consumed it, each time its effects began to lapse, his craving for it was even stronger than before, more desperate. After his feeding frenzy in Franklin’s underground laboratory, it took a Herculean effort just to function.
He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before. Yes, he had been a slave to his thirst since the moment he had performed that damn experiment on himself. He’d felt weak with hunger, in an animalistic way, but he had never before experienced anything like the withdrawal symptoms that were currently wracking his body.
Franklin was walking slowly toward the kitchen, swaying slightly. It was possible Morbius had hit him too hard, both times, against the door and then against the floor. He hadn’t meant to, not really, but he wasn’t fully in control of himself. Besides, the wretched man deserved it. Even if Franklin claimed he wasn’t a cult member, he had certainly been helping Demon-Fire achieve its goals, and his own as a result. By his actions, he had killed who knows how many innocent people. Like Jake…
Yet Morbius couldn’t exactly point fingers. He knew that. How many innocents had he slaughtered to slake his unquenchable thirst?
Surely this was different…
He wasn’t so sure.
What if Franklin was speaking the truth? What if he genuinely believed that through his work, he was helping mankind?
Morbius shook his head as he followed. No, it wasn’t the same. His every instinct told him so. Michael killed to survive, and sought a cure that would put an end to the cycle. The cult—and through his involvement, Franklin—selected victims and murdered them to achieve their own ends. Goals that had nothing to do with the common good.
He and Franklin were nothing alike. Morbius didn’t need another blow to the head to convince him the man wasn’t trustworthy.
The scientist slowed and Morbius gave him a shove, keeping the man moving. Who knew how quickly Demon-Fire would figure out where Morbius had gone. He had to locate Amanda, as well. If they had her, he had to save her. She was a strong woman, and resourceful, but she was only human. Even he would need an edge to face them.
He needed the mutated blood. His pulse was racing and he felt as if he might vomit at any moment.
Franklin led him to the industrial-sized refrigerator and opened it, withdrawing a metal box sealed with a spin dial lock. The nervous man placed the box on the kitchen counter and began applying the combination, his stubby fingers slipping on it and forcing him to start over.
“Faster,” Morbius instructed with a growl.
“I’m trying!” Franklin replied, his voice high and whining as he spun the dial again. “It’s dark in here, and I’m nervous, and you scrambled my brains back there. Yelling at me isn’t going to make this go any faster!”
Morbius chuckled darkly. There was some fire in the little man after all. Maybe the two of them really were similar in a grotesque way. Two scientists who had lived life as misfits, and who found solace in science. In another world, they might even have been colleagues.
There was the slightest clicking sound and Franklin stopped fiddling. Slowly, he opened the box, revealing several pouches of dark red blood, sitting in a rack. Without hesitation Morbius shoved the man to the floor and grabbed one, biting into it and feeling the cold delicious liquid run down his throat, trickling out the sides of his mouth.
The trembling subsided, and he felt a certain amount of his strength return—but not all of it. His senses expanded, as well, but not to the degree they had previously. Something was different. Something was wrong. He glared at Franklin, who stared up at him from the floor, the slightest hint of a smile on his face.
“Not working quite as well, eh?”
“Why do you say that?” Morbius responded, anger building within him. He grabbed another packet and held it up, ready to drink its contents, when the other scientist’s words stopped him.
“I designed the formula used to manufacture that blood, Michael. I know everything about it, and I’ve studied your blood, too. While you were Demon-Fire’s… guest. It was my idea to bait you with it in the first place. I had suspected what it would do to you. Thaddeus was dubious—he never really believed I was any good at anything—but Poison-Lark believed me. She always believed me.”
Morbius heard the lust in his voice… or maybe it was love. He almost pitied the man in that moment. But not quite.
“You’re addicted, Michael, and the effects of the blood will continue to lessen… you’ll need more and more of it to maintain any ‘high’ at all. So by all means, enjoy what’s in there. After that, there’s not very much left. Except for, well…” With that, Franklin seemed to lose track of what he was saying.
Morbius tried to convince himself that the man was lying, and consumed the contents of the next packet. Then the next, and then the next. Until there was no more mutated blood to drink.
He closed his eyes for the briefest moment and allowed the power to run throughout his body. True, it wasn’t as potent as it had been, but he felt more like himself now. Opening his eyes, he stepped closer to the scientist, who was shakily getting to his feet. His eyes were glassy and he was having trouble focusing.
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