Morbius

by Brendan Deneen

  Most likely it was a concussion.

  “I suppose you’re going to kill me now.”

  “That would be a mercy,” Morbius hissed, his bloody spittle hitting the man’s face, causing him to wince. “Demon-Fire has Amanda Saint. You’re going to take me to wherever she’s being held, and maybe I’ll let you live.”

  Franklin peered at the ground, and Morbius thought he was trying to decide whether or not to attempt a lie. When he looked back up, his eyes had cleared.

  “They’re at an abandoned church. In the South Bronx. Where they first recruited me, in fact.” He paused, then added, “Tonight is the night. It’s all Poison-Lark could talk to Thaddeus about when they thought they were alone—the night prophesied in some sort of spell book she’s obsessed with. She called it The Lesser Key of Solomon, and a few other names I can’t recall. It contained a formula that I deciphered for them—no one else could have done that.

  “I’m not supposed to know about the book, and worked from photocopies,” he continued, sounding bitter. “I’m just a lowly scientist, toiling away with their blood experiments, but I stay quiet. I listen. I stand right next to them and they don’t even see me.”

  “What do you mean, ‘this is the night’?” Morbius asked, ignoring Franklin’s self-consumed train of thought.

  “They called it the Sacrifice of the Thirteen. Tonight. At midnight.” He looked at his watch. “In forty-five minutes. In order to bring about Satan’s victory on Earth, Poison-Lark is going to drain the blood from thirteen virgins and turn herself into some kind of incredibly powerful demon—and thanks to my formula, the powers of darkness that she will possess will be magnified a hundredfold.

  “It sounds like pure nonsense,” he continued, “but my formula will do its part. Poison-Lark will be transformed—such a waste—into what remains to be seen.”

  Morbius clenched his jaw. Amanda would be one of the thirteen. Of that he was certain.

  Forty-five minutes. He couldn’t fail her.

  Not again.

  Grabbing Franklin by the back of his shirt, he headed toward the closest window.

  “What… what are you doing?”

  “It’s time you and I took a little trip.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT WAS nearly midnight.

  Catherine entered through the nave, now wearing the traditional red robes of Demon-Fire. Her face was still obscured by the veil, which was good since it also hid the quickness of her breath. This was it. The moment she had anticipated for months… if not years.

  The pews were filled with acolytes, those who had been carefully chosen and had come from across the country, across the world, to witness this event. Word had been spread through whispers, of a secret ceremony that had been kept hidden from the upper echelons of Demon-Fire.

  Many considered their current leaders weak, unwilling to take the organization to the next level. More and more acolytes had pledged their undying loyalty to her. The pendulum was shifting in her direction. Soon, she would possess immeasurable dark and supernatural powers, derived from Satan himself, and she would take her rightful place as the leader of Demon-Fire.

  If only her mother could have been there to see it.

  As Catherine walked up the aisle, she banished thoughts of her family. She was no longer a daughter or a sister. She was Poison-Lark. She was the Chosen One, who would bring a thousand years of darkness to the Earth. Her name would be spoken in hushed tones, inspiring fear and reverence.

  Reaching the pulpit, she walked up the several stairs to the altar. Twelve of the thirteen victims were unconscious, the blood still draining from them, ever so slowly. Barely alive, but they would survive just long enough. Give her the power of their pure blood. Silently, she thanked them for their sacrifice.

  Number thirteen was awake. If looks could kill…

  “Amanda,” she said, “you’re still with us. I’m pleased, and impressed.”

  “Go to Hell, Catherine,” Amanda spat, her face pale, huge circles under her eyes.

  Catherine bristled. None of the cult members knew her true name. But then she relaxed. What did it matter now? She would only be “Catherine” for a few moments more, and then she’d be…?

  She wasn’t quite sure. More than Catherine.

  More than even Poison-Lark.

  Something entirely new. The thought sent waves of pleasure running through her body.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather bring Hell to Earth,” she replied, turning away from her sister and facing the congregation. Despite the numbers—at least a hundred of them—they were utterly silent. It was as if none among them dared to breathe.

  “My acolytes…” she intoned, raising up the Lemegeton for them all to see. There was a euphoric murmur at the sight of it. “Thank you for your support, for believing in me when the leaders of Demon-Fire didn’t. You understood my vision, helped me make it reality, and I will remember. When the new age of darkness descends upon this planet, you will be granted everything you have ever desired. I swear this upon The Lesser Key of Solomon.”

  She nodded to a nearby acolyte, who stepped over and took the book from her, a look of awe on his face as he grasped the ancient grimoire. The murmuring grew louder from the red-hooded masses in front of her. She smiled beneath her veil, and then reached up to her face.

  “Before the ceremony begins, I would like to bequeath upon you one last gift before I give myself over to Satan, and all that He heralds.” She unhooked the veil and removed it, revealing her face to the assembled cultists for the very first time. The murmuring grew louder.

  They found the gift pleasing.

  “I bare myself to you. The thirteenth sacrifice has revealed to you the name I was given by my frail human parents, and now you see the face that was given to me by a frail and flawed God.” She removed the robe and stepped closer to the blood-filled tank, completely unclothed. The murmuring rose in volume, and she had to speak over it.

  “I stand naked before the true and pure darkness of this world, and the previous and the next! I am Poison-Lark, the one true leader of Demon-Fire, and I commend my body and my soul to Satan so that He may live through me on this terrestrial plane, and make His will be known!”

  The crowd voiced their approval as Catherine climbed the small stepladder that would allow her to enter the tank of blood. Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to chime.

  It was midnight.

  “Catherine!” Amanda screamed, pressing against her bonds. “Please! Don’t!”

  She looked over at her sister and gave a small smile.

  You fool, she thought. It’s already done.

  She stepped into the warm blood, and her skin instantly began to tingle. The acolytes began the chant she had distributed among them, the words taken directly from Lemegeton. As she lowered herself farther and farther into the tank, slowly, reveling in the moment, she found herself in complete disbelief.

  It was really happening.

  Her chest sank beneath the liquid, then her neck, and finally, her head. She tried to keep her eyes open but the blood stung, so she shut them. It tried to rush up her nose, but she fought it for just a moment. She knew she had to drown in order to complete the ceremony, but every instinct in her body was trying to prevent that from occurring.

  Despite her attempts at keeping her mind clear, her mind raced back to her childhood. To those years when it was just her and her mother and her father. A small part of her wished she could go back and live in that time. Before Amanda. Before the true complexities of life took hold. It had been so beautiful, so perfect.

  But life was neither beautiful nor perfect. The world had been perverted beyond belief, beyond reason, by those whose greed and selfishness were all-consuming. They needed to be eradicated by any means necessary.

  By fire. By blood.

  By Satan. By Poison-Lark.

  For the final time, she cleansed her mind of everything that tethered her to her past. At the same moment, her body
demanded that she inhale, and she opened her mouth. Blood poured in, running between her teeth, up her nose, filling her stomach and her lungs. White dots filled the darkness behind closed eyelids and then her consciousness slipped away.

  Her body convulsed violently, and then went completely still.

  Catherine Saint was dead.

  * * *

  MORBIUS LANDED on the roof of the church, carrying Franklin. The huge orange moon filled the sky above them.

  The vampire dropped his burden as he landed gracefully on his feet, and Franklin tumbled across the gravel-strewn surface, rolling a few feet and then stopping, a crumpled mass of arms and legs.

  “Ow,” he said far too loudly.

  “If she’s not here, your death will be a painful one,” Morbius promised, ignoring the man’s lamentation.

  “That’s what I overheard,” the scientist protested. “I can’t make any promises.” He came shakily to his feet and put his glasses back on.

  Morbius ignored him and looked around. They were in what must have been a warehouse district, on top of an abandoned church that was surrounded by gutted, burned-out buildings. Somewhere nearby, another church’s bells had just finished ringing twelve times. If Franklin was correct, if he wasn’t lying, the ceremony would be under way at this very moment. There was no time to lose.

  The church was a huge building, probably built at least a century earlier, with multiple doorways and sections to sort through. The last time Poison-Lark and Demon-Fire had abducted Amanda, they took her underground, but based on what Franklin told him, Morbius suspected that Catherine wasn’t looking to hide herself away.

  No, she was going big this time, and would seek to do it in the splashiest way possible.

  His eyes landed on the huge stained-glass window that had been built into the church, near the back. Yes. The pulpit. Where the most sacred part of Christian masses took place. It made perfect sense, considering Demon-Fire’s inverted logic. What better place to murder thirteen innocent people?

  Walking over to Franklin, Morbius grabbed him by the back of his shirt.

  “Wait… what?” the smaller man protested, his eyes widening with fear. He had confessed during their initial flight that he was scared of heights, had nearly thrown up more than once. “I got you where you wanted to go!”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve grown accustomed to your presence,” Morbius said and he leapt, riding the wind with stomach-dropping speed. They moved without slowing toward the largest of the stained-glass windows. Franklin closed his eyes and prepared himself for impact.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  AMANDA FOUGHT to remain conscious.

  She blinked furiously against the encroaching darkness. Her sister had submerged herself in the case of blood. For the first few moments, she could see an occasional arm or leg pressed against the glass, but then she had vanished entirely within the opaque liquid.

  Too much time had gone by. No one could survive that long without oxygen. Like their mother, Catherine was dead, and no dark miracle had occurred. All the death and the pain and the loss… it had been for nothing. Despite the betrayals and lies, and the fact that she herself was dying—or perhaps because of it all—Amanda was overwhelmed with sadness.

  She loved her sister. She wished things could have been different, that she could have gotten through to her, to her mother. But both of them had kept their hidden lives so perfectly secret. Maybe it was her fault. For being so naïve. So trusting.

  No, she refused to give in to such thoughts. She would rather die with trust in her heart than hatred in her soul.

  The cult members who had been sitting in the pews had risen and surged toward the pulpit. Her head spinning, Amanda laughed. Such idiots. Did they really think—

  CRACK!

  A fist suddenly smashed against the case—from within. The glass cracked in a spider-web pattern. Amanda’s dry, cracked lips opened in surprise.

  “Catherine,” she said, the words barely forming.

  In the next moment, a crash from above echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. Amanda and all the cult members looked up with equal surprise on their faces as Michael Morbius burst through the largest of the stained-glass windows and descended rapidly toward the pulpit, snarling savagely, his teeth bared. Multicolored glass surrounded him as he fell, catching the candlelight and sparkling.

  It was almost beautiful.

  Strangely, in his grasp, Michael held a terrified-looking man whose limbs were twisted and whose eyes were shut tight behind crooked glasses.

  A smile crept onto Amanda’s face.

  “Michael…” she whispered, and then she gave in to the darkness.

  * * *

  MORBIUS LANDED on the floor and once again released Franklin, though more gently this time.

  The little man hadn’t been lying. They were here—at least a hundred of them. A huge glass case had been placed in the center of the pulpit, full of dark blood, and thirteen female victims were strapped to crosses. One of them was Amanda, her skin paler than his own. The sight of her like this sent him into a frenzy, rage clouding his mind and turning his vision red.

  The cult members surrounded him but didn’t move, momentarily shocked by his dramatic arrival. Though the multicolored glass crashed to the ground and the tank of blood continued to bubble quietly, the church was otherwise silent.

  One of the cultists was braver than his comrades. With a cry he ran forward toward Morbius, his voice rising to a scream, withdrawing a long, wicked knife from within his red robes. The living vampire regarded his attacker with a moment of curiosity. He actually admired the man’s courage, misplaced as it was.

  Reaching out, he grabbed the man by the throat and snapped his neck. The crack sounded like a gunshot in the cavernous church. The robed figure crumpled to the ground like a pile of old rags.

  Again, no one dared make a sound. Out of the corner of his eye, Morbius saw Franklin take a step behind him, perhaps thinking he could avoid the conflict that was inevitably approaching.

  “Listen to me!” Morbius shouted, facing the throngs. He could already feel his enhanced strength fading. He wanted more of the blood… needed it. The wounds he had received in the past few days were beginning to reassert themselves. Deep down, past his rage and the chemicals running through his bloodstream, Michael Morbius was tired.

  Yet he had work to do.

  “I have killed dozens of your members today,” he continued, “have bathed in the blood of your brothers and sisters! I have no interest in killing any more of you! Walk away now, and let these women live. Or stay and be slaughtered, one by one. The choice is yours.”

  Uncertainty rippled through the throng like a physical wave. It was several minutes past midnight. Whatever dark cataclysmic event they had thought was going to transpire had refused to manifest. They’d been duped.

  Of course they had.

  Morbius allowed his body to relax. Perhaps he and Amanda would get out of here without a—

  CRACK.

  As one, everyone in front of him shifted their gaze, peering at the blood-filled vat. The liquid inside had begun to swish about—slowly at first, but then more violently. Morbius noticed a break in the glass, and watched as a large fist pounded the same spot, the crack growing larger, drops of blood starting to spill out.

  A murmur rose among the crowd, quietly at first, but increasing in volume and intensity. Morbius pivoted slightly, uncertain whether the greater threat would come from the cult members or whatever was hidden by the viscous fluid.

  Could that be Catherine Saint?

  His preferred course would be to untie Amanda and get her out of here, yet that would mean abandoning the other twelve women. If they still lived.

  Whatever lay within the case lashed out again and the glass finally shattered, gallons of blood pouring out, covering the floor and sloshing against Morbius’ feet. The smell of the blood—and Franklin’s formula within it—filled his senses. He fought an urge to drop to h
is hands and knees and lap it up like a dog.

  Something the size of a human fell out of the case. As it hit the floor, it curled into a fetal position.

  The cult members reacted by screaming. Chants erupted and a cold wind filled the church, putting out many of the hundreds of candles, plunging them all into gloom. Dark clouds suddenly roiled the sky, visible through the broken window, covering the blood moon as rain began to fall, coming through the jagged hole that Morbius had just created. Lightning arced overhead, illuminating the world in a shock of white and then vanishing, only to reappear moments later.

  Morbius looked to Amanda and was surprised to see Franklin approaching her. Michael prepared to leap over and rip the man’s throat out with his bare hands, when nearby laughter pulled his attention away. It came from the creature that had fallen out of the glass case. Still curled up in a ball, it was growing. The sound of its skin stretching and bones creaking echoed through the large room.

  The creature raised its head and stared directly into his eyes.

  “Hello, Michael,” it rumbled, its voice the guttural sound of a nightmare.

  As it rose to its feet, the chants increased. The figure was at least ten feet tall and still growing. Its skin was no longer human flesh, but dark green and leathery, with pulsing veins and tiny black spikes appearing every couple of inches. The creature’s ears were long and tall and pointed, and its face was elongated into an almost wolf-like snout, huge teeth growing out of gums, dark blood flowing freely as the few human teeth still left in there were pushed unceremoniously out and onto the wet floor.

  There was a horrible ripping sound as flesh and bones made way and small wings appeared on the creature’s back, close to the shoulder blades. Its legs twisted until they were arched almost like an insect’s, and they ended in hairy hooves which stood firm in the pool of blood. At the ends of each arm were three-fingered hands and foot-long claws glimmering in what remained of the candlelight.