Vladimir glanced up at the leaden sky, his eyes red and swollen as he stared up at the incessant rain and sighed. He flicked his wrists and the leather reins fluttered slapping flank as he ‘ch’kk’d’, clucking with his tongue to get the old plow horses moving through the quagmire of the back road. The old, out of shape horses should have been in pasture somewhere enjoying their last years but at his command, the snap of the leather they trudged on.
He sighed again, returning his attention to the road as he flicked the reins again, the horses plodding on through the mud and running water, straining hard to drag the wagon forward, on to their next destination; Satu Mare. The trucks had gone on ahead to set camp, pitch the tents and prepare the way taking the paved highway some miles west. It was the wagons though that held the show and what all would be waiting on. Vladamir wished that the wagons could have gone along the highway as well, but the police had ordered them to the less traveled back roads citing that they would impede faster traffic and be a hazard. Not wanting trouble before the show, Tiboldt had reluctantly agreed.
He felt his Master stirring in the old wagon behind him, resting uneasily though Dusk was yet hours away. It was the clouds Vladimir knew, so thick and dark, the rain dimming all, waking the master. He heard the sound of engines straining and looked to his left.
The Clown rolled up on a three-wheeled ATV cycle, a sodden and soiled cigar smoldering in his lips as he eyed the old wagon. The Clown sneered, an awful thing, his eyes dark with malice as he flicked his butt into the mud. He was dressed in thick coveralls, but as always his make-up remained etched on his face, glaring and garish.
“Ya need ta get a move on, boy,” the Clown said as he revved the engines of his three-wheeled bike. “Yer boss is in the first show tonight an’ he has ta be set up.”
“We’ll be ready,” Vladamir said flicking the reins again, urging the horses forward.
“Ya better be,” the Clown sneered, revving his engines and finally speeding on ahead to harass another member of the troupe. Vladamir cursed under his breath, missing his friends and the Compound, the Nursery yet knowing he was helpless to do anything beyond what was required. His Master had seen to that. His Master had claimed him body and soul and he was trapped, his past life a fleeting jumble of fading memories.
“The Clown will get his, eventually,” a cold voice said from behind. Vladimir shivered, hunkering down as the malignant presence roiled behind him. Dark mist furled outwards from the front door of the wagon and Vladamir knew that the Master was with him. He both shivered in fear and writhed in ecstasy.
“Soon I shall be home, and these cretins will be a sad memory. Drive on.”
Vladimir hunkered down and flicked the reins as the presence withdrew as quickly as it had appeared. Not dark yet. Not night…
Vladimir peered up into the heavens and sobbed, wishing he were dead…
-
- DRACULA
THE SHOW MUST GO ON!
By Curtis Fernlund
Nightwing Restorations
Times Square
Manhattan, New York
“He’s out there somewhere. Not dead, I- I know it. I can feel it. I have to find him.”
They all watched as Frank Drake stuffed his meager belongings into a travel bag, those things that he had gathered as he stayed at Nightwing Restorations over the past few months. He looked harried, on edge and almost frantic as he rushed about the room, plucking his few personal effects from the desk, scooping his essentials from the pile beside the couch that had been his bed since they had met the Lord of the Vampyr in the Lower East Side ages ago.
“Ya need to relax, pal,” James Skully said then taking a sip of his beer, watching Drake in his rush. “Ya don’t even know where he is, if he ain’t dead. Where are you headin’ off to?”
“Transylvania,” Rachel Van Helsing offered calmly lounging on the couch. She recrossed her legs and brushed at an imaginary bit of lint on her sculpted blue jeans seemingly void of the concern that was overwhelming Frank Drake. “We figure if Dracula goes to ground anywhere, it’ll be there. To rest and recover, gather his forces again.” She glanced up at the gathered group of ragtag vampire hunters, her gaze settling on Colleen Wing as she grinned. “You’re all welcome to tag along of course.”
Colleen Wing fumed, the word ‘bitch’ on the tip of her tongue as she stared daggers at the woman. The body was Marlene Drake, Frank’s estranged wife, but the soul belonged to Rachel Van Helsing back from the dead and inhabiting the shell. What happened to Marlene they did not know, and Van Helsing was not saying. Worse yet, Frank did not seem to care that his wife was gone, happy with the fact that his true love seemed to have returned from the Great Beyond. * Colleen knew that something strange was going on, and was about to say so when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
* Go read Tomb of Dracula # 9 for the full story of Rachel Van Helsing’s return.
“Thanks, Rachel,” Misty Knight said in a tone dripping with sarcasm, “but we figure we better stay in the city and work on getting the agency back on its feet. Vampire hunting might save the world but it don’t pay the bills. You need us though, give a ring and we’ll come running.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Van Helsing said, though everyone in the room knew she did not mean it.
“I’ll be staying too,” Eric Arcane added exhaling a cloud of swirling blue smoke. “You might be right in that Dracula will head home, but I think he’ll turn up here again before too long. Too, I’m sure he has his Get still out there somewhere and someone needs to deal with them.” Doctor Arcane flicked ash from his cigarette into his own empty beer can noting the slight smile on Rachel Van Helsing’s face as she turned to Skull the Slayer.
“And you?” she asked as Drake zipped up his travel bag taking a final look around before charging into the bathroom.
“Sorry, Toots,” Skully said downing the last of his beer and crumpling the can in his hand. “You’ll have to get on without me. I’ll be heading back south for a bit, getting my affairs in order. Like Misty said, vampire hunting don’t pay too well.”
Frank Drake bustled back into the room, toiletries in hand and stuffed them into the side pocket of his bag. He finally paused for a moment and took a deep breath, looking about the room before turning to the group. “I think that’s everything,” he said, scooping up the bag and shouldering it as Van Helsing stood doing likewise, her own bag filled with things she had recently bought, clothing and personal effects.
“I- I want to thank you all, for your help. We did good. I just wish we could have killed him in the end, but my ancestor is hard to do in.” Drake sounded sincere in his thanks, almost sorry to be leaving. Van Helsing checked her watch.
“Three hours till our flight, Frank. We need to go.”
“Right. Well… Take care. I’m sorry I…” Frank Drake frowned then headed out the door without another word. Rachel Van Helsing nodded, smirking, then followed equally silent. The door slammed shut.
“What a prick,” Skully said as he stood and moved to the small refrigerator in the corner of the room. He pulled another can of beer out and popped the top with a ‘shush’.
“No argument there,” Arcane said as he stood, dropping his empty can into the recycle bin. “I don’t trust that woman though. I think she’s messing with his head.”
“He has issues,” Colleen offered slumping back into her chair and crossing her arms and legs. “And an obsession or two.”
“At least,” Misty agreed as she took a beer out of the refrigerator for herself. She popped the can and took a long swallow, wiping her lips. “Guess this is it then?”
“Guess so,” Skully agreed. “I’m catchin’ the Midnight train to Georgia. No, really. Ya got my number if you need me?” Arcane and the Daughters of the Dragon all nodded. “An’ I got yours. Who knows? Maybe we’ll all get together again before too long. Save the world again an’ get the shaft for our efforts.”
“Could happen,” Arcane said with a grin.
“Listen,” Misty said after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, “You got a couple hours before your train Skully. Who’s up for dinner? My treat. I know an Irish Pub down on 33rd that lays a spread and a half.”
“Sounds good, Misty,” Skully said chugging his beer.
“I never turned down free food in my life,” Arcane agreed.
“Col?”
Colleen Wing looked up with a scowl then shrugged. “Why the hell not?”
And so the ‘Fearless Vampire Hunters’ disbanded, little knowing how soon they would be called together again to help save Reality…*
* Go read the Thing elsewhere here at Marvel Omega to follow the adventures of Skull the Slayer, Doctor Arcane and the Daughters of the Dragon!
Four Months Ago…
He ran…
Breath scorching in his heaving lungs, his legs leaden weights churning up the snow in drifts in his wake Vladamir plodded on through the frigid Siberian wastes. He stumbled and staggered through barren woodlands, past streams and rivers coated with ice without stopping. His breath billowed in gossamer wisps trailing behind as he churned through hip deep snow.
Come…
He ran through a blasted land, trees blown flat as though by a massive wind. Coated with snow, nothing lived and nothing thrived within the dead zone.
Come to me…
He followed the siren call of his Master. Unwavering, struggling to go faster, he churned through the wastes pushed to his limits. His endurance was good but he had never had to run so fast, so long, so hard before.
They had left the Compound in the dark of night, the Master satiated, morphing in a shimmer of darkness, a huge Fell Beast taking to leathern wing. It swept up into the crisp cold air, winging west, calling for Vladamir to follow. He did.
And so he had, everyday for the past month running through the daylight hours to find the Master’s place of rest that evening when the Master would crawl from a cleft in the rock or rise from the earth only to take to the skies again. He was exhausted, his regeneration keeping him going, getting only a bit of respite guarding over the Master as he slept during the day, then on the move again.
Vladamir touched the wound at his throat that connected him to the Master; the scar that his regeneration would not heal. Two pinpricks where the Master had drank of his blood. He paused, breathing deeply, hands on his knees as he tried to recover.
CLACK
Vladamir looked up to see the men and women gathered about the clearing where he had chosen to catch his breath. He counted twenty at a glance, young and old, male and female, all dressed in the fashion of the Rom; the men in silken shirts, vests, bandanas on their heads or hats, boots and slacks, the women in silken blouses and skirts. All wore bangles and jewelry in silver and gold, colorful bandanas tying back their hair. Many held guns. One woman held a slingshot, the rubber held at arm’s length trained on him, a steel ball baring aimed at his face. Another woman whispered in some Eld tongue that he did not understand. An old, stooped man stepped up finally and regarded him at last; wispy gray hair blowing about the brim of his hat in the chill wind.
“Who are you, boy, charging through this land, which is ours?” the old man said in Romanian spitting chaw as he paused. The younger men surged forward as Vladamir gathered his strength and breath. He saw an old woman casting twigs to the ground, muttering.
“I… am… Vladamir,” the boy answered gasping for breath. “I meant no… disrespect. I was just… passing through to meet… my Master.”
“Your master?” the old man said glancing about. “I see no master. Just a wayward boy, haggard and spent.”
“He is ahead. Waiting for me. I must go.”
“You’re going nowhere, boy,” one of the younger men said even as the old woman gasped in horror, backing away. Guns raised training on Vladamir. He heard the snap and ratchet of hammers clacking into place, saw barrels raised unto him.
“Let the boy go,” a cold voice said from the shadows of the woodland. “He is under my protection.” There was a collective gasp as the younger Rom turned, training their guns and weapons on the sound of the voice. Vladamir looked up and saw the shadowy form striding forward, unafraid.
“Show yourself!” the old man shouted and Dracula stepped from the shadows of the misty forest. He was dressed as always, old dark tuxedo, high-collared opera cloak, his hair slicked back into a widow’s peak. Vladamir felt his heart hammering as he gazed upon the Master, arrogant and imposing amongst the gypsy Rom. He heard the old man gasp.
“My Lord Tepes…” the old man uttered, dropping to his knees before the Master. He bent low, groveling, “I did not know. Forgive me!” he wailed and the Master looked down on him in curiosity ignoring the guns still pointing his way.
“You know me?” the Master asked, perplexed casting his red glare about the group. Some bowed their heads in supplication while others kept their guns raised and trained on his form.
“I was but a youth when you were restored,” the old man said, “freed from your torpor. I followed you but you left for America and greater glory. I have awaited your return. We all have.” The old man gestured at the group and Dracula smiled.
“Good.” Dracula turned his gaze again on the gathered Rom and Vladamir sensed that the Master was judging them. With a satisfied smirk he crossed his arms over his chest. “You will serve. Give the boy a wagon, your best, where I will reside while he drives. We will move swiftly.”
Dracula turned at the sound of grumbling amongst the younger of the Rom. He stepped to them. “Is there a problem?” he said with a wicked grin, eyeing the young gypsies.
“We journey east to Moldova,” one finally said finding the courage to speak up.
“No longer,” Dracula said dismissively, with a wave of his hand. “We now travel to Wallachia, south and west.”
Vladamir jerked at the explosion, the sound of the gun’s rapport echoing through the barren trees. He lunged forward to help his Master, but Dracula’s arm shot out grasping the gypsy about the throat and raising him off of his feet. Kicking and screaming the Rom dropped his rifle, his hands moving to clutch the arm of the vampire lord.
SNAP!
Vladamir saw the young man go limp in his Master’s fist, the fingers closing and twisting. Dracula dropped the dead man to the snow-crusted ground and turned to the others, ignoring the body steaming at his feet, the wound in his own stomach. “Any further dissention?”
Vladamir saw all the Rom bow, then scurry away to do his Master’s bidding. Dracula laughed…
Two Months Ago…
Vladamir stared at the grounds, at the raggedy and garish multi-colored tents adorned with flags and pennants whipping in the stiff breeze. Beyond were the wagons of the band, equally garish, old and weathered with peeling paint shattered wood, broken windows in the cabs. The more modern trucks and cars were parked haphazardly beyond that at the edge of the field where the circus had set up only recently apparently as they had yet to open. Smaller tents and makeshift booths were erected in a somewhat orderly fashion to the west, barkers and surly roadies setting up the food stalls and games of the midway, putting on finishing touches to draw the eye and the curious, and of course the money. In the background the city lights of Comrat burned brightly in the otherwise dark night.
“I like this not, boy.”
Vladamir glanced at the old man beside him, Zarish, the eld gypsy and patriarch of the clan that they had been traveling with for two months through the Ukraine and finally to the borders of Romania. He was dressed in a long coat against the chill breeze, his silver beard and long hair fluttering under his feathered fedora as he grimly scanned the circus. “The Master should avoid these,” he continued after spitting a wad of tobacco to the cold earth. “We do not need this trash.”
“The Master feels differently,” Vladamir responded, and the old man spat again.
“Olga senses darkness about them,” Zarish said. “An evil troupe. And Americans mostly. This will come to no good.”
Vladamir shrugged. Olga was Zarish’ mother, a wizened old woman that spoke in an old European tongue and dabbled in minor mystics. The clan’s Seer, she had to be pushing one hundred years if Vladamir was any judge. She seemed worried and apprehensive to him most of the time and never drew near him or the Master, though he occasionally saw her invoking the ‘Evil Eye’ after the Master passed. “I follow my Master,” he finally said.
“As do we all, boy.”
It was another twenty minutes before Vladamir saw the Master leave the RingMaster’s wagon and stride purposefully in their direction. He ignored the looks of the roadies as he strode through their midst, cautious glances and some looks of hatred and contempt. “We will travel with these,” he said even as he approached. “I will add my talents to their shows and they will add coin to our coffers as well as hiding us in their midst as we journey southwest, to Wallachia.”
“It is not needed, Lord,” Zarish said frowning. “We know the back roads and secret ways, my clan. I have traveled them my life. We can escort you safely without these rabble.”
Dracula turned eyeing the old man with a tinge of red in his glare. “You think me afraid, Rom? I was alone, then with the boy before finding you. I will use this circus as I use your clan, for my better.” Dracula’s eyes flared brightly as he stared at the old man, Zarish finally nodding and looking to the ground.
“Of course, my Lord. We are here to serve.”
“Then set camp, Zarish, there at the edge of the clearing.” Dracula pointed at an open wold at the edge of the tree line, then turned to Vladamir. “You come with me, boy.”
Vladamir nodded and scurried after his Master as the Lord of the Vampyr strode away…
Seven Weeks Ago…
Vladamir heaved, his palms sweating despite the light coating of chalk dusting his hands, teeth gritted and eyes clenched shut against the glare of the spotlight. Even through the roar of blood pulsing through his ears he could hear the murmurs of disbelief from the crowd as he struggled to press the barbell overhead. Fake, fraud, phony all whispered as he grunted, locking his arms finally, staggering a bit under the intense weight as he tried to hold it steady overhead, waiting on the applause as he had been taught.
Finally it came, the clapping rippling about the huge tent, not furious and no cheers, but as always jeers of contestation as he let out his breath and lobbed the heavy weight forward to bounce on the sawdust coated ground. He staggered back breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his slim, shirtless chest, finally bowing, as the applause died away though the japes continued.
“He’s a fake!” someone shouted.
“No way!” called another voice.
“Gotta be hollow,” he heard from the closest spectator just a dozen feet away. Vladamir looked at the man sitting in the front row of the stands, his family about him, a wife and two young daughters watching him with interest. Vlad smiled and the two girls giggled, one leaning close to the other to whisper in her ear. They were talking about him obviously, or more likely what he was wearing, a wide, black leather belt, boots and tights that left little to the imagination. He blushed with embarrassment as they laughed, started to turn away even as the Ringmaster’s voice blared over the loudspeakers situated about the tent.
“I give you the Incredible Brutus, ladies and gentlemen! The strongest boy in the world!”
Vladamir grimaced at the stage name he had been given but raised his arms over his head to another light round of applause glancing at the Ringmaster as the man swept his outstretched scarlet tophat in his direction. His satiny green tuxedo coat shimmered in the spotlights as he moved with a grandiose manner, spangled with black stars that glittered. Vladamir hated the man and more, did not trust him but he had to admit that Maynard Tiboldt had a flare for working a crowd.
“He’s a phony!” someone shouted from the audience and Vladamir turned back to the crowd even as Tiboldt smiled and stepped forward, popping his tall hat back atop his head. His grin was wide and slimy under a dark, waxed mustache as he stood before the bleachers. The stands were packed this third and final night of their performance, word having spread in the town of the circus. Both Vlad and the Ringmaster scanned the eager faces, almost a hush as everyone wondered what would happen next.
“I assure you all, this boy is no fake!” the Ringmaster said into his microphone. “The weights are indeed real,” he said gesturing at the huge set of dumbbells imbedded into the dirt, “and I challenge any and all to step down into the ring and test their authenticity!”
“I’ll do it!” Vladamir heard the same voice and saw a large man rise from his seat high in the stands, as expected. Others followed as he made his way to the ring and soon there were five men gathered around the Ringmaster. They were average looking, dressed casually, young to old, a sampling of the gender and a predicted part of the show.
Tiboldt and the circus’ resident strongman, Bruto, had explained how his act would go days before and Vlad had listened intently and learned as the Master required. Bruto had not liked being replaced, even for a short period of time, but he had done as the Ringmaster had ordered, teaching Vladamir the proper art of weightlifting; safety and showmanship above all. The strongman was huge and muscular, and actually stronger than Vlad he had learned, though just barely. He lifted his heaviest weights far easier than Vladamir, from the oversized dumbbells to the black iron pyramids. He pulled the largest circus wagon across the grounds like a team of oxen and even mangled a long metal pipe into a pretzel shape as easily as the showmen in the midway sculpted colored balloons into hats and animals for spectators.
Tiboldt had said that there would be disbelievers in the audience and it was expected and all part of the show. They would be called down to test the weights and enhance the experience all to the delight of the audience. And as predicted, again Tiboldt urged these five new men to do just that, asking their names and putting them at ease to be the center of attention, at least for a bit, possibly their fifteen minutes of fame in their home city.
One by one each of the men stepped forward, and one by one each failed to even budge any of the huge weights. The crowd laughed and clapped as the Ringmaster called for a round of applause, giving each of the men tickets for games in the midway and passes to the Oddity Emporium as the ‘Freak Show’ was named. More applause for Vladamir then as the Ringmaster acknowledged that his part of the show was over with a flourish of grand, waving gestures.
After a final bow Vladamir heaved up the two iron pyramids and made his way from the ring towards the performer’s entrance even as two Roadies ran past to roll the huge dumbbells out of the staging area to make room for the next act. To his relief Bruto was waiting in the shadows and took one of the weights from him with a grunt and took up step beside him.
“Good job, kid,” the older man said with a half-smile and Vlad actually felt a bit of pride at the praise. “Not that I won’t be sorry to see you go, but you’d fit right in here.” Bruto dropped the weight to the ground with a thud well out of the way and nodded for Vlad to do the same. He then handed the boy a stained towel, which Vlad gratefully accepted and started to wipe down his sweaty frame and hair.
They heard the Ringmaster announcing the next act from center ring, the Great Gambonnos, twin brothers that were incredibly skilled in the art of tumbling and seemed to Vlad at times to be made of rubber, or maybe double-jointed at least. Being still a teenager Vlad had to admit that even though he knew what was coming at the end of the show tonight that the acts and novelties of the circus thrilled him. From the Gambonnos to the exotic Serpent Queen, the Human Cannonball and even the scary Clown, all were fantastic at what they did. Were he a normal boy and not under the thrall of the Master he might even be enjoying himself. It was every childhood dream at some point to run off and join the circus after all.
Vladamir draped the sweat-soaked towel over the railing of a sawhorse and grabbed up his robe from where he had left it against the chill night air. He heard thunderous applause from the tent as he donned the robe and knew that the Great Gambonnos must have just done something spectacular. They were good and deserved their accolades and again Vladamir wondered why they, and so many others lived the life they had chosen.
“Your Master will be on soon.” Bruto’s deep voice cut through Vladamir’s reveries and the boy looked to his trainer. “Is he up?”
“He rises when the sun sets,” Vlad replied with a heavy sigh. “He is awake.”
“Then ya better go get him ready, boy.”
Both Vladamir and Bruto turned at the sound of the familiarly gruff voice and the boy frowned at the sight of the Clown peddling forward on a unicycle. As always the garish make-up, the bleached white face and forever-frowning lips, the evil masque forever tattooed into his skin sent a shiver down Vlad’s spine. He backed up a step as the Clown jerked his one-wheeled bike to the side and skidded to a stop, spewing dirt onto Vlad’s legs.
“The boss ain’t gonna be happy if yer ‘Master’s’ late fer his show, punk. An’ he better do good. We got a lot ridin’ on tonight’s performance.” The Clown sneered, taking a moment to relight the butt of cigar in his mouth then turned to the strongman. “Everything ready on yer end, Bruto?”
Vlad saw Bruto smile. “Of course.”
“Awwright. Go gather the troupe. Tiboldt’s gonna want’a blow this dirtball soon as we play our encore. An’ not a minute too soon, ya ask me.”
“You got it, Elliot.” Bruto turned to Vlad and gave a wan smile. “Go on, kid, and be ready.” Vlad nodded and shuffled off feeling the gazes of both men burning into his back.
Vlad hung his head as he left the tent heading out into the crowd. The midway was a bustle with activity, crowded with a throng of happy, clueless people enjoying the novelty of a night out at the circus. It was loud with the sounds of music and talk, the grinding of metal from the few small carnival rides the circus had. A calliope churned near the main entrance spouting a monotonous fluted tune. He could smell burning grease and hot dogs, the sickly sweet scent of cotton candy and the odor of fresh popcorn. Barkers shouted through megaphones calling one and all to their booths to toss rings or throw darts. A bell clanged in the distance as someone had figured the trick to ring the bell of the Hammer Game apparently. It was cold out but no one seemed to care, everyone having a great time, oblivious of what was to come.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, finally breaking free of the midway and passing the tent that housed the Oddities Emporium. There was no line and he noted that the Ticket Master’s booth was empty, but he heard noise from within the tent; laughter and voices.
“No…”
“Leave him alone!”
“Ssssstop it!”
“Shaddup, freaks!”
Vladamir stopped, listening. More laughter and a squeal of pain, as he cursed and slipped through the tent’s flap. It was dim inside, smoky but he immediately heard the voices at the far end of the long line of stalls and cages; laughter and contempt. He hurried forward amidst whispers and pleas…
“Vlad!”
“Help him!”
“Let us out!” A rattling of metal, a feral snarl. “I’ll gut the bastards!”
Vladamir ignored the pleas, the plaintive voices as he always did. He did not look into the stalls and cages as he passed. He had seen them all more than enough in just the past week since he and the Master had joined the circus. The Dog Boy collared in a hay strewn stall and living in squalor, the Mermaid in her fish tank, a girl no older than him covered in scales with a fish’s tail where her legs should have been, the Shark Man with his glistening black hide chained in an old tiger’s cage, elongated snout and razor sharp teeth and claws; Mutants all he supposed as he hurried for the shadows clustered at the back end of the tent.
There were four of them he saw, two boys and two girls just a little older than he was, all dressed in leathers and denims, boots and tee shirts with wild hair and tattoos, piercings, smoking cigarettes and drinking from cans of beer. They were gathered about the final stall, laughing as one of the boys in their number jabbed a wooden pole through the chicken wire that blocked the opening. Vlad heard whining squeals and whimpers with every thrust of the pole, all of the Flatlines laughing and shouting encouragement.
“Stick him again!” the pudgy girl with the pink hair howled, guzzling from her beer can.
“Skewer his ass,” said the tall boy with the shaved pate. “I could go for some hot wings right now.”
The second girl dressed in Ugg boots, a black mini skirt and leather MC jacket seemed hesitant as the boy with the stick stabbed into the cage again. Vlad heard a cry of pain.
“C’mon, chicken!” the boy with the stick slurred. “Cluck for us!”
“Stop it!” Vlad shouted, reaching out and grabbing the stick, a broom handle. He glanced into the cage and saw the Chicken Boy huddled into the far corner, crying and covering himself. The boy was maybe thirteen, just into puberty when his X-Factor kicked in, the mutant gene giving him a fine down of slight, white feathers over his body, twisting his feet into three-toed claws and his arms stunted into useless wings that fluttered at the side of his bloated body. His parents had probably thought him cursed and abandoned him, or worse, sold him to the circus. Vlad knew that the Roadies and Carnies taunted the boy, all the ‘Freaks’ and even had heard Tiboldt say that he would spit and roast the Chicken Boy if he did not perform and make some cash profit. And now this…
Vlad snarled as he wrenched the wooden staff from the boy’s hands, getting some satisfaction as the leather jacketed youth yelped and staggered back, rubbing his hand. Vlad glanced into the cage and saw the tear-filled, huge blue eyes of the Chicken Boy pleading up at him. There was blood at the boy’s beaked lips.
“What the fuck, man?” the leather clad poker said staggering forward. “What’s your problem, dude? He your girlfriend?” the boy sneered looking Vlad up and down, his gaze lingering on his tights. His friends gathered closer still laughing, trying to encircle Vladamir.
Vlad spun the broom handle and slammed the butt into the lead boy’s chest. The boy yelped and staggered back. “Hey!”
“Leave him alone! Better, just leave!” Vlad spun the broom handle trying to look impressive but none of the teens moved more than a step back except the prodder. He stepped forward and Vladamir brought the makeshift staff to bear in defense. “You don’t want to do this,” Vlad said giving them a final chance.
“Fuck you, Fag!” the teen said as he charged forward. Vlad spun the staff again and slammed it upside the boy’s temple, shoving him sideways to fall on the sawdust-strewn floor. He whipped the staff up again even as the teen’s male friend ran towards him, fists raised with a beer can clutched in one.
“Mother fu – “
Vladamir whipped the pole about, jamming it into the boy’s groin, jumping aside as he plodded on then fell to the dirt and groping at his privates, whimpering with tears in his eyes. Vlad looked to the two girls staring at him with shocked wide eyes.
“Go!” he snarled, trying to sound threatening, trying too to hold his anger in check. He wanted nothing more than to drop the stick and beat the bullies to a bloody pulp with his fists. His knuckles were white on the makeshift staff, the only thing holding back his strength. He whipped the staff about again in an impressive flurry, all for show. “Take your boy friends and go home. AHHH!”
Vladamir staggered as pain lanced into his leg. He stumbled back, slamming the pole to earth for support, staring down at the knife imbedded to its hilt in his calve. Blood oozed through the thin, lycra tights and pain wavered through his body. The lead boy had stabbed him, was now getting to his feet with blood in his eyes.
“Asshole!” he spat staggering drunkenly, putting his hand to the tent pole for support as he got his legs under him. “You’re dead!” Vladamir saw his friend getting up and the two girls inching forward, one’s face twisted in fury, the other tugging on her arm trying to hold her back. Vlad slumped back against the wall of the closest stall, blotting out the mewling sobs of the Chicken Boy as he raised the staff.
Vladamir swung the pole at the leader trying to hold his anger and strength in check, ignoring the pain in his leg. The boy tried to duck but in his inebriated state he was far too slow. The stick slammed against the side of his head again, snapping in two as the boy stumbled into the side of the cage with the force of the blow. He dropped to the straw-strewn floor with a wet thump even as his friend raged and charged.
The second boy pounded a fist into Vladamir’s jaw, drawing a bead of blood from his lip and staggering him back. Vlad in turn jabbed the broken haft of his pole into the other boy’s stomach, air whooshing from his lungs. The boy bent at the waist gasping for breath and Vlad brought his fist down on top of the back of his head, driving the boy to the dirt where he collapsed unconscious.
“Yahh!!” the pudgy girl howled as she launched forward. One hand thumped Vlad in the chest while the other raked his face with manicured nails. Vlad winced at the pain and backhanded her away. She caught herself however and quickly rushed forward again.
“Enough!” Everyone froze as the voice rolled over them all, stopping them in place, the pudgy girl thumping up against Vladamir. She smelled of beer and cigarettes and he pushed her to arm’s length in disgust. Vlad’s eyes shifted to the shadowy back of the tent and he breathed a sigh of relief. The Master had come.
He was dressed in the outfit that he was to wear for his show, black leotards and tanktop beneath his cloak, his hair slicked back to accentuate his widow’s peak. His cold eyes sparkled red as he glanced at the hesitant girl, she scrambling back pressing against the far tent wall at his passing. He ignored her otherwise as he strode forward looking contemptuously at the three that Vlad had defeated.
“They… They were attacking Jared…” he said, afraid that he had done something wrong in defending the boy.
The Master glanced at the Chicken Boy, Jared, cowering in the back of his cage, bloodied and pathetic. “I don’t care.” He looked down at the lead boy who was shaking his head and trying to rise.
Dracula reached down and grabbed the boy, palming his skull like a basketball and hefting him, first to his feet, then into the air. The boy cried out in pain, kicking his feet as the Master casually reached out with his other hand and grasped the boy’s shoulder giving the body a sharp twist.
SNAP!
Dracula dropped the rag doll dead boy to the side, reaching for the other. His fingers dug into the second boy’s throat and simply ripped. Blood spewed forth as the body spasmed on the ground for a moment, then finally lay still steaming in the cold air. Vlad could smell the stench of urine and feces, the bodies expelling their waste in their death throes. The Master seemed immune to the reek as he turned to the pink haired, pudgy girl.
“No…” she whispered backing away, terror in her wide green eyes. “Please, no! It was just a joke. I don’t wanna die!” she whimpered as Dracula’s hand cradled her face, his long fingers caressing her skin.
“You won’t,” he said drawing her closer, his long sharp teeth gleaming, “but you will wish that you had.”
The girl screamed as Dracula’s mouth gaped and he eased forward, his long, sharp teeth digging into the soft tender flesh of her throat. He bit down as she squealed in pain, then ripped and gnawed, pulling flesh away and spitting it out. He suckled at her throat, blood gushing and running down her body in rivulets, feeding on her source of life as she shivered and jerked in his grasp. Vladamir glanced away and saw the last girl staring wide-eyed and in shock, her lips flapping as she tried to scream but no sound came forth. In a few seconds the pink haired girl finally succumbed, falling limp in the Master’s arms as he sucked her life away.
Finally the Master finished and pulled away, his lips red with blood his eyes blazing scarlet. He grasped the girl’s head and twisted, and Vlad heard her neck bones shatter as her face was suddenly at her back. Dracula dropped the pudgy girl who hit the dirt and straw like a sodden bag of mud and turned finally to the last of the quartet. He raised his hand, staring at the terrified girl cowering against the wall, urine trickling down her shapely legs as she fought to catch her breath, too scared to run.
“Sleep…” the Master said and the girl took a feeble step forward and collapsed to the dirt beside her fellows. Dracula smiled, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand then licking away at whatever was there. He turned to Vlad.
“Take that one to my wagon and chain her. Then get Zarish and have his gypsies dispose of this trash. I don’t care how. Then attend me in the main tent when that is done. I have a show to do.”
Vladamir watched as the Master strode away, confidant and supreme. He turned looking to the cages and stalls where the Oddities were held. Most looked terrified, shocked over what they had just witnessed. The Chicken Boy was still huddled in the back corner of his cage pressing at the bars and wire, sobbing. The Dog Boy’s all too human eyes glared at him, lip curling in a snarl and bearing sharp teeth.
“Vampyr…”
Vlad jumped at the deep, sultry voice, spinning towards the sound. Slithering from the shadows came the Serpent Queen, her green scaled skin making her almost invisible in the tent’s dim corners. Vlad thought she might have been pretty in an exotic sort of way as her face and torso were definitely pleasing. The attraction ended there however as the lower half of her body was the tail of a huge snake, twelve feet long, and her arms were two writhing snakes hissing as she neared. She stopped before him and reared up, her tail coiling beneath her as she brushed her wild blonde hair from her eyes with the back of a snake-head hand. Vladamir licked his lips as she peered at him curiously with slitted yellow eyes and when she finally spoke he saw the fangs beyond the full red painted lips.
“Your massssster is Vampyr,” she hissed and Vlad shivered as her long tongue slithered out tasting his fear. He nodded. “Doessss Tiboldt know?”
“I don’t know.” Vlad shrugged trying to calm his fear. The snake woman smiled, her tongue flitting out and brushing his cheek where the girl had scratched him, the wound almost healed. She chuckled.
“Do not be afraid, boy. I will keep your sssecret.” She paused, considering, then with a hiss reared up to tower over Vlad. He involuntarily took a step back thumping against a cage, the Dog Boy snarling behind him. He winced as he jarred the knife still protruding from his leg. Gritting his teeth he hissed air as he jerked the blade free; a six-inch stiletto switch blade.
“I wonder what hold Tiboldt has over him,” she said finally turning away, her tail roiling and churning up sawdust caked with blood. Vlad breathed a sigh of relief, then tensed as she paused at the tent flap. She glanced back over the smooth curve of her shoulder, the hint of a wicked smile playing at her lips. “Or is it your massssster who hasss the true hold?”
He heard the Serpent Queen laugh as her tail slowly slithered through the opening, disappearing into the bounds of the troupe’s area. Vladamir shivered and wiped sweat from his brow, touching his cheek where the woman’s tongue had caressed him. He tapped the stud on the knife, the sharp blade sliding back into the hilt, and pocketed the weapon in his robe.
Limping slightly he made his way to the sleeping girl and scooped her up. He frowned at her pretty face, knowing what was probably in store for her. He walked towards the troupe’s entrance, ignoring the stares and muttering of the freaks, his fellow mutants. When he finally dipped through the flaps of the old circus tent, Vlad hurried to do as he had been ordered, suddenly afraid.
Vladamir heard the roar of the crowd as he re-entered the main tent.
He had done as the Master had commanded, first chaining the girl to the wall by the ankle inside the Master’s wagon. He knew she would not waken until the Master bid it, so made her as comfortable as possible with a blanket and pillow. He then made his way into the woodland on the fringe of the circus grounds, there in finding the small camp of the gypsies. He led Zarish and three of the younger men to the Oddities Emporium, surprised to find the Clown within and several Roadies, one guarding the front entrance from the patrons, another at the rear. The Clown looked up from watching his crew in the act of cleaning the mess and nodded for the guard to let him pass. His eyes narrowed as the four Rom followed, and Vlad saw him gnaw at the butt of his cigar.
Vladamir saw the three bodies bundled and tied in canvas tarp, piled to the side like cordwood. One Roady was shoveling the spoiled sawdust into a plastic garbage bag while another churned at the dirt beneath with a spade, a third tossing more wood flakes to cover the ground. Cigar smoke suddenly billowed about his face and Vlad turned to the Clown again, the older man eyeing him suspiciously.
“What d’you know about this, boy?” the Clown asked, his gaze flitting over Zarish and his men. “This yer work?” He sneered, shaking his head, tufts of orange hair bouncing and glittering in the queer light. “Naw, you ain’t got the balls. More likely yer Master, right?”
Vladamir did not know what to say, but was saved as Zarish spoke: “We shall deal with those,” he said gesturing at the bodies.
“An’ just who the fuck are you?” the Clown snarled about the butt of his cigar.
“I am Zarish,” the old man calmly said, ignoring the Clown’s hostility. “We serve the Master.”
The Clown snorted and glared at Vlad. “I don’t like you, boy, an’ I don’t trust yer Master.” He turned his glare on the Rom. “Same goes fer gypsies. But we all answer ta the same boss. The Ringmaster wants you scum stinkin’ up the place, that’s on him, but ya may as well earn yer keep.” The three younger Rom bristled at the Clown’s words but held back at a glance from Zarish.
“We mean you no ill,” the old man said. “We serve the Master and he sent us to dispose of the ‘trash’.” The two men stared at one another, until the Clown finally shrugged and turned away, gesturing at the bodies.
“Fine. Get rid of those, an’ stay the fuck off the grounds. Your kind ain’t welcome here, Rom. After this, I see any a’ yer group sniffin’ around there’ll be trouble. Got it?”
Zarish simply nodded then gestured at the bodies, the three gypsy men moving to take up the bundled forms. Without another word the Rom left, Vladamir heading to the front entrance and the main tent across the midway feeling the Clown’s malicious gaze burning into his back.
He looked about in the dim, smoke-laced light staring up into the heights of the hollow tattered canvas, as did everyone, a breathless anticipation filling the void, an air of dread washing over the audience.
He saw the Master far up in the shadows, his body lit by spotlight as he flew through the air amongst the trapeze apparatus. He heard the audience gasping in terror and amazement as it seemed at any moment that the Master might fall, sixty feet at least to the sawdust strewn, hard-packed dirt far below. Vladamir felt his anxiety rise again.
He had seen the performance twice before, but each time left him trembling. The Master veritably flew through the ‘rafters’ of the circus tent, twisting and flipping and spiraling amongst the swaying trapeze. Vladamir knew the truth of course. The Master WAS flying, but still the sight left him breathless.
Dracula swung deep and at the apex flipped, tucking and rolling then spreading wide, arms and legs akimbo. The crowd gasped some screaming as the Master missed the trapeze bar by inches. Vlad lunged forward in panic, even having seen the act twice before, but the Master twisted and tucked as he fell landing gracefully on the high wire strung taut some ten feet below. The wire dipped with his weight, but the Master balanced seemingly with ease until it stopped swaying continuing his act.
The crowd applauded, sitting on the edge of their seats as Dracula pranced across the thin line seemingly without worry. He almost ran to the far platform, turned and bowed to the thunderous applause, then swiftly stepped back onto the thin line. He flipped and bounced, the line bounding and swaying under his weight. The crowd cheered with every maneuver, gasping, shouting, screaming as time and again he almost seemed to fall.
SNAP!
The audience screamed as the line finally snapped and Dracula fell…
Vladamir felt a hand on his shoulder as he surged forward. Fingers dug into his flesh making him wince. He turned to see Bruto holding him in place.
“What’s your problem, kid,” the strong man asked from the shadows, his cigarette glowing red. “You’ve seen this a half-dozen times.” Vlad’s eyes were wide and panicked as he looked back to see the Master falling to his death. The audience shrieking in terror…
“No!”
A puff of smoke as the Master almost struck earth. A swirl of mist that coalesced once again into the Master, drifting to the dirt and taking form. Vladamir saw Dracula appear, his arms raised high in triumph as the mist dissipated.
Silence…
Applause…
The crowd stood as Dracula stepped from the mist whole and hearty. He bowed again to the audience, accepting their praise as Vladamir breathed a sigh of relief. And the Ringmaster ran forward…
“The Master of the Highwire, ladies and gentlemen! The Master!” Tiboldt waved at the crowd, doffing his high hat and playing the moment for all that it was worth. Dracula bowed again, grinning, bloodlust in his eyes. He raised his arms high as the crowd’s applause trebled, cheering, feet thumping the bleachers. The audience wanted more, an encore but with nothing but a smirk of contempt Dracula stepped from the spotlight to gather his cloak hanging where he had left it on the support pole.
The applause finally started to subside as all the spotlights in the great tent focused on the Ringmaster. He doffed his hat, giving the brim a flourish and Vlad marveled as the spiraling circles adorning the front began to spin and sparkle, glowing brightly. Vladamir knew that his Master was the grand finale of the show, but the crowd did not. All eyes focused on the Ringmaster, the audience excited and hungry for more entertainment. Vlad too stared in rapt fascination, a sudden dizziness washing over him as Tiboldt cooed and preened, thanking the crowd.
“Don’t look, kid.”
Vlad jerked stumbling as Bruto turned him about. Blinking and weak he noticed that the Roadies and Carnies, all of the performers were crowding into the entryways of the huge tent. He saw many were carrying cudgels of some sort, a few even brandishing handguns and rifles. The Clown and his fellows shoved through to the front, the man glancing at Vlad before stepping to the edge of the spotlight’s radiance. The Clown nodded directing a thumb’s up at the Ringmaster who nodded in return before raising his hands, his voice deepening:
“My will is your will… My will is your will…”
Vlad watched in confusion as the audience visibly calmed, one by one slumping, then in waves growing limp and lax. Their eyes were wide, staring rigidly, fixated on the Ringmaster and his dazzling tophat. Vlad felt the press of the circus troupe as they started to ease forward, the Ringmaster’s voice still crooning to the crowd as he scanned the audience. Finally though his hat dimmed and he beckoned the troupe forward, gesturing at the packed stands arching about the center ring.
“Quickly now!” the Ringmaster shouted, setting his microphone aside. “The spell only lasts an hour! Take their cash and jewelry, watches and wallets; whatever valuables they carry!”
Vladamir watched as the troupe moved into the stands to do the Ringmaster’s bidding, stealing from the dazed audience. Worse he saw the Roadies and Carnies taking liberties from the women and children, along with the valuables. His eyes wide with horror as they groped breasts and slipped their grimy hands underskirt and down pants, many kissing and fondling as they robbed, laughing all the while. Even Bruto was cupping a younger woman’s full breast while his other hand dug through her purse as he grinned lecherously. Vlad felt sick as he watched, about to bolt when a hand fell on his shoulder to steady him. He looked back to find Dracula towering over him, disgust in his eyes as he watched the depravity.
“Cretins,” he said with a sneer, loathing in his voice.
“I don’t understand,” Vlad said looking back at the crowd. “Why are they doing this?”
“Are you truly so simple, boy?” Dracula said removing his hand. “Did your ‘father’ teach you nothing of the world he was training you to combat. These are criminals, boy. More specifically the Ringmaster and his Circus of Crime.”
Vladamir stared blankly at his Master, his thoughts drifting back to the Compound: Stalin Station and his ‘father’, Professor Piotr Phobos. Of course he had learned, he and all the other children, of the world of Marvels and mutants. They had learned of the Avengers and the X-Men, the rampaging Hulk, but more on those closer to home; Doctor Doom, Magneto and the Shadow Captain Corp. He had never heard of any so-called Circus of Crime, however.
Dracula sighed, looking away to watch the debauchery. “They appeared years ago following Tiboldt’s foolish plans. The circus would perform in small towns for a few nights, drawing in larger crowds until finally the Ringmaster hypnotizes the audience at the final, largest performance. His troupe then does this.” Dracula gestured at the stands. “They succumb to their greed in the end however, and are always caught when they attempt too much. They have run afoul of the Hulk, Spider-Man and most often the Avengers. A gathering of fools, but apparently they have learned somewhat from their mistakes, bringing their shows to the backwaters of Europe where there are no ‘heroes’ to rout them.”
“But,” Vladamir started, still confused, ”the Ringmaster said the spell only lasts an hour. Won’t the people know they’ve been robbed?”
“The ‘spell’ as he calls it is a predetermined hypnotic command cast by the device in his hat and amplifying his own natural, mesmerizing abilities. When the audience awakens, Tiboldt will be center ring again and thanking the crowd, sending them on their way like the happy sheep they are. When they eventually realize they have been robbed, the post-hypnotic command will lead them to blame pickpockets, or so I recall. It also suggests they do not contact the authorities, and most will obey. In his arrogance however, the Ringmaster fails to take into account those of strong will amongst the chattel, or the latent mutant freaks of nature that can shake off his command. Eventually the authorities will catch up to him.” Dracula stared at him a moment, his gaze softening slightly.
“Your education is incomplete. I was in torpor when this ‘Age of Marvels’ began, but when my foolish descendant freed me I quickly saw that I needed to learn the state of the world and what had come to pass. Knowledge is power, boy, one of the few human sayings that I concur with. Thus, in the next city we stop at I shall give you money and you will buy a computer… a laptop?” Dracula’s brow knitted in thought a moment, then nodded. “One with a built in ‘Hot Spot’ I believe it is called,” he said looking at Vlad who nodded. Computers he did know.
“It will be useless in the wilds between the villages and towns, but in the larger cities you will gather information on the world’s Marvels, recording it on the computer. During the day you will study. I will order Tiboldt to assign a driver to our wain. I will not have you unprepared should we come across some stray hero feeling the need to exert his misplaced morals.”
“Yes, Master, but, are we in danger? You said the authorities will catch them eventually. They’ll catch us!”
“We shall leave this rabble behind when we cross into Wallachia. Once I am truly home the façade they provide will no longer be needed and they can travel on to their ultimate downfall.” Dracula took a final sweeping look at the stands shaking his head in disgust then turned and strode towards the tent’s exit. Vladamir hurried to catch up, falling in pace.
“You have sequestered the girl in the wagon as I ordered?” Dracula said as they passed through the deserted midway, everyone apparently within the main tent, troupe and patron alike.
“Yes, Master.”
“Good,” the Master laughed. “We shall both benefit from her resources. Hot, virulent blood for myself, and… companionship for you.” Dracula glanced back, grinning. “You are of age and I would not have your… natural bodily functions distracting you.”
“I don’t understand,” Vlad said, his thoughts muddled again. He heard the Master sigh.
“I should have slain Phobos simply for his sheer incompetence. You are a Ghoul, boy, neither dead or undead. Your body still has urges, however and you are at that age where you will start to lust for gratification.” Vlad stared at his Master blankly again, uncomprehending. Dracula sighed again.
“Sex, boy. You are about to become a man.”
Vladamir stopped as the Master strode on, climbing the three steps and entering his wagon. His mind was awhirl as he looked about, unsure but suddenly trembling with anticipation. He pictured the pretty girl in his mind’s eye, asleep and peaceful in her dreams and felt something stir within. He swallowed hard and felt a wind whip past, shivering in the chill air as thunder boomed in the distance, a storm boiling closer. He saw Zarish standing at the edge of the trees, the old man watching.
Vladamir ignored him, hurrying to the garishly painted wagon and within, closing and locking the door behind him.
Two Weeks Ago…
Vladamir was helping set up the tents when the police arrived…
They had traveled south, crossing the River Prut and playing the towns along the way; Cahul, Tecuci, Focsani, and were now setting up in Ramnicu Sarat on the border of Wallachia. Everyone paused from their labors as the three police cars came roaring up, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Vlad wiped sweat from his brow as the authorities piled from the cars, ten in crisp dark uniforms, two in woolen long coats one of the latter lighting a cigarette as those two came forward frozen snow crunching underfoot. The one in the lead fished into a coat pocket and produced a badge, flashing it before the Clown as he looked the man up and down in disbelief.
“Inspector principal de politie, Valle,” the tall man said. His hair was graying but thick and he sported a bushy mustache, worry lines etching his hard face. The Clown examined the badge, then nodded.
“What can we do for you, Chief Inspector?” the Clown asked in fluent Romanian and Vladamir noticed the change in his speak, the words no longer chopped by his native accent.
“We are searching for four missing children, last known to have been visiting your circus in Comrat.” The Chief Inspector produced four photographs from his jacket pocket, which the Clown took and inspected, shaking his head as he looked at each.
“We see dozens of new faces every day, Chief Inspector. Hundreds when we play the larger towns and cities. I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize them. You’re welcome to ask around of course.”
“Thank you,” Inspector principal de politie, Valle said as he moved through the Roadies, he and his partner showing the pictures to everyone, the uniformed police doing likewise. When his turn came Vladamir shrugged seeing the images of the four bullies that had assaulted the Chicken Boy, three of whom then slain by the Master.
“Sorry,” he said, his skin burning, looking away and meeting the Clown’s dark gaze.
Inspector de politie, Tindel looked at him, steely blue eyes piercing as he took back the photo reproductions. “You sound unsure,” he said blowing smoke from his cigarette. “Take another look.”
“No!” Vlad said quickly, blushing at the Lieutenant’s scrutiny. “We see many here,” he continued uneasily. “As the Clown said. They all blur together.”
“Of course.” Inspector de politie, Tindel smiled and turned to his superior, puffing on his cigarette.
“I would speak to your proprietor,” Chief Inspector Valle said to the Clown. “Our task force will continue questioning your troupe whilst I do so. We do have the authority to inspect your wagons if need be.”
“Of course, Chief Inspector,” the Clown said trying to sound humble. “I’ll take you to Mister Tiboldt myself.”
“Tiboldt?” the Chief Inspector said jotting the name in a note pad. “First name?”
“Maynard,” the Clown said, “Our Ringmaster and owner of the circus.” Vladamir saw the Chief Inspector’s writing pause, thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, but it swiftly vanished.
“Lead on,” the Chief Inspector said, following as the Clown led him to Tiboldt’s wagon. The rest of the force continued their investigation as Vlad looked to the Master’s wagon. He glanced skyward looking at the sun in the brilliant blue sky. It was not even noon…
“Damn it, Maynard! We gotta get rid a’ this guy!”
Vladamir shivered, huddling against the side of the Ringmaster’s wagon in the cold, driving rain. He was listening as per his Master’s orders, eavesdropping on the conversation between the Clown and Tiboldt, just below the cracked open window that allowed the cigar smoke to waft out.
“He’s a gold mine, Elliot,” Vlad heard the Ringmaster counter. He could hear pacing within the wain and a shadow appeared at the window. He hunkered down, kneeling in the mud. “Couple more shows and we’ll be set. We can close down for awhile, head for Canada. Even after the travel costs and greasing the palms of Customs we’ll have a good nest egg. We need him.”
“He brought the fuckin’ cops down on our ass, Maynard! Killin’ those kids, Jesus! They’re gonna be back tomorrow and slap a warrant on us.”
“We’ll be across the border by the time they get that warrant. Once we’re in Wallachia it’ll take days if not weeks for them to weed through the red tape. Relax my friend. Another few hours and we’ll be home free.”
“I don’t like it.” Vladamir cringed as something flew out of the open window. He watched as a bit of cigar landed in a puddle and sizzled, going out.
“You don’t have to like it, Elliot,” the Ringmaster said. “Accept it, or leave.”
Silence…
“Fine.”
Vladamir heard the door of the wagon slam open even as he crouched and skulked through the dim, wind-swept rain pounding down with a nerve-wracking howl.
Dracula sniffed taking in the waterlogged boy, Vladamir having just told all that he had heard. The Master was naked in his small bed, sheets stained and rumpled, the girl Sylvia resting in his arms aglow, the wound in her neck oozing blood. She was little more than a thrall to the Master now, her beauty already fading as they both used and abused her body, looking worn and haggard but always craving more. Vladamir tried not to grin like an idiot remembering the thrill of that first night, that first time…
It had been hot in the wagon. Despite his embarrassment he had been excited, drenched in sweat as he stared at the naked girl, her hair straggly and damp with perspiration as well. She had looked afraid, wanting to run but unable to, her ankle chafing and raw in the metal cuff locked on, the Master’s command holding her steadfast. Vlad had pulled the soiled sheets aside feeling sheepish as he beckoned her to join him in the Master’s bed.
She had stepped forward robotically, climbing in with tears in her eyes but unable to stop herself, Vlad draping the comforter over her as she slid underneath, her fingers scratching as she kissed down his body, his skin electric and tingling…
“As I said,” the Master spoke throwing back the sheets and standing from the bed. Muscles rippled all over his body as he strode to his discarded clothes, Vladamir blushing as Sylvia whined for his attention. He ignored them both.
“Time to leave these fools to fate,” the Master continued as he slipped on a pair of black pants, then a gray tee shirt. “Go and tell Zarish that we are moving on, then come back and ready the wagon. Hitch the horses and be ready within the hour. I will go and speak to Tiboldt.”
“Yes, Master.”
Vladamir hurried from the wagon and back into the chilling downpour. He ran across the compound and into the bordering woods, coming to the encampment of the Rom. He found the gypsy patriarch’s wagon and pounded on the door until the old man answered.
“The Master says we are leaving,” Vlad blurted out before Zarish could speak, the old man standing in his doorway dressed in a long, gray nightshirt and cap. “Ready your clan,” Vlad hurried on as the old man knuckled sleep from his eyes.
BOOM!
A thunderous explosion echoed and both men looked skyward thinking it a clap of thunder. The distinct sound of gunfire however brought them back to reality and looking then towards the circus encampment.
“Master…” Vladamir whispered jumping from the wooden steps and splashing through the rain as the Rom camp came awake, men and women, children stepping from tents and wagons as another gun shot exploded in the distance. Vlad ignored their harried shouts and questions, charging back towards the circus, fear and devotion spurring him on.
Flares of red and orange flashed in the dim, sparkling in the pouring rain as he ran headlong into the camp. He saw shadows dancing in the distance, images frozen in the flare of light, a surging crowd rioting as he neared the edge, screams of anger and agony between the random explosions of gunfire. He drew up short finally, his eyes wide as he stared at the raging battle…
Bodies lay steaming in the mud, gutted, their skin ripped open to reveal entrails and bone, blood pouring forth and mingling with the rain. Roadies and Carnies dying in the storm, one of the Clown’s henchmen, his leering face aghast, his head cocked at an unnatural angle. A screaming form flew past to land yards beyond and behind with a wet thud in the muddy earth. Enough to snap Vlad from his trance of shock.
He saw the Master in the midst of mayhem, his shirt ragged from a spray of shot, soaked to the bone. His eyes were crackling scarlet as he easily hefted a fat Roady up at arm’s length overhead, three hundred pounds of squealing, squirming flesh, silenced as the Master closed his fist about Fat Tom’s throat. He tossed the dead man aside even as he backhanded another away, a baseball bat slamming ineffectually against his ribs. He could hear the Clown cursing, shouting orders between gunshots. He staggered back and saw the Human Cannonball facedown in the mud.
Vladamir gasped as a strong arm snaked about his throat, cutting off his breath and hefting him off his feet. A hand clamped over the back of his neck pressing forward as he kicked and struggled, dots of gray already exploding in his sight.
“Sorry, kid,” he heard Bruto’s voice hiss in his ear, warm breath making his scar tingle. “I don’t want’a hurt ya, but your boss’ brought the law down on us and now he wants to jet. That’s not gonna happen, so just relax. When you wake up, everything’ll be fine.” Vlad felt the pressure on his throat increase as the circus strong man flexed his bulging muscles. He struggled but the man was bigger and just that much stronger to hold leverage. Despite his best efforts, the already dim world started to darken…
Vladamir dropped to the mud, suddenly free and gasping for breath burning through his tortured, deprived lungs. He heard cursing and clawed at the earth trying to rise. Lightning flared and thunder slammed down as he glanced back to see Bruto slapping Sylvia to the mud, the girl sprawling limply away. He struggled to his knees as the strong man pulled a bloody knife from his back, Vlad’s switch blade. Bruto tossed it aside as Vlad lunged forward with a shriek.
He slammed into Bruto, both of them staggering forward and falling, Vlad on top. Vladamir scrambled forward as the bigger man writhed in pain from his wound, Vlad straddling his chest, his fists pounding on the circus strong man. Bruto brought his arms up trying to block the blows but now Vlad had the leverage and he was relentless in his assault as he struck again and again, one thought in his mind, driving him on in his fury:
Must protect the Master!
Pain in his shoulder as thunder echoed. Vlad blinked staring at the ragged wound in his chest, blood drooling down his skin. He focused on Bruto beneath him, the older man’s face bleeding and bruised, unconscious. He looked back, pain and confusion clouding his senses and saw the Clown feeding a bullet into the shaft of his cane, a disguised rifle, grinning with a dark, malicious glee. In the background he saw the Master slamming one of the Gambonnos to the sodden dirt, the other clinging to his back, the dead piled at his feet.
“Yer history, punk!” the Clown spat as he raised the cane aiming it like a rifle, too far away and Vlad too spent. He stared uselessly at the dark opening of the barrel, certain death a heartbeat away.
BOOM!
Vlad flinched, blinking stupidly, patting his chest and wondering why death felt so much like living. He looked up focusing on the Clown, the man staring at the growing spot of crimson staining his garish, shining shirt. His painted face went slack as the cane fell from his hands and then the Clown toppled backwards to splat in the mud.
“Up, boy!”
Vlad moaned as a hand gripped under his good arm, yanking him to his feet. Zarish was at his side brandishing a smoking shotgun, steadying him as gypsies ran past. The air churned with the rapport of guns even as thunder boomed, lightning setting the world ablaze as sheets of water washed down. Dimly he heard screams of agony, shouts of terror and anger, but above all a continuous laugh that chilled him far deeper than the weather.
“Up!” Zarish repeated. “The Master needs us!” Vlad staggered forward as the old gypsy supported him, already feeling his wound knitting, a slug of metal expelled from the gash and dropping in their wake.
They ran towards a glow, swirling scarlet and pink and rounding a wagon they found Dracula standing before Maynard Tiboldt, the Ringmaster’s hat ablaze with hypnotic energy, the disk swirling with madness. Dracula stood almost motionless, his near naked form heaving in the downpour. His skin was scarred and ravaged, littered with bullet holes and cuts, muscles rippling as blood red eyes blazed, his visage dark as Tiboldt screeched over the roar of the storm:
“My will is your will! My will is your will! Damn you!”
Vladamir heard Zarish gasp as the Master’s cold laugh echoed through the din. Dracula strode forward, a casual slap knocking the Ringmaster’s hat away, the hypnotic Nullatron within the disk still pulsing as it blew in the wind. The Lord of the Undead’s hand shot out, his fingers encircling the Ringmaster’s throat, his strong arm lifting him into the air. Tiboldt choked, kicking and struggling in the Master’s grip.
“Perhaps I am getting soft in my eld years,” Dracula mused. “I should kill you. Humanity would not mourn your passing. Far better though that you languish in prison for your transgressions, a broken, simpering husk of the man you might have been.”
There was a sickening crunch as the Ringmaster’s body shuddered then went slack in the Master’s grip. “Please…” Tiboldt begged, the stench of urine filling the air as fear overwhelmed him, his spine shattered at the nape of his neck. Dracula smiled, eyes crackling red.
“My will is your will…”
Vladamir watched in horror as the spark of intelligence faded from the Ringmaster’s eyes. Slowly his mouth went slack, his head lolling to the side as spittle ran past his lips. His eyes were vacant as Vladamir caught his gaze for one fearful moment before the Master cast him aside like a broken toy.
Dracula turned surveying the carnage of the battleground. Dozens lay dead or wounded on the mud-churned field, both Carnies and Rom alike. One of the wagons lay overturned and one of the trucks was afire in the distance. Vladamir saw Sylvia stagger forward, shivering in the storm, arms wrapped about her chest even as one of the younger gypsies stepped forward.
“Those that could have run into the night. Should we give chase… Master?” Dracula stared at the man, then shook his head.
“No.”
He raised his arms then, turned his face to the churning sky. A final jagged bolt of lightning cut through the darkness, a tremendous explosion of thunder immediate in its wake. The wind slowly started to die as the rain slackened, the storm passing at the Master’s bidding. The Master heaved a heavy sigh looking suddenly weary as he turned to Zarish.
“Ready your clan. We leave within the hour. Transfer what you need to the trucks and leave your wagons and animals. We move swiftly now.” Zarish bowed.
“Yes, Lord Tepes.” He then hurried off shouting orders to the Rom as Dracula turned on Vladamir.
“Go to Tiboldt’s wagon and gather his ill-gotten gain. It is mine now, by conquest. Take it to the Rom, then help them prepare to leave. When all is ready, come to my wagon. We will be waiting.” Dracula turned to Sylvia, the girl still shivering in the chill, drenched to the bone and wide-eyed with horror.
“Come, child,” he said almost tenderly extending his hand. “I will warm you as you entertain me.” Without hesitation Sylvia took his hand and together they walked off towards the Master’s wagon.
Vladamir watched until they disappeared within, then hurried off to do as the Master had bid, ignoring the plaintive cries of the wounded, the dead littering the muddy earth in his wake.
The Carpathian Mountains
Carpatti Meridionali
Wallachia
Today…
“Halt!”
Vladamir jerked awake staring frantically as a shrill squeal cut him to the core. He looked about wondering where he was, seeing barren trees, bleached stone and a uniform coating of white all about. The stench of burning tobacco made him gag as he focused on the Rom grinding gears as he brought the jostling semi to a stop. Otto turned to him with an impatient scowl, a slim dark cigarette dangling from too red lips.
“What now?” he muttered as Vladamir came awake gathering his wits and trying to discern where he was and what was happening. Slowly he remembered…
The mad rush to flee the last camp of the Circus of Crime, the gypsies a flurry of activity as they emptied the trailers of the circus’ belongings, transferring their own from their gaudily painted wagons. They were quick and efficient under Zarish’ direction, Vlad helping the men with the heavy labor as most of the women packed though some of them went to release the horses from their pickets, sadness in their eyes. The Master had decreed that they should leave within the hour, and it was almost that as they loaded the final trailer, when a voice came from behind.
“We’ll need one more,” said the softly feminine voice and Vlad turned to see a beautiful blonde woman standing before him dressed in a fur-lined parka, denims and boots. The Dog Boy crouched at her feet, shivering slightly in the cold despite his coarse fur; his human eyes set in a cocker spaniel’s face glaring at him with hatred as he bared his teeth. Behind them a ways away he saw the other Oddities gathered in a close group huddling against the chill; the Chicken Boy, Tommy Thumb- allegedly the World’s Smallest Boy at barely four inches tall, Thumbellina bordering a thousand pounds, the Bearded Lady, Isaac- the Boy with no Bones. All the freaks save Trina the Mermaid. And as if reading his mind the woman added: “And we’ll need a hand with the fish tank.”
“Who are you?” Vladamir asked, thoroughly confused and his heart melted at the light chime of the woman’s silver bell laugh.
“My father named me Reptilla, but I prefer the name Stephanie. Stephanie Scratch, though you know me better as the Serpent Queen.” Vladamir stared openly, finally seeing the resemblance and the truth to her words.
“How…” Vladamir stuttered, but the woman waved him off.
“The Ringmaster held me in thrall, in my serpentine state. Once your lord broke him I was freed. I’ll tell you the full tale later, but right now we’re going with you.” She turned to Zarish. “If you’ll have us. Help us, please.”
“Of course,” the old man said with a bow then started ordering his men to prepare another truck, hooking up the trailer and making it habitable for its would be occupants. It took six of the burliest men, Vladamir included to load Trina’s fish tank into the rear and secure it before Vlad went to tell his master that they were ready to go, thirty minutes beyond the hour deadline.
Dracula stepped from his wagon dressed again in his out of date tuxedo and cloak; Sylvia following meekly behind bundled against the cold. The Master looked at the now clear sky, a spangle of brilliant stars spread through the black velvet above before turning to Vladamir.
“You’re late,” the Vampire Lord stated in annoyance. Vladamir was about to answer when Stephanie’s voice cut him off:
“My fault. Blame me,” she said standing before the Master with confidence. “You’ve freed me, but left my friends homeless when you defeated Tiboldt and his cronies. You will not leave us behind and defenseless to await Romanian justice. We are all victims of the Ringmaster’s greed, and horrendous as our captivity…” she sighed, her voice catching, “our slavery was, we still had food and a home. If there is any honor left within you, Lord Tepes, you will defend and care for your new subjects.”
Vladamir held his breath expecting the Master to lash out and strike the woman dead. Instead he cocked his head, sniffed the chill air and raised an eyebrow. “Who are you, woman?” he asked.
“Sorry,” the woman laughed again at Dracula’s confusion. “I was the Serpent Queen, but you may call me Reptilla, or Stephanie if you like. Stephanie Scratch, daughter of Nicholas.”
“Ahh,” Dracula said with a slight smile. “Salem’s Seven, bane of the Scarlet Witch. I would welcome any that gave that sow grief.” Dracula bowed with a wave of his arm and a flourish of his cloak before turning on Vladamir.
“You are forgiven. IF all is ready.”
“Yes, Master,” Vlad said, Zarish echoing the thought. “Only your items and effects need to be transferred.”
“Then do so and proceed,” Dracula said with a dismissive wave strolling for his new trailer, Sylvia stepping behind.
It took another twenty minutes with all the Rom working hard with Vladamir to transfer the Master’s belongings along with the gold and money they had taken from the Ringmaster’s coffers, leaving the lesser trinkets and valuables behind. Finally Vladamir climbed into the cab of the semi that would haul the Master’s new home, and with a shouted command from Zarish the convoy set out…
And now a week later they were stopped on a back road in the Carpathian Mountains, well within the borders of Wallachia, not far from the homeland of the Lord of the Vampyr. Snow piled high and all about and mountains loomed high all around as Vlad scrambled from the warmth of the cab and into the knee-deep snowdrifts clotting the road. He trudged towards the rear of the trailer only to find a fine mist seeping through the crack of the shut doors. Vladamir watched in awe as the smoke swirled and coalesced back into the form of his Master, standing tall and proud as he gazed at the surrounds.
“What’s going on?” Stephanie Scratch said as she plowed through the high drifts to stand beside Vladamir. The boy shrugged.
“I don’t – “
“Silence!” Dracula spat as he turned about in a tight circle. It was just dusk, and the Master had his hood up against the fading sunlight. Still his skin smoldered and steamed as he turned about, hissing at the setting sun. “I sense… There!”
The Master’s head jerked as he stared up the slope of one of the lesser mountains. Before Vladamir could ask there was a swirl of darkness and a bat appeared fluttering up into the night sky steaming in the last gasp of daylight. The bat ignored its pain and beat wing up the mountain’s slope. Vladamir looked at the woman who shrugged, then broke into a run, following. He heard the sound of Stephanie at his heels, trying to keep up but his X-Factor added to his strength and speed and endurance so she was hard-pressed to stay with him.
Just as Vladamir was hard-pressed to keep up with the bat. The Master flew straight and true and Vladamir could not imagine his goal, what he had sensed. He could not imagine what might be up the side of the mountain, but he ran all the harder barely keeping the bat in sight in the darkening skies.
Finally he saw the bat flutter towards the earth and in the midst of a churning darkness it morphed into the form of a wolf that surged forward through the deep snow. Perhaps another two dozen feet it fought its way up the slope then paused sniffing the air, allowing Vladamir to catch up. The boy stopped, bending at the waist with his hands on his knees breathing heavily as the wolf transformed once more to the Master.
“Yes…” Dracula whispered staring at a half-concealed cleft in the rocky side of the mountain. Vladamir saw the faint trace of smoke drifting from the cave’s mouth and saw the signs of humanity in the snow, footprints and feces off to the side. “Revenge, at last,” Dracula said even as Stephanie Scratch ran up beside him. He heard the sound of the Rom churning through the snow further down the slope.
“What… the fuck…” she said as she doubled over gasping for breath, her sweat-laced hair cascading down as she hacked, spitting phlegm in the trampled snow.
“I don’t – “ Vladamir started, but a harried female voice from within the cave cut him off:
“I’ll shoot!” The Master chuckled at the implied threat.
“This is too amusing. Three of my bane gathered together and at my mercy. There truly is a God, though I think it is the one best described by Milton. A bitter, angry deity that thrives on obscurity and revenge.”
Vladamir heard the faint CLICK of metal on metal as the Rom caught up, breathing hard from the race up the mountain. Then the voice from within the cleft again as Dracula stepped forward:
“Aww… fuck.”
“Indeed…” the Lord of the Vampires agreed, then started to laugh…
Next Issue: Go read Thing #9 for the other side of this story, then come back hopefully soon for the Crossover that you all knew would eventually happen: Thing and Crew vs. Dracula! Guest stars galore and the fate of the multiverse hanging in the balance! Don’t miss it!
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