Manhattan
The Lower East Side

Arcane stepped through the doorway, shaking rain from his tattered black long-coat as he let his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness surrounding him. The room was dimly lit with only the faint traces of flickering sodium arc light filtering through the shards of glass that lined the unboarded windows of the building like jagged rotting teeth. The old, abandoned tenement had seen better days; its walls were stripped of paper and overrun with mold, the floors weak and sagging and full of holes rotted through the old wood. There was garbage and debris littered about in great heaps, piled high in the corners, and several layers of fading graffiti provided the only color to the drab, gray interior. A stale smell of decay permeated the air made all the worse in the heat and humidity of the summer squall. He could smell the distinct odors of the unwashed and unwanted that haunted these forgotten places like rats, huddling in the quiet and the dark, waiting for night to fall and another day to begin. There was something else in the air as well. Something not quite human…

Eric Arcane stepped cautiously into the room, more afraid of twisting his ankle in the rotting floor than of being surprised in his search. Despite the lingering odors, he was quite certain that he was alone in the tenement building. Aside from the rats and insects and other vermin, nothing living had set foot within these walls in many months. Anything other than vermin would be considered prey or victim; himself included no doubt, at least at first. Arcane was not worried however. He had his own ways about him, and a little fire went a long ways against all of the alleged Children of the Night, no matter what form they might take.

Arcane made his way deeper into the bowels of the rotting building, trying to find a safe path to the stairs. Silently he wished that he had waited for daybreak, not for the added safety, but for the little bit of light that would have given him in the darker recesses of the building. He had not even thought to bring a flashlight- his own arrogance was too great at times. Alex had warned him, and now he was wishing that he had listened. He paused at the head of the stairs finally, staring down into the black opening of the cellar, which seemed almost like a huge gaping maw. The smell of death was strong- still lingering with a taste of ash and fetid disease, wafting casually up the stairs. Somewhere in the darkness water dripped, beating a rhythm on tin like an over-taxed heart.

Eric Arcane sighed, dipping his fingers into the breast pocket of his coat as he tried to screw his courage back up again. I’m gettin’ too old for this, he thought, pulling a cigarette from a crumpled pack and scanning the ground for a thin bit of wood. He spied a piece on the floor, about the size of a police baton, and picked it up to hold before his gaze. He concentrated, staring almost through the wood, looking at something that was not quite there. He licked his lips, trying to hold the word in his thoughts, then whispered:

“Incendere.”

The tip of the wood glowed, blue to orange to red then sparked and burst into flame. Arcane watched the Faerie light dance about the rotted wood, sparkling magically as the spell took hold, then fade away until only the flame remained, burning the wood as it was destined to do. Arcane tipped his head, touching the cigarette in his lips to the fire, and with a few puffs, got that smoldering as well. He exhaled clouds of swirling blue smoke into the blackness before him, then sighed barely weakened, and with his torch held out before him, stepped down into the darkness below…

The darkness in the basement was thick, almost palpable as Arcane stepped lightly through the littered debris. The smell was choking, and it was only the fact that his sense of smell was so dulled from nicotine that kept him from retching outright. He could feel the garbage-strewn floor crack and crackle underfoot through the soles of his boots, the old floorboards moaning under his weight. Glass shattered and crunched with his every step. There was slime drooling on the walls where he gingerly touched to help support himself and guide his way. There was a smell of excrement: urine and shit from those that had come before- other victims. His torch flickered, twisting the shadows and mocking the light with flashes of clarity that etched into his inner eye and blinded him more than lit his way. He grimaced, biting down on the butt of his cigarette and moving slowly on. He had come too far to turn back now.

He felt the cold of the chamber as soon as he stepped through the doorway. The damp, dark air hung heavily about him, the humidity within the cloistered walls suddenly making him break out in a sweat. His torch flickered and flared in a draft coming through a shattered window set in the far wall. There was a mesh of wire over the tiny opening hidden behind a flimsy black cloth, the glass long gone. The old and rusting metal of the grill would be no hindrance to those that lived here now. They could exploit the slightest crack or abrasion, a quick way in, or out. He noted it and moved on…

He saw the coffins then; simple things built of old and refined wood set back into the darkest corners well away from any chance of light. They were shabby and worn, but then it was only the elite that really cared about such things as how they looked when they slept and what their confinement entailed. Arcane was not after the upper crust tonight, just a band of rogues that were stirring up trouble on the Lower East Side and overstepping their bounds.

The EBT funds had transferred to the agency’s account and cleared so he had taken the ‘F’ Train down to the East Side Ghetto. It was not a pretty place; the slumlords having long since let their holdings slide, their buildings falling into disrepair. What did they care who lived in the decaying apartments they owned as long as they got their rent on the first and fifteenth of every month. They did not give a shit if there were twenty people living in a space built for two. They did not care that there was no heat and no running water and an entire building of tenants had to share the one semi-working bathroom. The rent laws in Manhattan and other huge cities across the country guaranteed their immunity to prosecution. They provided four walls and a ceiling by law; no mention of working windows or rusting fire exits, minimal heat and light, no top on fees. It was an owner’s market, and had been years.

The old streets of the Lower East Side were not pretty at all, and if it was not for the hefty fee that had been transferred to Arcane’s bank account he would not have gotten off the train at Second Avenue and passed through the police barricades. He hated going downtown. The streets were dangerous; too dangerous for the NYPD to patrol on a regular basis. The gangs ruled the streets downtown, a different gang at every corner and block. It was hard to keep track of the ruling class anymore, and Arcane hoped that they would just leave him alone in the end. So far he had been lucky, and they had.

He stepped closer to the coffins and glanced towards the window. There was the slightest pale glow of light filtering through the wire mesh, the last light of twilight- the start of another day, at least for the likes of them. Within a few seconds they would be stirring, waking in the darkness and rising in the stench, hungry and feral and wanting action. He had to hurry!

Eric Arcane chained a new cigarette to life, dropping the old, spent butt to the floor and crushing it beneath his heel more from habit than any sense of safety. Within moments he would need that fire, and all too soon it would not really matter. He approached the first coffin and ran a hand across the weathered wood. It was old and warped, cheaply made and built of the least expensive boards that money could buy. Just enough to do the job, it would hold a bit of dirt and keep out the light, maybe lined with some thick cloth. That was all that they needed really, unless someone was on their ass. Someone like him…

Arcane lifted the lid on the first coffin and looked inside, holding his torch low to light the features of the body within. It was a man. He was handsome enough, and young, but not the girl that he was looking for. He noticed the slightest twitch in the eyelids, the smallest flick of facial muscle. They would be waking soon. He had to hurry.

There was another boy in the next, young and hard. His skin was pallid, drained of hue and blood no doubt. His hair was greasy and slicked back, black and long. He had no meat on his bones. His tongue was darting between his lips, looking for that first taste of blood, his first meal of the day. Arcane closed the lid.

He found the girl in the third casket. She looked young and withdrawn, her skin pale and pulled back against the bone. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, her brows plucked and sharp with highlights drawn into the exaggerated arch with a pencil. She wore blush to hide the pale in her cheeks. Flare leg jeans, a tight tee shirt, just a girl in her dreaming, taking a nap.

Arcane scooped her body out of the coffin, hefting her up in his arms. She was not heavy, skin and bones. Barely ten stone soaking wet. It was a shame. He wondered again just what it was that they were after. Immortality? There were better ways. Strength, beauty? Arcane shook his head, stepping away from the coffin. He glanced about the room and tossed his torch to the floor. He did not need it anymore…

“Flagare!”

The cellar erupted in light and flame as he hefted the girl’s body closer to his own and made a dash for the stairs. The old and battered coffins erupted, the wood catching easily at his command. He heard the screams of the others, trapped within their coffins, not quite having come awake and able to escape. They screamed in terror, screeching at the top of their lungs as the flames licked at the skin of their lifeless bodies. He could imagine the fires eating away at their flesh, melting them like the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. They were done, another gang lost to the streets.

He charged up the stairs two steps at a time, carrying the girl as best he could. She was coming awake, moaning and starting to struggle. He was breathing hard, too many cigarettes slowing him down. He could feel the heat rising behind him, despite the damp and humidity and rain, the building was a tinderbox waiting for a spark. He heard the first explosion, air rushing to fill the fiery void, hot on his heels. The screams of the dead finally dying rose in pitch. He crashed back out onto the main floor.

Maria Conchita Gonzales started to struggle and fight in earnest. Her eyes snapped open, the blood lust turning desire to need. She was strong- undead and stronger than a simple mage. Arcane fought to keep her secure in his arms but she clawed and scratched, kicked until he was forced to let her go. She fell to the ground with a thud. Arcane heard the floor groan when she hit and he reached out, trying to calm her down.

“Somnus!”

His fingertips brushed lightly against her brow, but it was enough. Maria hissed, her eyes flashing wide and sparking with anger just before she settled back and slumber took hold. She collapsed, torpor washing over her once more as her sleep cycle fell away and she drifted into the night like a mortal. She would be out for hours. Long enough…

He heard the horrible screech as he bent to scoop up the girl once again. Feet slammed on the stairs, charging up from the conflagration in the cellar, racing towards him. It was a scream of rage as well as pain, and all at once light blazed onto the main floor as one of the Vampyr, burning like a living candle, staggered into view.

He was lumbering forward- the younger, hard-looking one- and Arcane knew that he was trying to get to the girl. His skin was flaking away, bits and pieces catching fire and fluttering off in the breeze towards the ceiling. The flesh that did not burn away was oozing from his frame like wax. He was Undead and as good as dead- ready for the final sleep. He just did not know it yet. Arcane was ready to help him realize his destiny.

“Frangere!”

He heard the creature’s scream once more and turned away, not wanting to see the results of his spell. It was a nasty bit of work, and even from a distance and above the screeching and crackle of flame he could hear the Vampyr’s bones cracking, shattering. There was a thud and a flash of light and Arcane glanced back, trying to catch his breath as he squinted into the fire now raging across the floor and up the walls. The creature was little more than a heap of burning flesh raging on the floor, his bones ground away to nothing. Still, what was left kept scrabbling forward, a defiant hand shaking at Arcane, an arm rising out of the fire.

There was something there…

Arcane saw the soft violet glow and peered into the light, trying to see what it was. One arm of the creature was dwindling; melting into the blaze as the skeletal claw of its hand clutched at something in its fist. Arcane watched until the arm finally fell, the last bit of false life finally fled and the body fading to ash. A rock bounced off of the floor and rolled in his direction, smoldering from the heat. Arcane gently set the girl aside making sure that she still slept and crouched down for a closer look.

Arcane hefted the stone in his hand, turning it over in his fingers. It was little bigger than a baseball, and weighed about the same, a chiseled rock worn almost smooth from time and handling. It appeared almost black here in the shadows, but Arcane could see that it was in fact, a deep, rich blue, with ancient symbols of power etched into its facets. He recognized what it appeared to be almost immediately. It had gone by many names over the years; the Stone of Myrdril, the Stone of the Ancients, the Philosopher’s Stone! No matter what it was called however, it was still just a rock, no matter that it was allegedly carved from the same star-spawned meteor from which was forged the blade Excalibur. The wielder still had to have the power, which was why whatever the Vampyr was trying to do with it had failed. He had had no Gift of Tongue.

Not that there was not magick in the stone—in the real stone at any rate. Arcane could hear something calling to him as he studied it; a soft seductive voice promising him power untold, beyond his wildest dreams. He smirked, drawing on his cigarette, ignoring the siren call. He had long ago learned how to shut out the voices of props and foci. He had his doubts too that this was indeed the Stone of the Ancients, but he would look into it when he had the chance.

A crunching snap of breaking glass forced him about, the untamed fire warding before him. He heard the sound of sirens in the distance as he peered into the blaze…

There was a boy, pale and hollow in the flickering light. His skin was dirty, and he reeked even over the growing smell of smoke, his clothes soaking up and saving his odors about him. He had been a gangster once, a Blood by his colors, and still barely in his teens. Probably a sentry, Arcane supposed, set to watch the hidey-hole of the Vampyr, a friend not quite good enough to turn. Probably ordered to warn them when someone came too near or actually found the coffin’s stash down below. The boy was a Ghoul now though, and none too bright because of it, if he ever was. The building was blazing and falling down about him and he was still trying to do his job, whatever he had been commanded. He was looking for merit now, hoping to please his masters, little realizing that they were gone.

“Who are you?” the boy hissed. “You don’t belong here. That’s not yours!” The boy raised a bony arm, pointing at the stone in Arcane’s hand.

“I beg to differ son. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, y’know.” The ghoul stared at him blankly, and Arcane knew that his clever wit was lost on this one. He was too far gone. “You should go on home, boy. There’s people there who can help you.”

“Don’t need no help!” The boy bristled, almost crouching like an animal. “Maria will turn me if I bring her back an’ give her the rock, and one way or t’other, you’re gonna give it to me!”

Arcane sighed, dropping the stone into the pocket of his long-coat. It would be secure enough in his coat, the mundane magicks laced therein keeping it sated until he could bind it properly later. He watched the boy as he drew on his cigarette, waiting for him to make his play. He hated to act if there was a chance that the kid would back down, as there was still a chance that he could be saved. By the look on his young and twisted face however, Arcane doubted that that was going to happen. Still, he had to try.

Arcane snapped out of his daydreaming as the boy snarled and charged. He held a knife now, pulled out of thin air- a small thing really, but probably sharp and dirty and loaded with disease. He cursed his own clumsiness and arrogance, bringing his gaze up to meet the boy’s and lock their eyes. He had hoped to avoid a confrontation, but he had let his guard slip, and now they both had to pay…

Spittle flew from the boy’s mouth as he raised the blade, ready to strike…

Arcane felt the power swell within him again as he looked through the child, past what was left of his dark and corrupted soul. There was little left to reclaim. Arcane sighed in regret, the evasive words dancing on his tongue once more.

“Comburere!”

The ghoul screamed as his body erupted, engulfed in a searing ball of white-hot flame. He staggered forward, his mind still set on its last command, but his body danced and jerked with every step, unable to complete its mission. The molten slag that was the knife fell clattering to the floor as the ghoul collapsed, and in seconds that fire was lost, the fuel spent, leaving nothing but a smoldering pile of ash in its wake as the burning building raged forward, engulfing what was left.

Arcane stared as the glow diminished, feeling weak and used. That was another pointless death that he owed some soulless undead lord. Another sheep led to the slaughter for no other reason than to guard a bunch of boxes and a rock. There would have been no turning the boy around, he told himself, taking the final drag from his cigarette. But he could not help feeling that a few years earlier he might have at least tried.

He flicked the spent butt into the flames and scooped up the body of the girl, Maria. She was whimpering and squirming so close to the blaze, but he knew that once he got her outside and away from the light that she would be fine. It took a bit of effort now to heft her weight, and he could see the reason why. He had cast far more spells than he should have, or had been prepared to do. His dusky skin had paled somewhat, and his flailing dreads he could see were tinged with gray.

The magick had taken its toll. The spells had sucked away at his life force, aging him more than he had been prepared for. He was older now, in form if not actual age—or mind. He needed to rest.

Arcane staggered out of the building as the back half of the tenement fell to the flames. Smoke and debris billowed up as the back façade of wall collapsed from the stress and weakened timber, the inferno having eaten away at the inner skeletal frame. As he staggered down the street he heard the upper floors give way and crash down into the cellar, eradicating anything that might have remained. The Fire Department was held up at the barricades he could see, and he was certain that by the time they finally got to the scene there would be little if anything left. Just as well…

The rain was still falling though it had slackened some. People rushed by as he made his way down the street, paying him little attention and the bundled body in his arms, too intent on watching the building burn and maybe hoping to score something lost and forgotten from the wreckage. He did not mind. He was tired and aching, his legs and arms suddenly afire with arthritis.

The magick had aged him, eaten away at his own life force to fuel the spells he had cast and he was feeling the effects. Every step was agony, but he kept going, hoping to make it through the barricades and back to the world that he was used to and lived in. He would try and catch a taxi, but he had his doubts. An old black man just out of the Ghetto and carrying a body would not be a good fare in anyone’s opinion. He’d look for a bus then, or if worse came too worse he would call Alex to pick him up. There was no way he was going down into the tunnels again to take the trains.

No way in hell…

FIRST BLOOD!

By Curtis Fernlund

The soft, constant trill of the alarm klaxon was starting to get on his nerves as he eased his way through the darkened hallways. Everything was bathed in an eerie red glow of emergency lighting that actually did little to light the way and cast the world about him in a strange and surreal realm of shifting shadows. Occasionally the walls rumbled and shook with the sound of explosions elsewhere in the complex, or the staccato echoes of gunfire rattling down the corridors. He tried to ignore the screams of terror and pain that seemed to follow him, dogging his every step.

He could not understand how it had all gone so wrong so quickly. Just that morning, mere hours ago he had been inspecting the latest shipment from Korea hidden within the stuffing of plush animals that would be sold to the tourists on Canal street at twice the cost. The opium derivative would be separated of course, and refined to a sellable substance that would add to the coffers of the Triad once it was distributed to the lower ranks that worked the streets, eventually sold to the upper class whites of lower Manhattan. It had been a beautiful, cloudy evening. The East Side docks had actually smelled fresh and somewhat clean, a stiff wind blowing in off of the harbor ahead of the storm. The work had gone well, and the steamer from Pusan had been inspected, unloaded and its contents locked away for dispersal, all with American Customs none the wiser. A simple matter, a business venture that would eventually net the Triad millions and assure him a place in higher ranking somewhere down the line.

Then the call had come in…

One of the dock agents had reported a quick and garbled message of armored hydrofoil vessels on the river approaching the pier. He had tried to find out more, but no amount of shouting into the hand held radio would cut through the sudden crackling static. He had ran to the windows of his vast office that overlooked the East River- a glorious view of the Williamsburg Bridge and Brooklyn beyond- and had pressed his face against the glass to peer out. He had felt the sudden warmth and the way that the double-paned safety glass had bulged inward suddenly. The flash of bright, white light had forced him back, diving to safety behind the long couch of kid skin leather just before the glass had shattered inward spraying the office with a storm of deadly, crystalline shards.

The lights had gone out then as he was gathering his wits, peeking over the safety of the sofa at the carnage that had been his base of operations. Smoke roiled beyond the frames of shattered glass and the light seemed to be dimming even as he watched. Clouds were swirling on the horizon, the occasional shaft of lightning piercing down with rumbles of thunder coming closer after every flash of light. Darkness loomed, and through the gloam he could see men floating down on gossamer canvas wings, fire sparking from the guns they carried as they fired their weapons into the workers on the dock. They were being attacked.

Obviously…

He ran immediately to his communications console to send an alert to his master, but static filled his ears as he had keyed the radios to life. The attackers were blocking communications then, cutting down his men and confiscating his wares. He was alone in the face of the enemy and had to fend for himself. They were picking apart the operation, pulling down his status. He had no more options left.

He ran!

He had run to the lower levels, avoiding the elevators at every turn, directing his men whenever he encountered them. The clerical staff would purge the computers, they had been trained too well, and the dockworkers would put the torch to the inventory at fear of their lives. That could all be replaced. He could not. He descended into the catacombs that honeycombed the East Side docks, heading for his submersible escape craft that would take him on a preprogrammed path down the East River into New York Harbor and eventually along the New Jersey coast to a lesser facility where he would transfer to a non-descript car and into the mundane façade of the commuter rush. He would be safe, for a time at least, until he had to finally confront his employers- his masters.

He inched along, stepping lightly through the dank stone corridors that laced the earth under the docks. Stale and mildewed water pooled on the floor and the old stone walls were wet with humidity so far beneath the level of the sea. He felt cloistered and closed in, and he was sweating heavily as the sudden storm raged overhead. His uniform clung to his skin, his ceremonial mask hot and stiff.

Sounds of movement up ahead. The slight splash of water, the clack of heel on loose stone cobbles grinding under a sudden pressure. There was someone there, just around the corner. He crouched, listening, willing his Chi to the fore. He edged closer, feeling his inner strength building, blossoming like a flower, flowing into his arms, his fists…

He peered around the corner…

Light flashed in his eyes, bright and white and blinding. His vision swelled with red, swirls that blotted his sight as he cried out and staggered back against the sudden, unexpected attack. He felt something cold and hard slam against his chest, just under his ribcage, the force of the blow shoving him suddenly backwards. His head bounced off of the cold hard stone and stars exploded in his already swirling vision. He felt his breath rush out of his lungs and he tried desperately to cling to his Chi, trying to not break his waning concentration. He gritted his teeth, made a fist…

He felt a stiff breeze, heard the slightest hushed whisper.

There was a sudden searing pain in his arm, just above his elbow. His eyes grew wide as he could no longer feel the focus of his Chi. He gasped for breath, feeling the sudden loss of strength and direction. He glanced about and finally stared unblinking at the stump that had been his arm, spewing blood onto the cool gray stone. Not so far away his arm lay limply in the sewage, the fingers flicking occasionally as though still trying to form a fist.

White Dragon screamed!

Misty Knight pressed her forearm into the Dragon’s chest and shifted the grip of her bionic right arm so that it encircled his throat. She gave the slightest squeeze, the least pressure and heard the internal clicking of minute gears and servos as her artificial fingers tightened about the man’s throat, cutting off his screams of shock and pain. She could not blame him really. She had been there once, and if the explosion that had taken most of the right side of her body had not also taken her consciousness she was certain that she would have been screaming like a bitch as well. Still, his cries were not something that she wanted or needed to hear. She flexed her fingers and smiled as his eyes rolled up into his head and he started gasping for breath. Old habits died hard apparently. She raised him up the wall until he lost traction and leverage, stepping back as his bowels suddenly emptied.

“Shoot!” she grimaced, wrinkling her nose. “Why do they always gotta do that?”

Colleen Wing shrugged, whipping her sword quickly in an arch to flip away any blood that remained on the blade of her katana. She stepped uncaring into the puddle of blood and urine growing at their feet and took position, bracing to take the weight of their captive. She rested the flat of her blade against the man’s throat, pressing her weight against his own to hold him in place as Misty Knight casually crushed his larynx to keep him quiet.

“Natural body functions. Can’t be helped. You ready? I’ve got him.”

Misty Knight nodded, leaning in with her weight on her left arm to help her partner hold the vampire against the wall. She figured that he was done—not going anywhere, but Drake had warned them not to get too cocky and remember who the man was and what he was about. First and foremost he was a vampire, and that alone meant that he was tricky—not to be trusted. Too, he was a member of the Asian Triad—a lieutenant- and that in itself gave him a bit of respect.

When she was sure that the White Dragon was secure she raised her right hand to her face and bit down on the top joint of her index finger until she heard the audible click of the clasp secreted within. With a flick of her tongue she pushed back the tip of her finger and aimed it at the anguished face of her captor.

“You gettin’ this, Drake? Final contact made: 4:27 PM.”

She gripped the man’s face with her left hand to hold it still and felt the cold clamminess of his dead skin. He was still struggling, but he had already lost a lot of blood and against her bionics and the Samurai skills of her partner, he was just no match for the Daughters of the Dragon. She could feel his strength though, even as weakened as he was. She was glad they had managed to take him by surprise.

“Got it, Knight!” the voice said over the relay plugged into her ear. “Hold him still. Take off the mask.”

Misty Knight forced the Dragon back as her partner reached up and snatched the bit of white cloth from the man’s head revealing his face. She gasped, catching her breath.

“Damn! Why all the bad one’s gotta be so cute?”

“This isn’t the Dating Game, Knight! Hold him still so I can see!”

There was silence for a moment as the man stared at the two women holding him against the wall. He was handsome all right, with wavy black hair and big, deep, pleading brown eyes.

“Please…” he whispered, his voice strangled and choking as Colleen pressed her blade deeper into his throat. Misty licked her lips.

“It’s not him, Knight… Wing. It’s not him.”

Misty Knight closed her eyes as her partner shifted the sword in her grip and applied the slightest pressure. The vampire lurched in her grip as she heard the sound of metal biting into the stone behind him. He quivered, and she felt cool blood gushing over her arm. The sudden dead weight sagged and slid away and she let it fall to the floor. It made a sickly noise as it slid down the wall to collapse in a wet crumpled heap at her feet. When she opened her eyes there was just a dark smear on the wall where the White Dragon had been.

The connection cut off to static, and Misty Knight shut down the relay in her ear even as she killed the feed to the fiber-optic camera built into her bionic arm. She replaced the tip of her prosthetic finger as she stared down at the headless corpse sprawled at her feet. She glanced at her friend and saw that Colleen Wing was flipping blood from her sword again, a flick of her wrist before sliding the blade into her obi. She tucked the White Dragon’s mask beneath her belt as well; another trophy.

“You all right, Misty?”

Even behind her own black nylon mask Misty Knight knew that her friend’s face was twisted with concern. Killing came easy to Colleen—ever since the death of her father she had been on a quest to eliminate as many of the enemy as she could, before they eliminated her. Killing came a little harder to Misty Knight. She had been trained to ‘serve and protect’, and no matter the raw hand that fate had dealt her she still tried to live by those ideals. No matter that she had lost half of her body in a terrorist’s bomb blast. No matter that she was now half-bionic, and sterile, and a freak. She was still Misty Knight, an NYPD cop at heart…

“Yeah, Col…” she sighed finally stepping out of the filthy mess that had pooled beneath her feet. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Frank Drake sighed as he severed the connection to Misty Knight’s bionic camera, settling back in his chair as the computer screen flickered, the image replaced by the eagle insignia of SHIELD. He pulled a cigarette from the pack on the desk, lighting it as he scanned the yellow legal pad beside the terminal, crossing out another name. Another dead-end.

This was the third false lead they had followed in as many weeks. All the signs had pointed to a vampire of great power operating in Manhattan’s East Side Docks; the bloodless bodies found in the river and the Lower East Side slums, the sudden shift in the local gang activity, the taint of fear in the streets. Again however, it had all been a façade.

The White Dragon had been a simple crime lord, a member of the Asian Triad who was coincidentally a vampire. It made Drake crazy though. He had long since stopped believing in coincidence.

“No luck?”

Drake turned to see SHIELD agent James Woo standing in the doorway of the tiny office they had allowed him to use during the assault. He was dressed in his trademark black suit, slim and trim and looking dark. It was a look that Drake wished he could pull off, but with his own blonde hair and build he was just not the type.

“No. White Dragon’s dead though, you’ll be happy to hear.”

Woo nodded. It was just dumb luck really, along with a credit to the connections of the Daughters of the Dragon that they had stumbled on the SHIELD assault on the Triad base at the same time that they were closing in on the vampire. They had been following leads in the area for a few days, and they had actually been confronted by Woo at one point. If not for SHIELD’s backing, the girls might have been overwhelmed, though he doubted it.

The Daughters of the Dragon had been a good choice in associates when Frank Drake had decided that he needed some higher-powered help to actually find and kill the lord of the undead. Knight was like Modesty Blaise, an ex-cop and almost a super-hero in her own right, while Colleen wing was a samurai of extraordinary skill. They had class and connections with the likes of the X-Men and Heroes for Hire as well, which was a plus, but even by themselves they were the best at what they did to coin a phrase.

Still, Drake was certain that Dracula was involved in all of this somehow. Just what, he could not fathom. Why he would ally himself with the likes of the Asian Triad he had no idea, but they must have something that he wanted. It was his job to figure out what.

“I’m sorry that things did not work out for you, Mister Drake. Still, I appreciate your assistance. Your government appreciates your help.”

Drake smiled. “No problem I’m sure.”

Frank Drake stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and stood, relinquishing the seat to the SHIELD agent. His role in the night’s activities were through, and he was certain that Woo wanted to get the clean up started. Drake watched for a moment as the man’s fingers flew over the computer keyboard and he started issuing orders to his troops. He marveled at the resources that the spy organization had at their disposal and wished that he could use that to track his prey. SHIELD seemed to have unlimited funds, and his own resources were already strained, the money that he inherited from both Quincy Harker and the Van Helsing estate already wearing thin. Still, he had been destitute before, he would survive.

Drake gathered his coat and headed out the office with a curt nod to Woo that was not even returned. The man was already deeply at his work, and it would probably be sometime before he even realized that Frank Drake was gone. There was a guard however, an agent waiting to escort him out of the Midtown office and down to the streets.

The storm was raging full force when he stepped out of the building and onto the sidewalk. Rain was falling in sheets and thunder rumbled in the distance carried on the strong winds. People were scurrying about seeking shelter, totally oblivious as to what had just occurred a few blocks downtown and east. Only in New York.

Drake watched for a taxi for awhile, but they were all occupied or off duty. He enjoyed another cigarette in the shelter of the building’s entry, watching the people run from the fury of the storm before giving up eventually, deciding to walk. The cold and rain would do him good, he decided. Help him think…

Finally, Frank Drake turned his collar to the wind and rain and stepped into the storm. Flicking his cigarette into the rushing gutter he shrugged, stuffing his hands into the deep pockets of his overcoat and hurrying along.

It would be a long walk home…

NEXT: Frank and the Daughters of the Dragon take stock of their activities, and just who is this Arcane guy and what is the rock in his possession? All of that, and Paladin joins the fray! Join me and the rest next time in a little tale I like to call… Blood From a Stone!