The shadowy image within the crystal ball (a term that he hated though it fit) was little more than a dark silhouette—the shimmering outline of one of the lesser men that served his agent, the vampiric White Dragon. It was one of the Oriental Expeditors, Si-Fan; a strong arm hired thug that lived under the guise as a dockworker. He should not have been able to access the crystal, and the very fact that this man and not White Dragon was speaking at him betide woe. The man seemed rather frantic as well, which only served to fuel Master Khan’s concerns.

“—was a strikeforce with advanced weaponry! A small army! They overwhelmed the docks and invaded the stronghold! Casualties are high, Lord!”

Master Khan stared into the crystal, trying to discern the accuracy of the man’s panicked statements. He was worried and scared, standing in the shelter of an overhang near the East Side Docks whilst a storm raged about him. Khan could hear the driving rain in the background, the occasional crack and rumble of thunder.

“What of the White Dragon? Where is your superior?”

“We don’t know!” the man squealed as lightning flashed, crackling from the heavens and scorching the earth not so far distant. The image in the crystal wavered for a brief moment, then cleared again. Magic then! The attackers were employing magic.

“Find him!” Master Khan commanded, trying to bull the man from his stupor. “Have him contact me immediately! And destroy the holding, leave nothing for the invaders!“

“We are trying, Lord, but they are everywhere! Blood runs deeply on the docks! The tunnels are flooding! We—”

There was a blinding flash of light from deep within the Scrying Crystal and the image of the agent flickered and vanished, only to be replaced by an even darker and more foreboding shadow. Khan recognized the silhouette immediately, catching himself as he bowed his neck in reverence before the image of one of the Triad.

“Master…”

The dark shadow was clearer than the last image that the crystal had rendered, but it was still almost black. Master Khan knew that the mages on the other side of the mystical link were making it so, as none were worthy to view the visage of the Lord of Strange Deaths! Truly, there were few deemed worthy to even speak with him, and even the Master Khan had spoken with the Supreme Ruler of the Triad, the Master of the Si-Fan but twice in all of his many years of servitude.

“Truly, Lord, this is an honor that I do not deserve—”

“Silence.” The voice was cold as the grave and supremely confident. It was the voice of the ages, the sounds of a god on Earth! Master Khan bowed his head lower.

“I am receiving information which has disturbed me, Khan. A breech of security has occurred at one of our lesser holdings, one which, you allegedly supervise. Should I be concerned?”

“No Great One!” Khan swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady and low. “A minor disturbance at the least. My agents have the situation well in hand.”

Some hideous creature came into view within the crystal; a mandrill. It stared into the dim quizzically, then hissed and bared its fangs. A long, spindly hand caressed its brow and it withdrew back into the shadows.

“I hope for your sake that you are correct, Khan. My ‘agents’ are telling me that your operations are well within jeopardy. They speak of the organization known as SHIELD, and that it has disrupted your operations to the point of disaster. I and my associates would not be pleased to lose our influence on the Manhattan docks. I am sending a group of the Elite therefore, to aid you in weathering your current misfortune. Recoup what you may and expect them within a day. Offer them whatever aid they ask, as they speak for the High Council.

“We have encountered this SHIELD before, but we shall not again. Am I clear?”

“Crystalline, Great One! SHIELD shall suffer for their effrontery! I shall personally—”

The Scrying Crystal went suddenly dark, the images within flickering away in an electrically charged static. His audience was at an end.

Master Khan rose from his throne and began to pace his room of authority. The room and its décor were arranged to provide the most soothing and practical sense of space allowed. Calming incense smoldered ceaselessly, the vaporous clouds drifting lazily through the sparse furnishings of low chairs and plush pillows. There was a constant smell of burnt ozone, the after effect of cast spells. Cherry wood lined the walls with rich scents and soothing colors. None of it helped.

Master Khan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He wondered which of the fabled Elite were en route to make his life hell. He wondered just how much money he had lost, and how annoyed the Triad was going to be when they received the final tally. He wondered what had happened to his Lieutenant, the White Dragon.

Master Khan sighed again and collapsed into his throne. He flicked his long, spectacular robes away and settled in to contemplate the future. There was little else that he might do but wait.

Wait and plot and plan…

BLOOD FROM A STONE!

By Curtis Fernlund

Manhattan
Soho

Eric Arcane woke to the smell of coffee brewing. It was a pleasant smell, the odors of roasted beans and a hint of cinnamon, but it started his stomach to growling. He hoped that Alex was cooking breakfast along with the coffee.

He moaned getting out of bed. His joints were stiff, his muscles sore, and he still felt tired after almost…eight hours of sleep according to the clock. He yawned and stretched, putting his bare feet to the cold floor with a shiver. He had healed some after the previous night’s activities, but he would need more sleep, or at least a restful day to get back to normal.

It was always that way though. The magic always took its toll, sucking the life out of him a bit more with every spell he cast, aging him years in a matter of moments. Sleep and rest always brought the years back, but sometimes it was hard to find the time.

Arcane staggered to the bathroom and took care of his morning duties; washing up, a quick shave and more personal activity, then staggered back to the bedroom to get dressed. He pulled a cigarette from his pack on the nightstand and pulled on a shirt and shorts, sandals. The apartment was warm except for the floor of course. The huge Soho loft was well lit and ventilated. Alex had spent many an hour refurbishing their floor of the old converted warehouse, replacing the lights and refitting ninety percent of the plumbing with better, newer pipes. He had painted and paneled and made the hole that they had bought for a song a home. For some reason however, the hardwood floor was always cold.

Eric Arcane made his way down the stairs from the sleeping loft, smoke trailing behind him as he followed the scent of breakfast. He could smell bacon now, and burnt toast and had to smile. Alex was a master carpenter and a fair electrician but for some odd reason he just could not master the toaster. He found his friend, the love of his life scraping char from a piece of bread in the kitchen.

“Burned the toast again, Alex? You should just give up.”

Alex Morgan turned and smirked. He was a tall man, white and in his thirties with long brown hair and a long jagged scar running red along his jaw. He was a handsome man though, strong and proud and almost ten years younger than Arcane, which the younger man found quite amusing and reminded him of several times a day. He was standing over the kitchen trash dressed only in his boxers and a tank top, his long hair tied off in a ponytail. Arcane sighed. He could almost hear his mother spinning in her grave.

“I will conquer the toaster!” he shouted with authority and confidence, his smirk turning into a wide grin. “I will master this mad machine and make you the perfect slice of toast one morning, old man, or die trying!”

“You go girl.” Arcane smiled, making a B-line for the coffeepot simmering on the stove. He poured a tall, steaming mug, then moved to the table to watch his man at work. He was tired, but never so exhausted as to watch Alex.

“Rough night?” Alex asked as he loaded two plates with bacon and eggs, potatoes and scraped toast. There was already orange juice on the table, and a pitcher of Ice cold milk, along with ketchup and hot sauce and a small flower in a delicate vase. Alex didn’t miss a trick.

“Not so bad,” Eric said, taking a plate from his lover as he approached the table and sat. “Nothing I didn’t expect for the most part.”

“Oh?” Alex raised an eyebrow in anticipation.

“I got the girl,” Arcane said as he added hot sauce to his eggs and potatoes, grabbing for the pepper. Alex stared on in wonder, shaking his head as the scrambled eggs slowly turned from yellow to a soggy, reddish black.

“I took her home, got the usual thanks. I tried to warn them that she’d just run.” Arcane shrugged, shoveling eggs onto his fork with an edge of toast. “They wouldn’t listen.”

“You think she’ll run?”

“Of course she’ll run! She’s a vampire.” Arcane took a sip of coffee, enjoying the warmth and flavor despite the thin frown on his lips. “I told the family what they had to do to turn her, and they have plenty of faith—Catholic, y’know what I’m sayin’? Without help though…” Arcane shrugged again.

“So you just left them there? With her?” Alex Morgan dropped his own fork onto his plate at sat back in disbelief, his eyes wide. Across the table Arcane simply continued eating. “That’s cold, Eric.”

“That’s life, brother.” Arcane’s voice grew cold as he dragged a bit of toast through the slick yellow yolk on his plate. He popped the bit of bread into his mouth, licking his lips in satisfaction. “I got paid, Alex, and I did the job I was hired for. End of story.”

“Yeah, I know,” Alex continued, his voice heavy with disappointment in his friend. He sighed, pushing his plate away, no longer hungry. “But- Jesus, Eric! She’ll just turn her whole family!”

“Not my problem, Alex. I offered my help, and they refused. End. Of. Story!”

Alex Morgan stared silently at the man across the table, the most important man in his life. He knew- or thought he knew- all of Arcane’s moods, the ins and outs of his best friend and lover’s very soul. But this was something new.

“Okay, Eric,” Morgan pushed his chair back from the table and stood, still staring at Arcane. The magician’s eyes seemed cold and distant, his face a mask void of emotion. “Okay,” he said slowly, feeling a catch in his voice, “if that’s the way you want it. I won’t bother you.”

Arcane watched as the man turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen without another word. He stared after his friend for some time, half-expecting Alex to return and apologize for butting into business that was none of his concern. The younger man knew nothing of magic, except what Arcane told him, and the mage found it just a bit annoying that Alex should try to second guess him. They were partners in life, true, but there were things that Alex Morgan should not concern himself with. The magic, the money, and how he got it!

Arcane sighed. He had no time for Alex and his little temper tantrum. It would be cold in the loft for awhile, but Arcane knew that his significant other would get over it eventually. Alex was not one to hold a grudge.

Arcane stood and stared at the table, now littered with dirty dishes. The right thing to do would be to clean up, since Alex had cooked and all, but he just did not feel like it right then. Time for that later he thought, pouring another cup of coffee. There were bills to pay with the money he had just made, and after that there was the stone to consider.

The stone…

Arcane had all but put the rock out of his mind, forgotten in sleep, but now that he thought about it once more, he realized that he should investigate it. If it was really what it seemed to be- the Philosopher’s Stone of legend- then he had to do something with it. It was safe enough, still in the pocket of his longcoat, at least for a time. The mystical defenses laced within the folds of his coat were designed to hold items of power for a short time, but not indefinitely. He had to do a bit of research however, and answer a few questions that were starting to nag at him.

Why was the stone in the possession of a gang of punk-ass vampires? What were they planning on using the thing for, if they actually knew what they had? Did they even know what it was? Arcane had his doubts. Maybe they had retrieved the stone for someone else. But who? Their vampire lord?

Arcane did not think that the vampire gang had the intelligence to be plotting some use for a mystical item as powerful as the Philosopher’s Stone. They were thugs, and now dead besides. He had seen to that, and now chance had dropped the stone into his hands.

Eric Arcane hefted the stone from the pocket of his jacket, turning it over in his hand once again. Even if it was not what it appeared to be, it was still a point of focus for mystical energies. He could feel the power crackling through his skin as he studied the smooth, blue stone. His hand tingled slightly and he heard a hum, a whisper as the energy seemed to call to him. There were runes etched into the rock as well, some that he recognized though most were in some ancient language that was unfamiliar. If it was not the true Philosopher’s Stone, then it was a damn good copy.

Still, there was one sure way to find out…

Manhattan
Midtown

Frank Drake woke to the smell of brewing coffee as well. In his case however it was not the rich, flavorful aromas of cinnamon and roasted beans direct from Columbia, but rather the hearty odor of a local canned brand heated up in a small coffee maker. It made his stomach growl too, though not for the same reasons.

Drake woke with that momentary confusion of not knowing where you were or how you got there. He sat up with a start, his body pouring with sweat and his heart hammering. His breathing came in short tortured gasps as he stared wide-eyed around the room, trying to remember where he was. His mind raced with the fleeting, fleeing images of a dream, more likely a nightmare as bit by bit, little by little, he started to recall…

He was in the offices of Nightwing Restorations, having been offered a cot in a corner of the main room. Admittedly it was a step up from the Lower East Side flophouse that he had rented a room from earlier in the week. That place had been filthy with grime and smelled of old smoke and piss. The walls had been peeling and water-stained, and he had to share the room with cockroaches and mice that he saw, and probably worse. He had taken the cheap room in order to save on money. His own fortunes had been long-since depleted, and the inheritances that he had received were not unlimited.

His new bed was just as uncomfortable as the lumpy mattress in the flop, hardly little more than a fold out cot, but at least it was clean. Too, he had a good view of Midtown out the window as opposed to the glare and buzz of the flophouse neon sign that flashed perpetually through his old windows downtown. Truthfully however, it could be the Plaza and Drake would still have a restless night’s sleep. The nightmares were just too much sometimes.

“Good morning…”

Frank Drake blinked at the sickeningly sweet, singsong voice. He grabbed for a cigarette, fumbling it from the crumpled pack on the small table near his cot, lighting it as he searched for the source of the voice. There was a slight tapping on the outer office door before it swung open and fluorescent light bathed the room.

“Good morning Mister Drake! Hope I didn’t wake you.”

He looked at the woman as she entered the office, trying to recall her name. She was the secretary for the Daughters of the Dragon and Nightwing Restorations, a pleasantly plump young woman, not quite twenty, with more hair than he had ever seen fluffed high up on her head. She had an annoying local accent, and a bad habit of popping her gum as she spoke which only helped to slur her words. She was dressed in tight black stretch pants and heels with a thick sweater pulled over all. Her smile was wide as she strolled right up to him and presented a steaming mug of coffee.

“Colleen—Miss Wing called an’ said that she and Misty would be a little late this morning. Traffic’s a bit—there’s heavy traffic.” The woman blushed, giggling as she tried to sound professional. Drake forced a smile and took the cup nodding his thanks. He wondered how the woman had so much energy so early in the morning. She was positively bubbling. Or maybe he was just getting old.

Frank Drake had been keeping odd hours for years now, traveling the world and living life in the trenches as he hunted vampires along with his ever-dwindling list of friends. Most of them were dead now, or worse, and Frank for his part was getting tired of the never-ending work; the disappointment and heart break, the death and misery, the long hours and living on the run. He supposed it was true when they said that it wasn’t the age, but the miles.

“There’s a shower in the bathroom, if ya wanna clean up, an’ Miss Knight keeps a set a’ razors an’ cream for when her boyfriend uses the cot.”

“Boyfriend?” Drake winced as he sipped at the almost scalding mug of coffee. It was strong and bitter, but just what he needed to get his head together.

“Yeah! Danny Rand…” the woman looked at him expectantly, but simply continued talking upon seeing no sign of recognition at her revelation. “He’s like the head of some corporation, Rand-Meachum I think, an’ a honest to God Superhero too! Him an’ that black guy work outta Forty Second Street; Luke Cage! Y’know, the Heroes for Hire?”

Drake shrugged, no doubt with a dumb-founded look on his face by the reaction he got from the secretary. He knew the names of course, as he had looked into the Heroes for Hire when he was searching for paid allies in his quest to stop the Lord of the Undead. Rand was some kind of martial artist as far as he knew, and Cage was more well known as a super-strong hero with tough skin. Drake knew that they were connected with Nightwing, and that they were successful at what they did, but they had been unavailable for his hire so had dismissed them. Talk about super heroes and the first thing that came to mind was the Fantastic Four and the Avengers. Hell, he had spent so much time in Europe that he knew about Captain Britain and the Black Knight as well, but Heroes for Hire had been little more than a name in the phone book to him, despite what he had told Misty Knight and Colleen Wing.

The secretary paid him no mind however and went about her duties, babbling on about the merits of Power Man and Iron Fist whom Drake took to be Cage and Rand. He finished his cigarette, trying to find his morning legs as he contemplated a shower and breakfast. And a shave he thought as he rubbed his scruffy chin.

Finally he stood up, receiving a sly smile from the secretary as he realized that he was in his briefs, almost naked. He blushed as she giggled and finally excused herself after a long, lustful look at his morning erection. Drake had to smile as he staggered across the office and towards the bathroom.

Shirley…

Her name was Shirley.

Colleen Wing came into the offices shaking rain from her long raincoat. The storm had lessened since that morning, but only a bit. The rains were still falling in spontaneous showers and the sky still hung heavy with leaden gray clouds. A chill wind was blowing through the streets and the gutters were overflowing from the early morning deluge, spill drains clogged with the perpetual trash that littered the Manhattan streets. Traffic was a mess.

Frank Drake glanced out of the fourth floor window at the snarl of cars down below. There was a bus making a wide turn around a car stalled in the box, the bus in turn forcing other cars to change lanes in a rush to get around. Everything seemed at a standstill as pedestrians weaved in and out of the cars trapped in the jam, just making matters worse. Even four floors above the street, Drake could hear the constant blare of horns. He really hated New York.

Misty Knight smiled at her long-time friend and partner as she sloughed out of her soggy coat and hung it on the tree near the door. Like Knight, the shorter woman was dressed for work in high boots and stretch pants, a comfortable shirt that allowed good movement. Colleen Wing also wore a short, dark kimono as an overshirt, black trimmed in red. It had huge, voluminous sleeves and Misty Knight knew that Colleen wore it to hide a number of smaller weapons within its folds; various style shuriken, caltrops, and any number of small thin knives. Considering their current case, Misty would not be surprised if just a few of those knives were now made of ‘Blessed’ wood or silver.

“Sorry I’m late,” Wing said as she ran her hands through her damp hair, heading for the coffee machine. She frowned as she picked through the packets of sugar and sugar substitute, no doubt looking for tea. Her frown turned to a scowl as she finally resigned to a cup of coffee that seemed more Equal and half-and-half to Misty Knight. At least it wasn’t decaf.

“Did I miss anything?” Colleen Wing said as she slid into her favorite chair and crossed her legs. She blew lightly over the mug in her hands, glancing between Knight and Drake before taking a small sip. She wrinkled her nose and reached for another packet of sugar substitute.

“Naw, Col. I just got here a few minutes ago myself.” Misty Knight took a drink from her own cup, still warm, black and strong. Like Colleen, she had been caught in traffic, coming downtown from Harlem where she still kept her old apartment. It had been awhile since she had been back there, but surprisingly it was still intact, partly due to her own reputation she imagined, but also to the fact that the neighborhood was quickly becoming gentrified. There were dozens of new and more upscale shops all along Martin Luther King Boulevard, 125th Street, the heart of Harlem all the way from the Apollo Theater to the East Side. There were more police on the streets as well because of it, and the sudden wave of yuppies moving uptown. Hell, Bill Clinton was her neighbor now, with offices just around the corner. She wondered how long it would be before the city started its drive to move the blacks out.

“We decided to wait for you, Miss Wing. Since you were both so late.”

Misty Knight turned her attention to Frank Drake with a little sneer. He was right of course, but one could not judge Manhattan traffic. Just like the weather in the city, traffic was often unpredictable.

She looked her current employer up and down, noting that he had cleaned up well. When they had first met him almost three weeks past he looked like something that the cat would not have bothered to drag in. She had seen homeless crackheads in the Deuce that looked better. Now he had shaved and showered (thankfully) and finally changed his clothes to something more- if not fashionable, then at least functional. He leaned towards turtlenecks, which was fine in itself, and had donned a fresh pair of khaki’s and combat boots. A bit off, but this was no fashion show they were about. His long mane of blonde hair was still an unruly mass but cleaned up and shampooed it looked right on him. He wasn’t bad actually. A little older than Danny, but-

“Earth to Misty. Car 54, where are you?”

Misty Knight blinked, feeling her cheeks flush hotly. Colleen Wing was staring at her, smiling knowingly and kicking her crossed leg like she was all that. Bitch! Misty had to laugh. Luckily Frank Drake seemed totally oblivious as to the silent thoughts that passed between the two women. He was splitting his attention between the two of them, trying his best not to look confused.

“So what next, Frank? We’ll head back downtown unless you have anything better.” Drake shrugged and picked up a copy of the Post folded up on the small table beside his chair.

“Actually, Agent Woo gave me a couple leads—in confidence of course.”

Misty Knight nodded in understanding. James Woo was an agent of SHIELD who had approached them, along with a half-dozen field agents, when they were poking around the slums of Manhattan’s Lower East Side. They had been following a cold trail of bloodless bodies, which was Drake’s usual method of operation when they had inadvertently stumbled into one of SHIELD’s operations. Apparently the international spy club was stalking an Asian mob organization called the Triad, a conglomeration of three of Asia’s biggest crime groups that had banded together to corner various black market industries. Misty had heard whispers of the Triad, hushed rumors of the mysterious hierarchy and the legends behind them. Supposedly they employed not only the Tong and the Yakuza, but the Hand and the ancient Si-Fan as well.

It was sheer chance that SHIELD had crossed paths with the Daughters of the Dragon, and it was only the ladies’ reputation within the hero community that had kept them all from being taken down then and there. Both Misty Knight and Colleen Wing had powerful friends in high places, not the least of which was Colonel Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD himself. One quick phone call, so to speak, and they were in the mix.

Apparently the vampire trail they had been following was leading them to a bloodsucker called the White Dragon, coincidentally a minor lieutenant in one of the Triad’s local operations. It was stupidity, or maybe arrogance that the Dragon had left them such a blatant trail. Drake had surmised that he must have been a recent turn, after the fact of course. Newly created vampires were sloppy he said, both arrogant in their new powers and naïve at the same time. Once the Daughters of the Dragon signed on with SHIELD for that one raid it was a simple matter to follow the White Dragon through the Triad base while SHIELD took out the agents on site. Woo did not care who took out the Dragon—or how it seemed—so long as the operation was shut down. It was a success all the way around, and Colleen and Misty got an extra bonus out of SHIELD for their efforts. A good night’s work indeed. However, it did not bring them any closer to their true goal, the Lord of the Undead himself—

Dracula!

Frank Drake handed Misty Knight the newspaper folded to display the story that had caught his attention. He had hi-lighted a paragraph near the bottom of the article and Misty read it quickly before handing the paper over to her partner.

“Woo gave me a handful of addresses that he figures are Triad fronts; Korean delis and smoke shops mainly, but I can’t for the life of me see what reason Dracula would ally himself with the Triad. He’s a bigot of the worse kind, and it’s got nothing to do with skin color. He hates humans, simple as that. Blood’s blood as far as he’s concerned, and it doesn’t matter what the color of the bag is. I just can’t see him throwing in with humans like that, unless they have something really important that he wants. That’s why that article caught my eye.

“The fire was in all the papers, and the morning news too, but only the Post printed that last bit.” Drake pointed at the paper and the bottom of the article as Colleen handed it back to him.

“Coffins in the basement?” she asked, and Drake nodded.

“The police figure the building was a Goth squat, a bunch of punks living in an abandoned tenement. I think it was more a tomb, a safe house for a gang of vampires. I’ve seen my share of the like the world over.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Colleen agreed, “but do you think that Dracula was there? It doesn’t seem likely.”

“No. He’s holed up someplace safer, but I think he is somewhere in the Lower East Side, or at least operating in that area. There’s too many signs. And if he is allied with the Triad, well, like I said it has to be important. And, I think we might need some help.”

Both Knight and Wing frowned at that. They hated to admit it, but Drake was probably right. Hunting vampires was one thing. They were strong and had powers in their own right; mind control, turning to mist and bats, that sort of thing. If the White Dragon was any sign however, then they might actually be up against an army of super-vampires, with a whole array of mutant powers. Hell, even the Hand turned vampire would be a—handful…

Misty Knight smirked, trying to suppress a giggle despite the seriousness of the situation. Colleen and Drake were giving her queer looks, no doubt wondering what the joke was. She did her best to put on a straight face again.

“I think you might be right, Frank. Much as I hate to admit it, this might be more than a sharp sword and a bionic arm can handle.” She glanced at her partner, and though still frowning Colleen Wing nodded in agreement.

“I think it’s time to make a few phone calls.”

Manhattan
The Upper West Side

Paladin had to admit that Manhattan was beautiful at night.

The city was aglow, the rain on the windows making the lights of the buildings beyond sparkle and dance. The tall spires were ablaze in the wind-driven mists, the lights of apartments and offices flickering, spotlights washing the highest reaches of some of the tallest buildings in the world. Paladin’s work as a free-lance mercenary had taken him to some of the most exotic places on the planet; the warm, golden beaches of Rio, the bright, garish neon of Tokyo’s Ginza, Paris and Piccadilly, but nothing could compare to the majesty that was New York City.

Of course, from the streets and in the driving rain, the view would be a lot different. It helped that he was sitting comfortably in a plush office suite some sixty stories above the mean streets eating imported cheeses and drinking the finest liquor. The offices of Arthur Greenfeld were extravagant with paneled cherry wood walls and antique furniture from almost every culture and age. The carpeting was Persian, and the décor dripped of old world money far and beyond what even the likes of Trump and Forbes might boast. Greenfeld was a rare art and antiquities dealer that traveled the world seeking out only the finest articles, and his offices were littered with bits of furniture, paintings and priceless knickknacks that were in the process of being bought. It was definitely a plush life that Paladin had aspired to all of his career, and one that he could easily slip into if the opportunity presented itself.

He had turned down the job of guarding Greenfeld’s initially, over a month before. He was on a case at the time and was off to Monte Carlo as a bodyguard for a well-known celebrity. The Princess had paid him well, but a bad run at the tables had given him pause and made him reconsider seriously Greenfeld’s generous offer. Paladin hated simple security guard jobs, but he hated having his legs in casts even more.

Greenfeld’s advance had paid off his gambling debts however and left more than enough money in Paladin’s accounts to spend some time on a relatively no-brainer job. He was inner security in the main showroom, guarding some of the more priceless objects in Greenfeld’s marketable collection. There were paintings by the likes of Rembrandt and Van Gogh, antiquities from the ancient dynasties of China, a sarcophagus from Egypt and even some aged writings from the Dead Sea region. Paladin could appreciate the money involved, and he was no slouch in the good life and surrounding himself with ungodly, gaudy bits of trappings for the sake of appearances, but the items in his charge now were far beyond his league.

He had supervised the security set up at Greenfeld’s request. The old man’s own security force was adequate, and he of course employed the best and latest technology that money could buy, but when it came to real security there was no one better than Paladin. He had made an initial inspection and made a few notes to make it look like he knew what he was doing, but in the end it came down to Paladin actually guarding the main show rooms as the only improvement to what the dealer had in place. Greenfeld of course didn’t know that.

Greenfeld was apparently nervous however, and willing to follow whatever plan Paladin laid before him. There had been a robbery attempt earlier in the month, and there were rumblings that the likes of the Fox and the Black Cat were sniffing about- but then they always were. Paladin had listened and agreed, nodding in all the proper places and signing his name on the dotted lines to receive a sizable lump of money for what turned out to be busy work in the end. With Greenfeld’s own security in place, and Paladin besides it would take better than an old man and a platinum-haired blonde to get anything out of this vault.

Paladin sat up straight in his plush chair, dropping his feet back to the floor as he heard the computerized chime of a sequence code being tapped into the locking mechanism of the main door. He dropped his hand to his gun, pulling off the safety strap with one hand as he slid his helmet back down to hide his face. He did not think it was trouble- only three or four other people knew the security codes to get into the main showroom when all of the defenses were up and running, but he did not want anyone seeing his true face. That was part of the mystique of the legend that was Paladin.

The door chimed approval and hissed open on a pneumatic engine to reveal a familiar form on the far side. Paladin recognized the elder form of Jacob Patterson, highest-ranking member of Greenfeld’s security force. The old black man had been Special Forces back in the Nam, and he was close to retirement now with an easy job and a cushy future ahead. Paladin liked the old man. He had good stories that tended to make the long nights pass a bit faster.

“Jacob! How goes the war, m’man?”

Paladin relaxed a bit, waiting for the man to answer and step into the room. He was making his rounds no doubt, as he did a few times during the course of the night. Oddly, however, he was simply standing in the doorway, not saying a word. Paladin slipped his hand about the butt of his gun…

“Jacob?”

The old man seemed to sway for a moment and Paladin was on his feet, gun in hand. He started forward, then stopped abruptly as a dark spot appeared on the old man’s chest, growing darker and broader even as he leveled his stun-gun. Something burst from the old veteran’s chest.

“Jake…”

Jacob Patterson screamed as a sharp-clawed hand burst out of the gray shirt of his security guard uniform. His tongue wagged as his eyes rolled up in his head; his body crumpling as it expelled the evening’s dinner. Blood and feces spewed forth as the body convulsed on the expensive carpeting and Paladin felt the exotic cheeses he had been nibbling on turn sour in his stomach, forcing back up his throat.

Paladin fought down the urge to vomit, scrambling for cover as he stared into the empty hallway. There seemed to be smoke roiling along the outer hall and the shadows were shifting and dancing beyond. There was nothing there however, at least at first…

The body seemed to grow out of the swirling mists, coalescing into something solid from where there had been nothing just a heartbeat before. He had been around Marvels long enough to recognize a mutant power though at a glance, and whoever was attacking apparently had the ability to go desolid. His mind raced his memory trying to sort through the long list of heroes and villains that had that power; the Vision, the Ghost, Shadowcat. The silhouette that was forming was dark though, bigger than any of those. Paladin fired into the shadowy form, the beam of his stun-gun passing through the thickening darkness with apparently no effect.

The man in the doorway was tall. He looked an odd burglar, dressed in a suit that was almost a tuxedo, complete with an opera cape that was almost a cloak. He was handsome too, in a dark sort of way, with that old-world style that only the rich and famous could seem to pull off. He looked about the inner vault casually, inspecting the room with ease, his gaze lingering on Paladin with only a moment’s grace then moving on. He seemed to ignore the mercenary, as though Paladin was beneath his contempt. His mistake—

Paladin fired again, diving and rolling between stands and displays. He knew that he had hit the man dead on, and the beam from his stun-gun should have immediately disrupted the intruder’s nervous system and leave him a quivering mass of insecurity urinating on the floor. The tall, dark man however simply looked down at his chest and brushed at some bit of lint with a conceited smile. He had a set of teeth Paladin noted, and his eyes seemed to glow red for just a moment.

The shadows behind the man seemed to come alive then, and Paladin saw three small forms rush forward. They were leaping and bouncing off the walls as they came into the room, muscular, wiry little men dressed in black kevlar and sporting metallic gloves and boots with razor sharp claws. They charged forward into the room and right at him, and Paladin fired again to no avail. He hit one square in the chest as it leaped, but the stun-gun had no effect as the tiny form pounced on him, quickly followed by the other two. Paladin heard a girl scream and realized that it was his own voice.

The three little men were built like monkeys, all arms and legs and clawing wildly as their combined weight drove him to the floor. He struggled against them but felt their claws digging into him, ripping through his own kevlar and actually drawing blood. He punched and kicked—he was no slouch in the strength department himself—but the little monkey-men were quick and attacked like a dervish in unison. Every time he batted one away, one of the others scrambled on, striking home with a slash or punch.

Paladin saw in the fringes of his vision as the tall man simply strolled across the room, finally pausing before a display case lit up on the wall. He seemed to consider the antique papers on display for a moment; the scrolls from the Bible regions, then simply reached out and ripped them from the wall. The alarms sounded of course, but Paladin knew that the building’s security was probably out of the picture and it would take several minutes for New York’s Finest to respond. The tall man winced at the sudden noise, but seemed otherwise undisturbed.

Paladin reached down and pulled a Japanese police baton from a sheath on his leg. With a flick of his wrist the baton extended to a foot of heavy metal, which he proceeded to apply upside the heads of the little men that were playing dogpile on the rabbit. He beat them back, enjoying the resounding crunch as the metal of his baton connected with the solid plastic of their helmets. Paladin scrambled to gain his feet as the little men fell away, at least momentarily. They were tough little monkeys, and quick too- he would give them that.

He finally made it to his feet as the tall man stepped towards the windows. Paladin knew that the man would not get through the double-pained safety glass even though—being some kind of mutate—he could probably survive the sixty-odd story fall to the street, if not fly away. The little men were scrambling towards him again however, their clawed-hands scratching at the air.

“Drop the scrolls, pal. No way you’re getting outta here by me!” Paladin licked his lips, hoping his bluff might work. He had no delusions that he was outnumbered and over-matched. One of the little men would be a challenge, let alone three, and he had not even seen what their leader could do other than turn to mist. Too, there was something nagging at the back of his mind about that, but he did not have the time to reason it out.

“Fool…” the man’s voice was cold and smooth, and Paladin saw his eyes seem to glow red again as he looked him up and down. “Stand aside. Drop your weapon and I may allow you to draw another breath.”

“I—”

Paladin felt his mind cloud, his thoughts swirl into calm confusion as the tall man stared him down. The right thing would be to let him go. That was what he wanted after all. The scrolls were probably his anyway…

Paladin shook his head, trying to focus. The man had been in his mind, trying to control his actions. It was the Purple Man all over again! Paladin touched an almost invisible stud on his helmet, breathing deeply of the recycled air that his oxygen tanks provided. His thoughts cleared as he saw the little black-clad men springing at him again.

He crouched, grabbing at the first of the three as they attacked, clutching at his arm and flinging him away, using his own momentum to toss the monkey man at the taller man at the window. The tall man shimmered, his body seeming to melt into smoke as his minion spun about in midair, clawing the window before smashing through. The safety glass shattered as the little man fell away into the storm. Wind whistled through the sudden opening and rain poured into the offices. The tall man laughed as his body shrank and morphed.

His arms grew longer even as his height and bulk diminished. Great flapping sheets of leathery wing appeared as fur sprouted from the dwindling body. The man’s skin grew dark as his ears grew, his legs shrinking and sprouting claws that gripped the encased scrolls tightly. He hissed before taking wing, flapping madly out into the darkness of the driving storm. Lightning lit the night, and thunder rolled as the remaining two monkey men scrambled past and leapt out the shattered window without a second thought.

Paladin charged forward, his heart hammering in his chest, expecting to see the splayed bodies of at least the minions broken on the streets far below. He heard laughter though, a cackling sound that echoed over the screaming winds as four dark shapes flapped off into the night. He stared after the fleeting forms, then turned suddenly, sagging and sliding down the wall in defeat. Paladin took deep breaths, trying to calm himself, letting the adrenaline rush seep out of his body. His side was aching and his purple-gloved hand came away smeared with blood when he felt the wound. The little freaks had ripped right through his kevlar.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, but the only response was the driving rain and the roll of thunder…

NEXT: Dracula’s plan revealed? Maybe… Frank Drake’s fashion sense improved? Doubtful… Paladin joins the fearless vampire hunters? Probably, along with a few other faces that you might not be expecting. Join us next time when All Hell breaks loose and overflows the handbasket…