NOTE: This series takes place prior to the events of West Coast Avengers #1

Manhattan
The Lower East Side

Dracula stood in the shadows casting his gaze over the blackened skeletal remains of the collapsed structure across the street. The fires had died in the storm, but there were still spots where smoke curled up, blown in the wind, wood still smoldering, buried under the rubble and debris. The wooden framework had been ravaged, the building gutted by the inferno. The upper floors had collapsed, burying the cellar under tons of stone and metal. In the end the façade had actually fallen away on three sides leaving little standing that resembled the tenement that had stood on the spot since the turn of the last century.

The Lord of the Undead cared little for the nostalgia and history of the New World. What was a hundred-year-old building compared to the glorious structures of Europe that had stood for ages. Granted, the American’s had changed the world in their brief time, those few humans among their number that rose above the rest of the chattel at least. But in the end they were no better than any other country: petty, vindictive, and quick to turn on ally as well as enemy. In the end they would fall as had the Romans and the Saxons, the Normans and the Turks. Time would tell.

Time, the Vampire Lord mused. Time was always the key it seemed…

He returned his attention to the task at hand, sensing movement. The rats were scurrying about the rubble in droves, seeking the stone, one amongst many. He had little hope that the vermin might find his prize, they were fairly useless and single-minded beyond their initial shock value. Still, they were abundant and available here in the slums of Manhattan, so Dracula would not ignore their potential possibilities. Luck was always a factor to be considered.

His true hope lay with his minions however. He could feel them out there, within the debris, sifting through the rubble. They were Newborn, but dedicated to him, to his cause. Far more loyal than the usual sheep that he was forced to turn. They would dig through the remnants of the building until they were successful, or until their Lord called them back.

It was probably hopeless of course. He could sense their presence, the three of them caught in the fervor of duty, but the other he had sensed before was fading in and out. He had not heard the call now in some time.

It was probably the magic, he assumed. He could almost taste the stench of the foul arcane words that had lit the building afire. He knew the spells used, the Words of Power wrought from the Latin Arcanus; the hedge magic. He had encountered it before, time and again over the centuries. It was a magic learned by the desperate and impatient; simple spells that gave quick result, but at a price. The cost of the soul…

It was not Strange then, and of that he was glad. He was not quite ready to face the Sorcerer Supreme yet again. Thrice they had battled in recent memory, the last almost costing him his undead life, and casting him for a time into oblivion. The damnable Montesi Formulae had cost him dearly, but in the end—again—he proved beyond the machinations of mere mortals. The Marvels had failed as had all the others, and soon he would have his revenge on them all.

He had the Scrolls now. He had the Elixir Vitae, just a piece of the pact he had made with the Lord of Strange Deaths. That had been a beneficial stroke of genius on his part, striking a bargain with the Devil Doctor. Of all the humans that he was loath to know, the Shinpan was by far the most brilliant. One of the greatest alchemists in the world, he had offered his formula for immortality in exchange for the Dark Kiss amongst his soldiers and the knowledge to use their new, undead skills besides. It had been a paltry matter for the Lord of all Vampires, creating an army that he could still control if need be, and to meet both of their goals, the Chinee had granted his army to Dracula, at least for the duration. Still, he needed the Cloak and the Stone…

“Master!”

Dracula glanced up at the high, scratchy voice as one of his three minions flowed from the rubble, his misty form swirling and morphing as he regained solidity. He was small and wiry, dressed head to toe in black, flexible armor and helm. He wore a cape as did they all, and clawed gloves and boots on his hands and feet. The other two came bounding out of the debris as the first yanked and tugged at some burden he was drawing from the smoldering pile. It writhed a bit, and Dracula could hear its cries of agony as his creatures pulled and prodded the thing free, finally dragging it forward.

It was a woman, a girl really, or had once been. She was one of his now, a generation removed. She was one of those from the street; the self-styled punks and Goths. One of the fool children that played at being vampires that he had turned after his own return not so long ago. They had come in handy for a time, and actually had first acquired the Stone for him in a money raid on one of the downtown antique shops. He should have retrieved the Stone then, but who would know that some mage would step in and join the fray. It was a mistake in judgement that he would have to live with for now. The past was the past, dead and gone. Or was it?

Dracula smiled and strode forward as his lackeys dropped the cow to the dirt. She was ragged and beaten with pale white skin and jet-black hair and lips. Her skin was scarred with cuts and slashes, congealed blood binding the wounds. Her clothes were just filthy tatters and bits of wood and metal jutted from her flesh in places. She had tried to mist apparently, but whatever had taken the building down had caught her unawares. A jagged bit of wood was jammed close to her heart and the pain was evident on her face. Dracula crouched, brushing the hair from her eyes-

“Where is the Stone, child?” he cooed, his eyes shimmering faintly, flashing red. He was dressed immaculately in the latest Armani suit, black of course, with a fine pair of leather boots on his feet. His cloak flowed over his shoulders as he tried to ease the pain in his ‘grand child’.

“Lord—” she whispered, blood flowing from her lips. Dracula could smell the bitter sweetness on the air, a tang of hickory lacing from the smoldering building. His lackeys shuffled nervously behind him, the blood making them anxious.

“Tell me what happened!” he said, his voice low and direct. His eyes crackled with fire as he locked his gaze to the girl’s. She shuddered, coughed again—

“I… I don’t know…” she said, her dark brown eyes filled with love and longing. “I woke, and there was fire! Fire! The coffins—”

“Shhh… Calmly child.” Dracula stroked the girl’s cheek, using just the slightest bit of his essence to ease her pain. He had yet to decide if she was worth saving.

She tried to smile, but hissed instead. “There was a magician. He burned Johnny! Burned the coffins! Burned us all!”

“Who? Who was it?” Dracula grabbed the woman’s head, his long hands holding her face towards his own. “Was it Strange?”

“I don’t—”

“What did he look like?” His voice was filled with anger now. He wanted to delve into her mind, but she was far too close to the edge. He might lose her before he knew what he wanted.

“A nigger! It was a nigger with dreads!” she shouted.

“His name!”

“I don’t—”

Dracula applied the slightest strength and spun the girl’s head to the side. There was a satisfying snap, but it did little to sooth his anger. He had lost the Stone through his own audacity and the stupidity of his get. What little satisfaction he got from killing the girl would do little to stay his anger. He stood, brushing at his suit.

“Drain her, then rend her.” He turned to stare at his three minions. They were already advancing. “She has failed me. See that you do not. Return to me when you are finished.”

The Lord of the Undead turned and stalked away from the girl’s body. She was not dead yet, but soon would be. He could hear his minions as they fell on the girl’s still form, their jagged teeth digging deep, ripping at her flesh to suckle at her cold blood. They did not care.

He did not care.

He had a magician to find. An unknown face in a city of millions…

Dracula sighed. He had been so close…

BLOOD AND HONOR!

By Curtis Fernlund

Manhattan
Midtown

“Goddammit!”

Misty Knight slammed the telephone receiver down into the cradle, almost with enough force to shatter it. She had done that enough that she knew her own strength and managed to hold back just a bit despite her anger. The telephone still jumped and rattled with the impact however, and the echo of the bell was satisfying enough to get the point across.

She flopped back into her desk’s chair with a huff, leaning way back and propping her feet up, crossing her ankles over the corner of the desk. She folded her arms and scowled, staring daggers at the telephone, almost daring it to ring.

“Problems?”

Misty looked up as her partner and best friend Colleen Wing strolled into the room. Her hair was damp and she was dressed in the long satiny kimono that she wore as a robe in her downtime around the office. Just out of the shower apparently, she padded across the floor in a pair of flip-flop sandals, her legs smooth and almost glowing from a recent shave and lotion. Misty smiled slightly as her friend took a seat and similar position on the far side of the desk and dug into a take-out container of cold rice with a pair of chopsticks.

“What, no polish?” Misty said, looking at her friend’s toes.

“What?” Colleen said around a mouthful of rice.

“You all dolled up, Girl. Getting’ fresh for Frankie?”

Colleen snorted. “Hardly. My legs were looking like a forest, and I was starting to smell, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh I noticed,” Misty laughed, “I just thought maybe you were trying to look pretty for our Mister Drake.

Colleen smiled, rolling her eyes. “I’ve had my fill of men on a mission, dear. You remember Mister Summers? Besides, I think there’s someone else.”

“That Rachel woman?”

“I dunno. He’s way too obsessed for me though. Even though he is kinda cute.” Colleen picked at the contents of her rice box, chasing the last grains about. “What’s with the phone attitude?” Misty Knight frowned.

“Johnny Storm is officially a prick!”

“Yeah, and…”

Misty smirked. “Their secretary had me on hold for over forty-five minutes listening to Bee-Gee’s instrumentals. Storm finally picks up, and I remind him who I am, so he listens to the story. Soon as I say ‘vampire’ he goes all stupid ‘n’ starts playin’ himself. Says he’s ‘waiting for the others’. They have a ‘mission’ in some Negative Zone. I heard some girl giggling in the background. White boy got issues, I think.” Colleen shrugged.

“No loss. Anything from anyone?”

“Just Hammond. He at least believed me, fought some vampire called Baron Blood back in World War Two. Danny and Cage are in Asia. Moon Knight’s in South America according to his PA. Strange is ‘occupied.’” Misty Knight shrugged, snatching her Rolodex off of the desk.

“A little back-up would have been nice, but what’re you gonna do?”

“I got one more call to make. This don’t pan out, we’re on our own.”

Colleen nodded, tossing her empty container into the trash and settling back into her plush leather office chair. She watched her friend for a moment; crossing her legs and brushing away some imagined piece of dust from her smooth thigh.

“So, where is Mister Drake anyway?”

Misty smiled. “Said he had some things to do. He’ll be back at sundown. Not worried are you?”

Colleen stuck out her tongue. “Not at all, Miss Knight. Make your call!”

“Yes Ma’am.” Misty Knight leaned forward and picked up the receiver. If this didn’t work, they were on their own. And they would definitely need a new phone…

Manhattan
Chelsea

One of the many things that Frank Drake had learned while traveling the world with the likes of Quincy Harker, Rachel Van Helsing and Blade himself was how to pick a lock. Ironically, it was a lock on one of Blade’s own storage spaces that he was plying his skill; working a bit of thin, flexible metal up into an American heavy duty lock.

Drake had a vague mental list of many of his old allies’ holdings: safe houses set up by Harker around the world, Rachel’s New York apartment on the Upper West Side (though there was nothing there but a cot and spoiled, out-dated food), and several of Blade’s weapons’ stashes. The particular one in question was on the West Side, just off of the West Side Highway at Manhattan Mini Storage in Chelsea. It was a standard space; six by six and seven feet high, but Drake knew that it was probably packed to the rafters with things he might use.

Drake smiled to hear the lock finally click and fall open. He feared that he was out of practice, that Blade had used a lock beyond his abilities to open, but though it was the strongest money could buy, it was not infallible. Frank Drake stood and slid the lock from its holding, opening the door.

As he figured, the cramped storage space was packed with wooden crates and cardboard boxes labeled with black marker. Blade was a bit of a pack rat when it came to weapons, and even with a casual glance Drake could see that most of the boxes contained the wooden knives that were the deceased vampire hunter’s trademark. There were other things as well. As Drake started to dig through the boxes he saw sword cases and real ancient knives, explosive detonators and chemicals packed away in special containers. There was a suit of micromesh body armor that had a rip across the stomach but was still usable. Too, there were guns. Several guns and bullets of every sort; Teflon coated and armor piercing shells, explosive cartridges, wax-tipped dummy shells filled with a liquid that might as easily be acid as Holy Water knowing Blade. It was an arsenal to be sure.

There was a photograph in one of the boxes as well. Frank held it up in the dim light of the storage space, smiling. He remembered the scene, though he did not recall anyone taking a picture. He was there with Rachel and Quincy. Taj was there as well so it had to be early on. It was London—he could see Big Ben in the background, and they all looked happy as though sharing a joke. Blade was not in the photograph, so maybe he took the picture. Drake slipped it into the pocket of his jacket and got back to work.

There were things here that he could use: the armor, the guns and bullets maybe, the razor-sharp boken. He knew how to fence after all. He could use a sword. He’d leave the knives however. That was Blade’s schtick. The one time Frank Drake had tried to throw one of Blade’s wooden knives he had almost killed Harker. Drake chuckled.

Harker had ripped him a new one over that…

Manhattan
The Upper West Side

Paladin followed silently as Greenfeld made another sweep of the room following the suits. There were five of them. Security advisors and insurance investigators making the rounds to see just what had been taken and how much money that the collector would be due after the fact. They were all dressed in Armani and Dior, just a hint of the money that Greenfeld had to throw around. Paladin had heard of the security firm, but the insurance company was new to him.

“This is not good,” Greenfeld grumbled, his staff nodding in agreement like the good little brown-noses they were. He was staring at the empty display case that had held the Scrolls of the Seraphim the night before, but now sat broken and vacant. Paladin frowned.

“It’s not the money so much, as it is the historical value.” Greenfeld turned slightly, his great bulk heaving with the effort as he sighed. “The Scrolls were ancient, allegedly written before Moses freed the Jews from bondage. Some even believe they were mystical in origin.” Greenfeld looked at Paladin with some disdain, his gaze raking the mercenary coolly. It was obvious that the billionaire held Paladin responsible for his recent loss.

And it was, at least to a point, his fault. Paladin had technically been in charge of Security when the attack had occurred, even though Greenfeld had a large security staff on hand. For all the good they had done. The attackers had pretty much waded through Greenfeld’s guards and made their way up into the building with ease. At final tally they had killed seven, violently but effectively. There had been a lot of blood.

The attackers had been Marvels of some sort; Mutants at least. There had been four of them. A big one; the leader had had mental powers of some sort, and was a shape-shifter. The other three had been shape-shifters as well, but they had been all about the battle, slashing and clawing and not afraid to kill. They had cut through Paladin’s armor with their claws, and were way too wiry to make any type of headway against. Paladin had never encountered so vicious a foe; not since his brief stint a few years ago when he had helped out Janet Van Dyne and the Mighty Avengers.

Following Greenfeld about, Paladin wondered how Jan was. It had been some time since he had last spoken to her, and according to the tabloids she was seeing Pym again. Pym the wife-beater! Paladin shook his head, trying to get his mind back on the task at hand.

“Under the circumstances, you will not be receiving your usual fee.” Greenfeld had drawn a stubby thin cigar from what appeared to be a platinum coated case from his jacket pocket. He did not light the thing, but simply bit down on the tip, grinding it between his teeth. “I think that’s only fair. You did fail, after all.”

Paladin smiled. “Not only is it unfair, Mister Greenfeld, it’s also breech of contract. I signed on to guard your collection and did so to the best of my abilities with what you presented. You made no mention however of possible confrontation with paranormals. If you recall my contract specifications correctly, contingencies such as Mutant incursion or hyper-powered terrorists must be considered within the working parameters. I was not adequately informed before hand to provide the proper defense to safeguard your properties. I deal with paranormals on a fairly regular basis, Mister Greenfeld, and had you provided all the specs I would have been prepared. Your properties would still be on the premises and your employees would still be alive.”

Greenfeld puffed up in irritation, his gritted teeth almost biting through the cigar as he turned to one of his legal advisors. The pencil-thin lawyer adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses higher up his nose and frowned as he keyed up what Paladin imagined to be a copy of his standard contract on his computer tablet. He was silent for a few moments as his eyes shifted left and right, quickly scanning the text on the liquid screen. Finally he frowned and looked up.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it appears that Mister… Paladin is correct, at least to a point. There is a provision that was apparently unconfirmed in the initial signings providing for possible paranormal encounters. Had you simply initialed the section, you would have been covered and under no obligation to pay. There is however a seven percent reduction in full payment based on time spent under contract and loss percentage concerning the insured value of any missing or damaged properties regardless of the circumstance.”

“And just what does that mean, Higgins? How much do I owe Mister Paladin for his slip-shod operation?”

“Well,” the man Higgins adjusted his glasses again and cleared his throat, “by my calculations—rough estimates of course—based on the last appraisal of the Scrolls and the hours that Mister Paladin actually spent on duty, minus of course personal expenses and—”

“Get on with it, Higgins!” Greenfeld was red with irritation now, and Paladin saw beads of sweat appear on the lawyer’s brow as he ran a finger under his collar.

“Eight hundred thirty-four thousand, two hundred fifty dollars… roughly.”

“What?”

Paladin smirked as Greenfeld’s cigar went flying across the room. He was somewhat surprised as the lawyer’s figures were actually slightly higher than his own calculations. Still, he had no intention of taking the pay, despite Greenfeld’s attitude. True, the billionaire could afford it, and the Scrolls of Seraphim were insured to the hilt, but that was hardly the point. A lot of good, honest men had died tonight as a result of Greenfeld’s greed. Paladin knew that the man had known there would be paranormals involved; just a hunch really, but he could see it in the man’s countenance, the way he moved and looked. Had the collector simply footed the bill for the extra protection, explained his suspicions concerning the safety of the Scrolls, Paladin would have been better prepared, expecting the worst. As it was, he had thought the assignment a ‘fluff’ baby-sitting job and had let his guard down. It was his fault, as well as Greenfeld’s, at least to the point of his own professionalism. Too, if word got out that he had failed his reputation would take a beating. That was not going to happen.

“Tell you what, Greenfeld. I could take the money due me now and run, no questions asked, but if I do that we both take a beating. You’re out your property, and I get a black mark on my otherwise spotless reputation. That effects both of us down the line, and frankly leaving the job half-done just rankles me. I don’t like leaving loose ends.

“Now obviously you hired me because of my background. I work with the higher-end, the super rich. The super rich in turn attract the super terrorists, the likes of the Fox and the Black Cat at least. I get hired because I can deal with the likes of them. You hired me for that reason. Now, I don’t know if you were expecting Mutants or vampires or whatever they were, but you obviously tried to get over.”

“I didn’t—”

“Sure you did. I’d do the same if the situation was reversed, which is why I write odd little provisions into my contracts. I’m willing to waive all that however and take what I’m due, with provisions. You want your merchandise back, and I want satisfaction. We strike a new bargain—my standard Finder’s Fee agreement for the return of your property in addition to what you owe me now and I’ll get your Scrolls back.”

“I should pay you for what you lost? Don’t be ridiculous! Why should I do that?”

Paladin smirked and shrugged as he gathered his belongings, stuffing his bulkier weapons and armor pieces into a carryall shoulder bag. “Because you owe me regardless. And no one else is going to be able to get your merchandise back for you. I’m your best option at the moment Greenfeld, and I want the job. I don’t like to get beaten, Greenfeld, but I don’t like getting stiffed even less.”

Paladin shrugged into his longcoat, which hid most of his armor save for his biker-like MC boots. He would pull back the mask once he was moving onto the street and away from the building’s monitors, not that anyone would be able to track his face even if they got a clear picture of him. Paladin’s real identity was a mystery to all save a select few, buried under thousands of dollars of plastic surgery and identity manipulation. Greenfeld was rich, but it would take better than him to strong arm the man beneath the mask.

“Now, do we make a new deal and you tell me what you know, or do you mail me a check for eight hundred thousand odd dollars?” Paladin stood at the door, watching as the purple-faced billionaire steamed listening to the hushed advice of his legal aides. Greenfeld was not liking what he was hearing, obviously, but he had little choice if he wanted his Scrolls back. Paladin had to smile as the man finally, humbly accepted the mercenary’s generous offer.

Paladin signed and dated the new contract, as did the collector witnessed by his own lawyers who had read the fine print and agreed to conditions. Two thousand dollars a day plus expenses and a fifteen percent finder’s fee that would easily triple what he had already made. Little did the fat man know that Paladin would have done it for free had he not agreed to pay. It had gotten personal.

Paladin did not like to lose…

Manhattan
Avengers Mansion

Edwin Jarvis frowned to hear the soft trill of the Avengers’ private telephone line. He wondered first whom it might be that was calling, as the private line was known only to the members of the assemblage themselves and their closest confidants. It bypassed the main Hotline that had been set up for the general public to use for emergencies and the like, though more often than not it was used for more personal reasons; say some admirer hoping to actually speak personally with his or her own favorite member. Too, it was separate from the Emergency lines set aside for the government agencies as well as the United Nations and other self-proclaimed beneficial organizations such as the Fantastic Four and the Defenders.

The Avengers’ butler sighed as the telephone jangled once more glancing briefly at the duck le’ orange that he was preparing for Master Stark and his guests. There was a fine line that should not be crossed in the preparation and the slightest distraction might subtract from the natural allure of the intricate sauce and marinade. Still, there was nothing for it. There were duties, and then there were duties. At times it was quite frustrating to be the perfect gentlemen’s gentleman to Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

Edwin Jarvis moved quickly across the large kitchen, wiping his hands gingerly across his apron before picking up the phone with a suppressed sigh.

“Avengers’ residence. Whom may I ask is calling, and to whom do you wish to speak?”

“Jarvis?” a female voice asked tentatively from the telephone’s receiver. Jarvis thought the voice sounded familiar but he could not quite place it on a single word.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“This is Misty Knight. I don’t know if you remember me. We met a few years ago…”

“Why of course I recall you, Miss Knight.” Jarvis smiled, remembering that night a few years past when the Wrecking Crew had pitted the martial arts hero Iron Fist against Captain America. Misty Knight had been held captive by the Wrecker and his unsavory cohorts, but had helped bring them to justice in the end. “How could I forget the woman that helped save my life? It is indeed a pleasure to hear from you, though I imagine this is not a social call?”

“Indeed not.” Jarvis could hear the smile in the woman’s voice and took just a bit of pride in the fact that he had made her happy.

“How might I help you, Madam?”

“Actually I was hoping to speak to Captain America. He gave me this number after that Wrecking Crew fiasco. Is he around?”

Jarvis frowned. “I’m so sorry, Madam. Captain America no longer resides here.” Jarvis heard the woman curse and blushed slightly feeling badly that he could not be of immediate assistance. “The Captain did leave a forwarding number, though he stated that it was for direst emergencies only. If your situation warrants, I could—”

“It just might, Jarvis. Not right at the moment, but things might get nasty real quick without some high-powered help.”

“Oh dear!” Jarvis swallowed as he scanned his memory for the telephone number in question. He was the best at what he did, and for good reason. Edwin Jarvis was quick to think on his feet in any given situation, whether from some social travesty at a dinner party to an alien invasion. He had been with the Stark family in some fashion for several decades now, but he treasured his time as the Avenger’s butler as the finest years of his life. His mind was sharp and his memory near perfect despite his developing age. His quick wit sifted the many facts and figures held within: security codes and appointments, delivery costs as well as dozens of e-mail addresses and phone numbers until he recalled the number of Captain America’s most recent private line.

“It forwards to an answering service I’m afraid, if the Captain is not available. You can leave a message however, as well as a voice mail message that will be transferred to his Internet address.”

“Shoot!”

Edwin Jarvis rattled off the number with pride, blushing only slightly as Misty Knight both praised and thanked him before hanging up the telephone. It was always a pleasant feeling to help, but it was his job after all, and his duty.

Jarvis gasped ever so slightly to smell the burnt odor of caramel and orange.

The duck!

Edwin Jarvis dashed back across the kitchen, a few choice words of color escaping his own lips in a hushed, controlled whisper. He had dallied too long, damn his pride! Master Stark’s dinner would be ruined!

There were duties, and then there were duties…

Manhattan
Soho

“Dammit!”

Eric Arcane cursed and quickly slid his chair back as sparks of blue static arched up off of the Stone in a fiery display. The air charged with electricity as he whispered the calming phrases, trying to pull the magic back out of the Stone before something explosive happened. He heard a low whine building in the air as the bluish gray rock charged with energy.

Recedere!, he shouted, Retro cedere!

There was a puff of foul smelling smoke, the sound of a balloon popping and the crackling energy simply disappeared. Arcane sighed and sagged back into his chair, watching as the rock smoldered, the faint glow of heat and energy fading away. He reached out and grabbed a cigarette from the crumpled pack laying at the side of his work table, sparking it to life with a match before he pulled the welder’s goggles down from his eyes. He was stumped, stymied for sure…

He had spent the better part of the day reading up on the Philosopher’s Stone, researching the strange magical talisman that had been a tool to both Merlin and Morgan Le Fay alike. There was not much, granted, but between the encyclopedias, the few authentic magical tomes in his possession and the Internet he had thought that he had had a handle on the rock. He thought that he knew what made the thing tick, and more importantly how to use the bloody thing. It would have been nice to be able to turn lead into gold, or goat piss into gasoline for that matter, but so far all that he had been able to accomplish was to set a few of his books and notes afire and almost get electrocuted in the process.

He was starting to seriously think that the rock in his possession was not the vaunted Philosopher’s Stone at all, but something else entirely. What, he had no idea however. The Cosmic Cube maybe? But it was a rock, not a cube. Too big for an Infinity Gem, and too small for the Dark Crystal. What the hell was it then?

Eric Arcane stood and stretched feeling his bones popping and muscles moaning from sitting in a hard-backed chair for the better part of the day. He was feeling his age—the enforced age that his magicks tolled for their use. He had not cast any major spells, but the many minor ones had added up taking nearly twenty years of his natural lifespan in the process. He would need a few hours sleep to get that time back, but later. He was way too charged at the moment, weary but wide-awake with the mystery of the Stone.

He slowly descended the old wooden stairs down and out of the upper floor of the loft that had been converted into his workstation, his sanctum sanctorum. It wasn’t much really, just a sturdy table and chair with some chemicals and mixtures in sealed tubes, a bookshelf to hold a few of his more important references, a safe and a sink. Hardly a mage’s tower, but it was enough. He left the rock cradled in its base. It hadn’t done anything yet, so doubtful that it would in the few minutes it would take to hit the john and get a coffee.

He strolled into the kitchen shifting his shoulders and craning his head moaning as tired, stiff bones popped with the effort. Alex was there sitting at the table, empty plates shoved to one side. Eric glanced at the wall clock and saw how late it actually was. He had missed dinner.

“Alex…”

His significant other did not even look up from the newspaper that he was reading, grunting slightly as Eric entered and headed for the coffeepot on the counter. He was reading the evening edition of the Bugle, and Eric was happy to see that apparently there was no real news going on in the world as the headline read: Spider-Man Menace! The old and tired stand-by.

Arcane poured himself a mug of black coffee, adding his usual four spoonfuls of sugar before taking a seat at the table across from the man that shared his life and love. Alex Morgan did not look away from his paper, actually ruffling the pages and holding it a bit higher to block his lover’s view. He was still mad…

“Alex…”

The younger white man stood and swallowed the last of his own coffee, flipping the newspaper closed and tossing it onto the table. He set his mug in the sink before finally turning to the dark mage.

“I have to go out for a bit.” Alex barely looked at him as he spoke, running a hand back through his loose hair. It was long and dark, a scratch of stark white at the widow’s peak and Eric thought that it made the man look wild and untamed. “Don’t wait up.”

And he was gone, just like that. Eric sighed, wanting to get up and follow his lover, confront him over this stupidity, but he knew that Alex was as stubborn as he was himself. He would not listen, not yet at any rate. There was a bit of noise from the outer rooms as Eric finished his cigarette, Alex gathering his things, and finally the door slammed loudly shut. Eric sighed again…

He hated when they fought, and especially over money and morals. Alex thought that Eric should have done more to help the family of the girl he had recently saved: the teenager turned by the dark kiss. Eric knew better. The family had thought that they knew best how to save their daughter, and Eric had done the job that he had been commissioned to do. He had gotten the girl out, gotten paid and got the Stone—whatever it was—in the bargain. The bills would be paid and they would eat for another month. Still, that was not enough for Alex Morgan. He just did not know what it took to walk away. As though it didn’t kill Eric to know that the girl would probably rip her family apart and turn half of them in the end. That was someone else’s problem though. He had tried to do the right thing when he first became a mage for hire. It got him in a lot of trouble and he had lost a lot of sleep, which he could not afford to lose. Alex would understand eventually, but it would be a long hard road and Eric hoped that they would still be together when his lover finally understood.

The downstairs door buzzer blared, pulling him from his reveries. His first thought was that it was Alex returning. The front door locked automatically, and maybe he had forgotten his keys. It buzzed again as Arcane stood and hurried to the call box at the front door of the loft.

“Who?” he said as he pushed the call button on his end, lighting another cigarette to relax his racing pulse.

“Eric Arcane?” the staticky voice crackled over the intercom, barely audible and unrecognized. Damn super…

“Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you. My name is Strange. We need to talk…”

Manhattan
The Lower East Side

Tandy Bowen shivered and stepped closer to Tyrone, hugging his arm as they walked the dark streets of Manhattan’s Lower East Side towards the club. She was not afraid, never afraid when she was with Tyrone, but she was cold, the chill in the air causing goose bumps to rise on her arms and her teeth to chatter slightly. She pulled Tyrone Johnson closer as they walked and she heard him chuckle.

“C-c-cold, Tandy?”

Tandy smiled, looking up at the taller black man. The man she loved. His stuttering voice was not a product of the chill night air, but a speech impediment. Others thought that he was stupid because of his stutter, but Tandy knew better. She knew the real Tyrone.

He had come a long way since the days when he had been Cloak and she had been Dagger. It had been hard to give up the powers, just give up and try to live a normal life as friends and lovers, but she had known that together they could do it. Together they could accomplish anything, it would just take time.

It was hard trying to forget the life they had left behind. Harder perhaps for Tyrone. His stutter left him at a disadvantage, and most employers saw that as a problem. Still, he had gotten a job at the local Key Food over on Avenue A. It didn’t pay much yet, but it would if he stuck with it, and Tyrone liked the good honest work. It had been somewhat easier for Tandy, landing an Office Manager’s job at NYU after a few weeks of Temp work. So far they were doing well, sharing a small studio in Alphabet City having left the strange world of super heroics far behind and forgotten.

It was tough at times, making ends meet, but together they were surviving. They had saved for weeks just for this night, this special night of a movie at the Pioneer and later dancing at a club. ABC No Rio was featuring the Pist, and rumor was that Henry Rollins might show up and do some spoken word tonight. Tandy loved the Rollins Band and was excited to see Henry himself, though Tyrone was at a loss as to just who he was. Sometimes he actually was quite dense, but she loved him all the more for it.

“Cold?” she answered, giving Tyrone her warmest smile as she looked up into his dark eyes. Life was so good.

“Not so long as I’m with you.”

Tandy Bowen hugged Tyrone a bit closer and picked up her pace just a bit. She was a bit chilly, though she’d never admit it. She just loved being with her man.

And behind her, in their wake it got a bit colder…

And the shadows shifted and seemed to move closer…

Following…

NEXT: It’s Mage vs. Mage as Doc Arcane takes on Dr. Strange in the most spellbinding mystical battle ever!

Not…

The dramatic return of Cloak and Dagger!

For about a second…

A spectacular guest appearance by Captain America!

Doubtful… He’s dibbed…

Someone does die though, sort of, and things start to fall into place as Dracula steps up his plan—whatever it is. Be here for…

The Rock and the Hard Place!