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

Jerome Jackson hustled along through the chilly night air, swirling the thin wispy fog as he tried to catch the lovey-dovey couple that was still almost half a block ahead of him. He was trying to be quiet, keeping it close to the walls and in the shadows as they had told him to, his kicks barely making a sound as he skipped and shuffled over the cracked and litter-strewn sidewalk. To him it seemed he was making enough noise to wake the dead, but every time he glanced up the two people were still strolling along huddled arm in arm against the cold and lost in each other.

Heh… Wake the dead…

Jerome suppressed a giggle, biting into his lip as he stuffed his hands deeper into the pockets of his heavy Avirex jacket. His hand closed about the short metal box cutter he had secreted there and unconsciously he started to slide the blade in and out of its metal housing. He had wanted to bring a real knife, a switch blade maybe or a butterfly knife but they had told him ‘No’. They didn’t care about the girl really, but they didn’t want the guy dead- at least not too quick. They wanted him for some reason, though of course they hadn’t told Jerome. He wasn’t really down with the Crew yet, but he would be after tonight, really soon.

He had hooked up with the Bloodjust over a month ago. They were the newest Clan running the streets, at least on his block, and the smart money was to hook up cuz they had the Know. They were a big clique, Jerome didn’t know just how many numbers- not that it mattered- cuz they were tough too. They had numbers and power despite that they had come out of nowhere like overnight. They were big and bad and Jerome wanted to be a Blood more than just about anything.

He had signed up quick, as soon as they were recruiting, but he’d been put on probation like most of the other new jacks. There were a few added right off into the ranks, but they were the baddest of the bad- street tuffs and pushers, and Jerome wasn’t that, not yet. Truth was that he hadn’t been running the streets all that long really. Just since Evie died…

Evie had been his sister and she had raised him since he was just little. Jerome’s mother had died giving birth to him. He had been huge as a baby, and breech the doctors had said. Backwards his daddy said, over and over, all the time. He’d killed his mother coming out, and his Pops hated him for it. Life had been tough growing up, and Jerome knew that he probably would have been dead straight off if Pops had any say in it. Dead and buried if not for Evie… His father was a drunken bastard- fuckin’ Alchy! Out of work and out of Welfare he blamed Jerome for everything under the sun. He beat Jerome because the garbage stank. Hit him because TV sucked and because the Giants couldn’t make the play-offs. He had burned Jerome right in the eye with his cigarette when he had come home drunk from the bodega on the corner and didn’t find no supper. The eye still ached when it got cold. It hurt now. Almost there…

Evie had been the only thing worth loving in his life. His sister had raised him, held him when he was hurting and crying and gave him the strength to go on every day. She was dead now, six months in the grave. She had been crossing the street in the Deuce, on her way home from work when a couple kids in a jacked Mercedes had ran the red, cops on their ass. Evie was run down, flew some twenty yards before cracking her head open on the street. The docs said she had died quick, probably never knew what hit her. Spider-Man caught the car-jackers straight off, webbed ‘em up and made stupid jokes while Evie died bleeding on the filthy street.

His father had gone ballistic then, psycho. He’d taken a bat to Jerome, smashed up the apartment and Jerome had run for his life. He hadn’t been back since, running with the Blood now. They had picked him up in one of the squats along Rivington and took him in. They called him a Ghoul, him and the others they took in and promised to induct him if he did this one thing and pushed up on the couple. Just grab the girl an’ hold her. Just give ‘em a fright.

Almost…

They had the power, tough and quick. Jerome wanted that. He wanted to be bad and he’d do what he had to do to be down. He wanted to make the old man pay, give a little back. He wanted to be strong and fast, tough so no one would ever push up on him again. He wanted to be a Blood.

Be a Blood more than anything…

THE ROCK AND THE HARD PLACE!

By Curtis Fernlund

Manhattan:
The Lower East Side

“Gotta cigarette?”

Tandy Bowen jumped at the sudden voice, surprised that someone had come right up on them and she had not heard a thing. The streets were full of homeless though lately, worse than she ever remembered in the city, and she was becoming more and more like everyone else by ignoring them. It was a price she paid for trying to live a normal life with Tyrone. Still, it was not that long ago that she and Tyrone had been one of them, living off the streets and the good will of others, what few there were with good will. Most people simply ignored the homeless, stepping over them if they were blocking the sidewalk, turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to their plight. Was she starting to become one of those? She hoped not. Still neither she nor Tyrone had any cigarettes, though maybe she could scrounge some spare change.

She started to turn to tell the man that neither she nor Tyrone Johnson smoked when she felt rough fingers suddenly snake into her long white hair and jerk her head back. She gasped, her eyes going wide as the big man behind them pulled her close and tight, wrapping one arm around her stomach to hold her as he pressed a small knife into her throat. She started to scream but felt the prick of the blade, felt the sting as blood sprang from her flesh at the point of the tiny knife pressing deeper. It was sharp.

“T-Tandy!”

Tyrone Johnson screamed as Tandy was roughly pulled away from him. He spun about, his eyes wide in shock and disbelief that she was in danger, that they- they were apparently being mugged. It was just so ridiculous. Didn’t this guy know who he and Tandy were?

The man, the boy really- he did not appear to be that much older than Tyrone- was big and bulky. He seemed a street thug, another black kid in the Lower East Side slums that fell in with the gangs that were running the streets lately. He was dressed like all the rest in an expensive leather jacket and hoody, baggy pants hanging low and designer tennis shoes. Another cookie-cutter street tuff, though he looked like he had seen hard times. His left eye was milky white with puffy lids and he had more than one scar on the sides of his face. Still, hard-time horror stories or hard luck, it didn’t matter. He had Tandy!

Tyrone’s look of shock quickly turned into one of rage as his eyes squinted and darkened, his lips twisting into a hard grimace. He saw the slightest trickle of blood where the boy held the box cutter to Tandy’s throat. The cut wasn’t bad- yet- but a little more force might push the blade into the Jugular.

“L-let her g-go!” he snarled, cursing as his stutter made him sound weak and stupid. He saw the boy snigger.

“Ooh, I’m s-s-shakin’, Nig-gah! You got me quakin’ in my BK’s, son!” The boy laughed and hugged Tandy closer, whispering into her ear. Tyrone could not hear what he was saying, but he could imagine. He could see that Tandy was trying to ignore the mugger’s words and stared longingly at Tyrone to save her. Her eyes were wide and pleading, her lips mouthing the word ‘no’. Whatever the boy was saying, it was getting to her though and she was trying to deny it. Something about him and her no doubt, black and white together, white girl bringing down the race. They’d heard that often enough, and likely they’d hear it again. Same old story.

Tyrone knew what he had to do…

This was so cool…

Jerome chuckled as he hugged the girl closer, his hand sliding up to cop a quick feel. She was fine with that white hair and those big blue-gray eyes, even though she was barely a twig. Jerome liked his Ho’s with a bit more back, but he’d take her. The Blood wanted the boy anyway. Fine by him! They wanted Stutterin’ Stan they could have him. Give JJ the girl!

JJ… He liked the sound of that.

She was shakin’ with fear and he could hear her whimpering too. She was saying no… no… over and over. Jerome- JJ laughed-

“Don’t worry, girlfriend. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Shit, you gonna be beggin’ for more ‘fore I’m-“

“Tyrone! No!” the girl shouted, “Don’t do it!”

JJ looked up again, jerking the girl back, expecting trouble. He figured the boy had grown a pair and was about to break. He didn’t know what he was in for, stupid retard. JJ was on the fast track to power. Weren’t nobody gonna mess with Jerome Jackson again after tonight! ‘Specially not some half-wit couldn’t even talk straight-

“Shit…”

Something was happening to the boy. Stutterin’ Stan was shakin’ an’ quiverin’ but Jerome didn’t think that it was the cold. There were shadows creepin’ up on him too, swirling around like some dark fog. Jerome watched, as the boy seemed to grow, the shadows soaking into his clothes like water and inching up his body. He was turning black, an’ not in the Afrocentric sort of way. The shadows seemed to be taking over his body, changing him…

“No…”

Tandy Bowen sagged and hung her head as Tyrone succumbed to the change. He had been so good, trying so hard to live the normal life for so long. It just wasn’t fair that this thug should come out of nowhere to spoil it all.

She watched, tears forming in her eyes as his body morphed and grew, bulking up as the drug-induced mutations of his body rose up and out, enveloping him once again. The black shadows of the Dark Dimension were covering him now, to the neck, his face growing hard and cold as it seemed to take on lines of age and wisdom. The dark mists swirled about him, tendrils thickening and weaving, forming the wide flowing cape, the Cloak of Shadows from which he took his name. His eyes flared with a black unearthly light for a moment then cleared and pulsed with an eerie white light as he focused on Tandy and the boy that held her.

“Oh, Tyrone…” she sighed. There was murder in his eyes. Rage at the boy for what he had done. The Hunger would be upon him soon, she knew. She had to put a stop to this all, before it got too far out of hand.

Now…

Tandy Bowen gasped, losing her concentration at the strange commanding voice, as the low fog that had been swirling about the ground seemed to suddenly coalesce and thicken, taking form. Strange shadowy shapes seemed to rise up, human shapes that seemed to be growing out of the very mist, or from the mist rather as it seemed to be vanishing even as the forms grew more solid and tangible. There were a dozen easily, suddenly, at least that she could see and in every shape and size. A motley bunch, street tuffs like the boy by the look, though there were some Asians as well dressed in black and red. They all looked gaunt; their eyes blood-shot and hollow as they solidified before her. All around her she imagined, as the fog had been everywhere.

Cloak seemed oblivious however; his gaze focused solely on her and their attacker. His own transformation was complete, his cloak flowing and rippling as he willed it forward towards them. He was intent on punishing the boy for what he had done, the world about him lost in his rage.

Release her, he shouted, his voice low and cold, Now!

Tandy felt the boy’s grip about her waist loosen as he stepped back in sudden fear. She could almost taste his terror, his emotions a whirlwind as his rank breath washed over her in short gasps. He smelled of beer and piss, sweat assaulting her senses. She could feel her own change coming on then, her mind opening to the vast world of Light that surrounded them always on the shadow’s fringes. She could feel the purity as it washed through her, her own body changing as she became one with the Light once more. But was it in time?

The boy released her as her body started to glow, the white of being illuminating them both. He yelped in surprise, staggering back even as she spun and shoved him away.

“Run!” she shouted, but it was too late. Dagger saw the tails of the cloak as it whipped past, a voluminous sheet swirling about her to envelop the mugger. Darkness roiled all about as the Cloak of Shadows sucked him in, the blackness of the Dark Dimension dragging him down. The boy screamed, terror choking him as he was swallowed into the inky darkness, vanishing…

“Tyrone!”

Dagger spun about, her first instinct as always to try and sway her partner to release his latest victim lest he kill the boy. The horrors of the Dark Dimension were too much for some, and there were too many times that Dagger’s own light was needed to save those that fell to Cloak’s cold justice. She opened her mouth to scream, to shout in the boy’s defense. Evil as was his intent there were few that deserved to come face to face with their darkest sins. Such was the power of the cloak. She stared, her eyes growing wide. She screamed, but not for the boy’s sake.

Count Dracula smiled as he reached out, taking hold of the swirling cloak and digging his fingers in. He felt the cold immediately, a freezing cold that burned through even his long dead skin, an icy wave that washed up his arms and swiftly through his body. He had expected as much. He had experienced the darkness before of course- and the creeping terror held nothing for him. He knew his greatest sins, and he was above such petty evil as this Cloak might try to exorcise. Dracula welcomed it in fact, craved it!

All was going according to plan…

The Lord of the Undead spared a glance to the girl. Even from yards away he could feel the burning power of her light. She was glowing with a radiance that could perhaps be considered Holy, though he knew it was simply a construct of her mutation. Dagger, like the boy Cloak had been transformed by alchemy some time ago, their latent inner magicks brought to the fore unexpectedly. Mutants they were called now. In olden times they would have been labeled witches and warlocks, demons! They were freaks regardless, like all the others that seemed to dominate this age of science and wonder. They were fodder for the true powers that be. Fodder for Dracula!

The Lord of Vampires smiled. He could feel the terror of the Ghoul writhing about in the Dark Dimension even through the unearthly fabric of the cloak. The raging emotions of the terrified boy would distract the Host just enough as the darkness began to feed off of the child’s fear and emotions. Still, the one called Cloak turned, surprise riddling his darkened face to see the effrontery of someone actually touching his vaunted Cloak of Shadows. Dracula laughed. He planned to do far more than simply touch the unearthly raiment.

Sagum ex Umbra, Advenio! Desero Tuus Dominus! Dracula Postularte Tu!

His hands started to glow darkly and he felt the queer fabric of the cloak actually start to squirm in his grasp as though alive. He repeated the words of the spell that theMaster Khan had devised, a simple uttering of dominance and a transfer of power and control. True, the boy’s very being was linked to the Dark Dimension through his mutation, and the bond would remain if Khan was correct, but the incantation would transfer ownership of the cloak to Dracula if all went well. The Celestial had assured the Vampire Lord that it would, and in that honor between them, Dracula knew that it would without a doubt. He smiled and pulled, tugging at first then slowly gathering the folds of the Cloak of Shadows about him and into himself…

Manhattan:
SOHO

Eric Arcane opened the door and stepped aside, motioning for his guest to come into the loft that was his home with a sweeping gesture and a slight bow of reverence. The man was thinner and shorter than he had imagined he would be, Arcane’s own imagination creating some vast and powerful imagery of the Master of the Mystic Arts and what he should look like. In truth he was simply a man, skinny but well dressed in Gucci and Dior, his dark hair slicked back and his thin mustache trimmed to perfection. But still just a man.

Doctor Stephen Strange stepped through the portal with the slightest nod of acknowledgement to Arcane’s invitation. He took a few steps, glancing casually about, his nose and lips wrinkling slightly. He ran a gloved finger over the varnished wood of the small table near the door, flicking the dust from his expensive kid gloves in barely concealed disgust. He raised his hand as he looked about the room, his fingers forming the reverse of the Peace sign held near his lips, waiting. Arcane dug into his pocket for a cigarette, which the magician accepted, then his lighter as he sparked Strange’s cigarette to life. Doctor Strange took a long deep drag as he took another look about the loft and finally turned his attention on Arcane.

“You’re Arcane?” he asked, blue smoke swirling as Eric Arcane nodded dumbly. He was shocked that the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth’s Dimension should actually know his name. His Hedge Magic was hardly powerful enough to draw the attention of the world’s greatest mage and defender, or so he thought. Still, he imagined that it was part of Strange’s job to know. But why was he here, now? Arcane glanced towards the upper loft and his workspace. Had he sensed the Stone?

“I’ll come straight to the point, Arcane.” Strange turned his own gaze to follow Eric’s. If he knew about the Philosopher’s Stone he hid it well. Arcane had it upstairs where he had been testing it, to no avail, but it was secure and warded.

“I’ve sensed an inordinate amount of magic coming from this location quite recently. Low powered to be sure, but still of concern. It’s part of my duty to investigate such things, to make sure that the very fabric of reality is not in danger by some novice dabbling in the Arts without any true clue as to what he is about. Just what are you up to Arcane?”

“I-“ Eric Arcane started to explain what he had been doing, investigating the Stone that he had gotten off of a Ghoul in a Vampire’s nest when he saw the Master of the Mystic Arts wince and look away. He seemed shaken, almost drained as he dropped his cigarette to the hardwood floor. His skin was pale as he glanced up and away, looking at something that Arcane could not see. Casually he crushed out his butt beneath his Gucci loafers.

“Did you feel that?” he asked, and Arcane shook his head.

“What?”

“I don’t know…” Strange’s eyes went glassy for a moment and his tie clasp started to glow with an unearthly light. “It felt as though something was trying to breech the dimensional barriers for a moment. I heard… Perhaps the Mindless Ones… Still, I should investigate.”

The Mage shrugged his expensive woolen coat higher onto his shoulders and looked Arcane up and down. “I had hoped to discuss a few things with you, Arcane, but other matters appear to take precedence. There has been a recent upheaval in the neighboring realms, and I must warn you to take care in whatever you have been doing. Many of Hell’s dimensional realities are in turmoil currently and there are countless entities seeking to prey upon the unwary that stray too close and unleash their hordes into our own realm. Be well aware of what you do, magi, as I do not wish to return here under less than congenial circumstances.”

The Sorcerer Supreme stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned to leave, his head tilting upwards a final time before he shrugged and left. Arcane heard something that he couldn’t quite discern, words that he could not recall and in a flash of light the Master of the Mystic Arts was gone. Arcane shut the door.

“Prick!”

Eric Arcane pulled a cigarette from his pack and put it to fire, drawing from the calming smoke. He was still shaking from his encounter from the greatest magician on the planet, despite the man’s arrogance. Arcane assumed that the man had to be the way that he was, above everyone and everything, but still the way he had just come in and been so rude. Strange was his idol for god’s sake, or had been at least. Now he was not so sure.

Arcane had felt whatever Strange had, but not to the same degree apparently. It was more like a tug on his jacket than some ripping of dimensional fabric. Apparently Strange was more in tune with what was happening in the world than Arcane could ever hope to be. Just one of the benefits of being the Earth’s Magical Protector.

Still, Arcane had felt the tug and it worried him. Was it connected to the Stone somehow, as it seemed to be calling from the same direction of the tenement he had burned, the Vampire Holt? What the fuck was going on?

He had to find out. It would eat at him, not knowing, and it would distract him from whatever he was doing for the rest of the night. He had to go out and follow the call, find out just what was happening.

Arcane took his own longcoat from the tree by the door. It was a far cry from Strange’s woolen coat, but it no doubt served the same purpose. He shrugged into the coat, glancing up the stairs towards his workstation, feeling for the Stone with his meager sight beyond sight. Liono he was not, but he could feel the wards he had set up on the Stone still in place. It would not do anything untoward on its own and he would know if anyone touched it, not that he imagined that would happen. Alex was out and still pissed and he never went into Arcane’s work place without an invite anyway. The Stone was fine for a time, long enough for Arcane to follow his nose and find out what was happening back down in the slums.

He gathered his keys and stepped out in the hall. He locked the door with its dead bolts and police bar, wishing he had taken some more rest first. He was tired and still aged somewhat from the spells he had cast earlier on. He hoped that he would not run into anything too powerful as he followed the call. He did not have that much energy left. He hoped it would be enough.

With a sigh, Eric Arcane chained another cigarette to life and started down the steps that led to the street and beyond.

Into the night…

Manhattan:
The Lower East Side

The girl was good, Paladin had to admit. She was better than the Devil, faster and more agile, but not quite as quick as Spider-Man. Too, she had those little light daggers that seemed to do a helluva lot of damage to her attackers. Yeah, she was good, but he was better.

Paladin was the best!

He watched from the rooftop, safe and well away from the actual fight as the white-haired, white clad girl danced about amidst the street thugs, throwing her energy knives at anything that moved. She was quick and lithe and her opponents didn’t have a chance against her. Points in their favor, they kept coming though, endless and tireless apparently. The girl’s light knives seemed endless too however, and she could throw several in one shot, unerringly. Every blade hit its mark.

Her name was Dagger, for good reason apparently, and she was impressive. The blades of light hit her attackers squarely and each and every target flared in a screaming raging mass of fire as their bodies were consumed. She had seemed shocked at first, when her initial assault had lit the streets with blazing, panicking bodies. She had hesitated and the others had swarmed over her, grabbing at her and trying to drag her down. Paladin had almost gone to the rescue then, watching intently as the lithe, skinny girl had been overwhelmed for a heartbeat or two. He had actually been at the roof’s edge when beams of white-hot light shot skyward and the creatures had burst into flame. He could smell the burning flesh even from across the street as the girl’s attackers staggered away in agony, their bodies dissolving in the conflagration. All at once Dagger had sprung from the inferno, her body twisting and flipping through the air with a grace that belied the imagination. Her skin seemed afire as smoke licked at her wake. She sprang high, heels over head as her arms shot out raining blinding white death into the mob of attackers. They screamed and howled as their bodies burst into flame, but Dagger no longer seemed to care, and frankly neither did Paladin.

He was a mercenary, one of the best in fact and he had killed more than his share of soldiers in his day. Most of Dagger’s victims ‘looked’ like kids, but Paladin had his suspicions what they were in actuality, if they were even still alive. Vampires, or Ghouls in the best case. Regardless, dead, undead or street scum, they would not be missed.

He had come upon the scene by sheer chance, his fabled luck holding true once again. It had taken no little digging at first to find some kind of lead to the four strange and queer creatures that had attacked him and stolen the Scrolls of the Seraphim from the private collection of art that he had been hired to protect. They had been para-normals of some sort, bursting on the scene and killing the bulk of the in house security force, the last right before Paladin’s eyes. He had thought them Mutants at first by the way they moved and the things they did. They were quick, quick and strong and they had the ability to alter their forms like the alien Skrulls. They had grabbed the Scrolls and thumped on him for a bit before making their escape, the three black clad little ones following the lead of the big one- their master! They had changed into bats and flown away. Bats!

After dealing with Greenfeld his employer, Paladin had started the search. He did not like to be beaten, and in truth never had really, not fully, totally. In the end he always got his man- or woman- and he would be damned if a bunch of freaks in black capes would get the better of him now. He promised Greenfeld his Scrolls, not that Paladin cared about the fat man and his satisfaction or his art. It was all about Paladin now, and revenge.

He had checked his usual sources right off; street stoolies and his own files that he had made over the years based on his cases and the people he had met. Little by little, the deeper he dug it all seemed to come pointing back to fables and fairy tales. The four that he had fought seemed by all accounts to be Vampires, ridiculous as that sounded. In his own travels he had learned long ago that there was no such thing. There were no ghosts or werewolves. There was no Frankenstein Monster prowling about Europe and tossing little girls into the lake. There was always a reasonable explanation, usually Mutants. Still, every new avenue led him in the same direction. There were several related stories that came up on the Internet, strange occurrences that seemed connected: missing children, an expansion in gang activity, blood-drained corpses turning up in the rivers and slums. It was all very odd.

As it all seemed to be pointing to the para-normal, Paladin started to consider calling in some old debts. Dare Devil owed him big time, but the Man Without Fear usually proved harder to find than any target, unless he wanted to be found. He called the Avengers, but their butler gave him the runaround for a bit, despite the fact that Paladin had helped to save the old man’s life when the Masters of Evil had taken the Mansion and beaten him to a bloody pulp. Screw them- or most of them anyway.

He tried Janet Van Dyne’s phone number on a whim, but as he expected the call was forwarded to an answering service. It was a private, personal number- and it had worked before, though that had been a few months now. Both she and Paladin had been through much in that time and he had no doubt that she had long since moved from wherever that number was located. She was seeing Pym again, though why he could not imagine. Odds were she might be living with him too. On a lark however, Paladin tried the e-mail address that she had given him, hoping that it was still active.

Surprisingly he had received word from the Winsome Wasp within the hour. Yes, she was fine and hoped he was too. She was in California now, a house in Malibu, and Carmel, and an apartment just off Rodeo Drive. No she was no longer active in the Avengers, but she could still access the files if it was really important. He had messaged her back and said that it was, thanking her and hoping to get a chance to get reacquainted soon. No, she had responded, probably not a good idea. The files were attached in a Zip. Stay in touch, love Jan.

Paladin sighed then and went about opening the files. They had had some good times a couple years back, up until the Masters of Evil had come crashing in. Jan was fun, and rich, but she was way too tied to the Avengers, and even more to Pym the wife beater though she would deny it. Still, it might have been fun again for awhile.

The Avenger’s data files were huge and excruciatingly boring. Paladin could see the anal hand of Captain America in the format and the details of the Vision in the way that everything was set up. They were thorough however, and the flood of information was almost more than Paladin could bear. There were images along with the actual written reports, as well as M-Peg movies and sound bites galore. There were scans of evidence and sub files from not only any Avenger that ever crossed with anything slightly resembling a Vampire, but reports from the X-Men, the Fantastic Four, the Defenders, and dated information regarding the Second World War’s Invaders. It took forever to wade through just a portion of the information, all of which was sketchy at best. The good Captain was of a like mind with Paladin apparently, despite his run-ins with some character named Baron Blood, that Vampires as such did not exist but were rather a localized strain of mutation. To the contrary however, reports from the X-Men as transcribed by the Beast accounted two detailed encounters with a being named Dracula that matched the profile and description that Paladin was chasing.

Dracula, it was to laugh…

Dracula was a myth and a legend. He was a character out of a Nineteenth Century novel and simply did not exist. What did exist apparently was a Mutant with Vampire-like powers on an ungodly scale and delusions of grandeur. This Dracula had faced the X-Men at least twice and even Spider-Man, and later fought the Avengers, mainly the Scarlet Witch along with Doctor Strange over some book called the Darkhold. The heroes had won of course, and on that occasion the Vampires had been eradicated, at least for a time. They were back now though, apparently, and operating in Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Go figure…

And it all came together. The Avengers’ files confirmed what the newspapers had hinted at. There was something strange happening at the southern tip of Manhattan, and it was there that Paladin had to go. Simple enough.

Paladin glanced up at the sound of the scream. It was a ragged, ripped scream that seemed to be dredged up from the depths of someone’s soul. Paladin scanned the battle scene below and saw Dagger still dancing about like a rubber ball off the ground to swing about the light pole then to rebound off the wall in a shower of light springing from her fingertips. She flipped and somersaulted over and away from her attackers, who actually seemed to be dwindling in numbers, before diving back into their fiery midst to set more ablaze with her white knives of light. The creatures were screaming in agony as they dried up and flamed away, but it was not they that had screamed to the heavens for their very soul…

It was Cloak!

“Crap!” Paladin grumbled and drew his gun.

The big one was there attacking Cloak while his army of ‘vampires’ kept Dagger too busy to help. Paladin had no idea what Dracula- yeah, right- was doing to the boy, but it almost seemed that the alleged Lord of the Undead was drawing the very darkness out of Cloak. Whatever, the boy was reverting to normal, shrinking, wilting in obvious agony as Dracula seemed to grow, the shadows swirling about him. The army of vampires seemed endless. Dagger was tiring…

Time for Paladin to lend a hand!

Manhattan:
Midtown,
Earlier

The storm was blowing in from the southwest. Lightning flared far and away over New Jersey, but even in the darkened glare of the city’s lights Frank Drake could see the vast wall of clouds moving towards Manhattan. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Frank turned his collar against the cold, rising wind. It was going to be fierce by the look of it, fierce and angry and somehow unnatural.

Times Square was packed as always, despite the hour, and it had taken Drake longer to get back to the Midtown offices of Nightwing Restorations from Blade’s West Side storage space than he had figured it would. Traffic was a bitch so close to the Lincoln Tunnel, and when he had abandoned the taxi he had been in he found that the sidewalks were just as bad. Too many people crammed the concrete walks, tourists gawking, venders hawking, and city dwellers talking, their arms jutting out with a cell phone glued to their ear meandering aimlessly. They all seemed oblivious to the approaching storm as they sauntered about in his way preventing him from getting home.

Home, if you could call it that was now a cot in the offices of Colleen Wing and Misty Knight; the Daughters of the Dragon. Not the best accommodations in the world, but he had definitely had worse, and shared worse with a lower class of people. Drake smiled, cupping his hands against the wind to light a cigarette as he dashed across Seventh Avenue to beat the traffic heading downtown. He remembered a time once, not so long ago sleeping propped against a tombstone in a cemetery in Wundagore…

A scream caused Drake to stop, his hand automatically dipping into his longcoat for the gun he had just taken from Blade’s storage. Without a thought he drew the weapon- a three-inch double-barreled sawed-off shotgun complete and loaded with some special shells that Blade had developed for their rather unique line of work. The two barrels would fire explosive rounds of white thorn splinters soaked in blessed Holy Water. They would do little to a normal person, and less to anyone mutated or para-normal, but against a Vampire- aggravation at the very least and instant torpor, maybe the final death if Drake’s aim was better than it used to be.

Drake scanned the crowd about him as more screams erupted. The voices seemed abruptly sharp and frightened more than outright terrified, and a blurring motion at his feet soon showed him the reason why. Rats! Dozens of them were scurrying down the street en masse, crawling from the sewer grates and out of building basements totally ignorant of the panic they were causing in their wake. Despite himself and some of the things he had seen in the last few years Drake let a little shocked squeal escape his own lips as he staggered back into the very entryway of his destination. He stood in the shadow of the building that housed the offices of Nightwing Restorations watching the tide of rats, mice and roaches as well flow down the street. The vermin were running together. Was that the storm’s influence or something more? Drake was a bit slow on the uptake at times, but he didn’t need a dead body to fall on him, choosing the latter. It was Dracula, had to be, calling his armies to him. Drake turned-

“Hello, Frank…”

There were five of them, though how they managed to sneak up on him so easily he had no idea. There were two men and three women, all dressed in long, dark coats and hats or voluminous hooded cloaks that were both proof against the cold and encroaching storm as well as disguising their features, at least to a point. There were just some things that could not be hidden however…

The most imposing figure was a tall man, almost seven feet. He looked massive as well, and muscular in his ill-fitting coat. His wide-brimmed hat did little to hide the fact that he was swathed in yellowing, tattered bandages. Despite his stature Drake gave the big man only a cursory glance, his eyes drawn to the only slightly shorter man. Just as muscular, he seemed more bulky, but what shocked a gasp from Drake’s lips was the leering skull face that sneered at him in a skinless grin. At first he thought that it was the Ghost Rider, but with a sigh of relief he quickly realized that it was not the Spirit of Vengeance at all but some cheap knock-off. The skull was blazing, but not with fire rather a pulsing, crackling green glow more like radiation.

Not to be left out, the women were no less intimidating. There was one wrapped in a long black leather coat. She wore a mask of red with huge mirror-like eyes and no hat could have contained her mane of thick, flowing black hair. Despite the glare of light streaming from the lobby of the building she seemed cast in shadow, a darkness about her that added to her air of mystery. The other two women both wore the long cloaks with there faces shadowed by the drawn up hoods. One was tall, and Drake caught a glimpse of black leather beneath the cloak. The other was shorter and thin, hanging in the background behind the others so as not to be seen almost. Somehow though Frank Drake suspected that it was her that had first called his name.

Frank Drake gasped again as memories came flooding back. It had been well over a year, but he still remembered that voice, both who it belonged to and what it meant. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he felt his balls shrivel in fear.

“Frank Drake,” the taller woman said, stiletto heels clacking on the cold stone sidewalk as she stepped forward. Her hands went up and Drake tensed. He expected an attack, but the woman’s icily seductive voice had rooted him to the spot, his gun dangling from his limp fingers at his side. He recognized her voice as well, though it had been even longer since it had set his body a tingle. Her hands grasped the edges of her hood and pulled it back and down. She shook her long raven tresses free, and oddly Frank was glad to see she had disposed of the gaudy little tiara that she used to wear. It had been so ugly and distracting from her exotically beautiful face. She smiled, dark red lips curling, just showing a glimpse of her over-long canines. If Frank was afraid before, now he was terrified…

It was Lilith!

“It seems our paths cross again, cousin,” she grinned, “though this time we appear to be of like minds and as allies.” Drake blinked feeling the woman’s seductive hold over him waning. He whipped his gun up though it was hard to keep it steady. He shivered, trying to focus as he licked his suddenly dry lips.

“Wh- ?“ he grunted, and the Daughter of Dracula laughed.

“It’s true, Frank. We’re here to help, my friends and I. Captain America sent us…

“We are the Shock Troop!”

Next Issue: Well, who saw that coming? Not me, and I wrote the darned thing!

Who is the Shock Troop, and how do they fit in? And what’s happening to Cloak and Dagger? Just what is Dracula up to, and will Paladin be able to stop it in time? When willEric Arcane join in with our heroes? Where is that mysterious Elite that was hinted at a couple issues ago? Why did Colleen Wing decide to shave her legs now of all times, and will her toenails be dry in time to help Frank Drake? How did it come to this?

I’d try and answer all those questions- and more, but my esteemed editors tell me to keep the page count down if I start rambling. Still, come back next time for Blood Complex! and maybe I’ll throw you a bone…