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| Issue #1 July 2010 |
“They That Dwell in Dark Places” Written By Curt Fernlund and Will Short |
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PRELUDE
Cyclopean statues guarded the edges of the rainforest clearing, peering over the shoulders of the audience as the priestess approached the altar. She placed the obsidian dagger over the offering’s heart. Drums sounded, chased up a steep crescendo by the worshippers’ chanting.
<”To the Great Ones Not to be Named,
Those of the Outermost Dark,
we cast our praise!”>
<”Hear us, Forgotten Ones!”> the priestess cried as she carved a circle in the offering’s chest. <”We offer up sacrifice of our paltry flesh! Behold!”>
Half the worshippers raised blades and—in unison—thrust the weapons through their bellies. Pools of blood formed below them as they fell one by one.
<”May the seal that binds you be broken. May the offering before me be the door through which you return!”> The offering bit down on the cloth in his mouth, his cries muffled as the dagger thrice more rended his flesh in jagged shapes. <”May you pierce the aether so that this world might reach its end!”>
Down came the dagger, plunged handle-deep into the offering’s heart.
And then space itself warped over the altar, the offering’s flesh churning like hot wax as it devoured the blade. The offering writhed, a towering, tapering length thrusting outward from his chest—splitting the skin, rippling and oozing with ichor as it burst forth with a terrible wailing before slithering back into the gaping wound from whence it came.
END PRELUDE
Greenwich Village, New York
The Sanctum Sanctorum
“These pieces,” Jill said, breathless. “They should be in a museum.”
Books and trinkets, blades and bottles, mirrors and things even Jill didn’t recognize. They packed every conceivable space of the shelves that ran up to the ceilings and around the perimeter of the expansive room.
“I’m afraid that would lead to dire consequences for this dimension, not to mention those adjacent to it.”
Dr. Stephen Strange perused the highest shelves overhead. A school of will o’ the wisps tagged along as he descended, casting their dim glow over the hardwood walls and floors.
“And I’m not the only one collecting ‘pieces,’ now am I? Or do you not consider the Shadow Keys to be museum-worthy material?”
A beat. Then, “Is that why you called my office? So you could confront me?”
“Not at all,” Strange said, “though your experience with occult archaeology is a large part of why you’re here. That and the Shroud’s praises for your work with him on the ‘Kali Killer’ slayings. You worked alongside Anthony Ludgate as well, no?”
Jill glowered. “Doc, if you really knew anything about me, you would know to never say that name to my face, let alone start off a conversation with it. Especially if you want something out of me, which I’m guessing you do.”
“What I want, Ms. Woods, is to hire Shadowoman Investigations & Reclamations for a case. An excavation site in Saudi Arabia recently unearthed a set of ancient scrolls. Exactly how ancient was never reported—the scrolls were stolen, the entire crew murdered.”
Jill folded her arms across the breast of her leather jacket as Strange continued.
“Given the ritualistic nature of the killings—symbols were carved into the bodies’ flesh—the Saudi government charged one of my associates with solving the murders, as well as recovering the scrolls. The problem being that Abdul’s skill set is an ill fit for the case. Realizing this, he contacted me.”
“And you called me,” Jill nodded, half-smirking. “How the hell does my ‘skill set’ fit this case better than yours?”
Strange sighed. “I am a sorcerer, not a detective. And I have neither the time nor the inclination to become actively involved in an investigation, save for examining the scrolls.”
“Of course, so you can add ‘em to your trophy room here.”
“That depends on the results of my examination. But yes, should I deem the scrolls a danger, Abdul has agreed to allow them to be... lost.”
“You can’t just—”
Strange’s baritone voice boomed. “I can and I will, Ms. Woods. If necessary, I’ll destroy them. That is my duty as Sorcerer Supreme. Now, you would be paid for your time whether or not you manage to procure the scrolls, but the amount would triple upon de—deliv—”
Strange’s face went pale, eyes glassy as his body began to tremor and convulse. Jill didn’t think, just let loose a cloud of the Darkforce from her hand, the solid shadow catching Strange before he hit the floor. Another shadow yanked a reading chair over and dropped Strange limply into its cushion.
Jill ran to his side, the shadows melting away. “What the hell was that?!”
Strange placed a trembling hand against his forehead. He didn’t speak, only breathed rapid, shallow breaths, staring blankly into a vast invisible something.
“Doc!” Jill daren’t even touch him. She jumped a little as she heard a door slam, turning to see a gaunt, red-haired man rushing in.
“Tell me you felt that,” he was saying when he stopped short of Strange. His brow furrowed. “Steve?”
“He had a seizure or something! He was talking and then he just—he freaked out! Should we call a doctor?”
“No, I’m...” Strange blinked a few times, his voice reedy. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” the redhead asked.
“Merely shaken, Daimon. But... this presence...”
“So you did feel it.”
“Feel what, exactly?” Jill said.
Daimon dropped his head. “Some sort of disturbance. An intrusion. Like a lock turning, and then this—this dripping chill...”
“Y’know what’s annoying about you people? You’re too damn busy trying to sound mysterious and vague. It’s like you don’t even want anybody to know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Daimon’s red eyes glared at Jill. She noticed the scar on his left cheek. ”I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Jillian Woods. Shadowoman Investigations & Reclamations.”
“Charmed, I’m sure. Shadowoman, the adults are trying to figure something out, so why don’t you go play somewhere else?”
Jill paused. Spat out a curt ha. “And who the hell are you, Rusty?”
“Everybody who’s anybody knows me, sweetheart,” the redhead sneered. “I’m Daimon Hellstrom, Apprentice Supreme.”
“Yeah? Well, sweetheart, I’d rather be a nobody than an arrogant asshole—“
“Both of you! Enough!” Dr. Strange said. His usual rigid posture returned as he stood. “Ms. Woods. There are pressing matters to attend. The offer stands: your normal fee triples on delivery of the scrolls.”
The numbers raced through Jill’s head. Rent and groceries, fixed AC and her tab and—
Before Jill knew it, her mouth was moving. “Okay. I’m on it.”
“Good. Wong will see you out.”
Jill’s eyes bore daggers—no, scimitars with arm-length blades—into Daimon as she headed for the door. It took everything she had not to shove the smirk he gave down his throat with a Darkforce chaser.
“Jill,” Strange said. She looked back at him. “Be careful.”
The manservant who’d brought Jill in—Wong—waited at the top of the stairs with the retainer’s fee in cash, and a card that said ABDUL QAMAR. Out on the front step, the heavy door closing behind her, Jill pulled the flask out of her jacket. A long pull of vodka washed the image of Strange’s spasming body out of her mind.
In the private quarters of Department H, Elizabeth Twoyoungmen shivers between the sheets, unable to drown out the restless whispers among the Spirits of the Land—whispers of tuurngait older than the first giants.
INTERLUDE 1
Phobias crisscross frights intersect terrors in labyrinths that run ever deeper...
Yet the Halls of Fear could fit an infinite number of times in the Wailing Entropy that descended upon them.
D’Spayre crumbled at the Dweller-in-Darkness’ feet, his screams mostly drowned out by the entropy’s cacophony. He cradled himself with his cloak, tears trailing from the dark cavities of his eyes.
“Tears in an ocean of pain!” D’Spayre cried. “Unmake me, Dweller, I beg you!” Staccato breaths, then half-hissing, “Please... please. Shadows of shadows, cast by the light of a black sun. Shadows of shadows of shadows...”
The Dweller attempted to take in the boundless entropy. Wherever he was, there was the heart of the fear-halls. Now the halls themselves were the heart of the wailing mass that surrounded.
“DISTANT ECHO OF THE CHAOTIC CHORUS!” the voices moaned. “OUR BONDS HAVE BEEN LOOSENED! STILL, SOMETHING KEEPS US FROM THE EARTHLY PLANE! AS OUR AVATAR, YOU WILL PAVE THE WAY FOR OUR RETURN!”
Up through the dangling ropes of flesh on the Dweller’s face, the entropy pervaded, destroying his android body and peeling back the layers of his consciousness until only his naked essence remained, attuned to the presence’s will.
“Submit to the true Fear Lords!” the Dweller cried. D’Spayre tried to scream again as the Dweller’s cold tentacles reached into his mouth and down his throat to his very core, tearing his being to literal shreds.
“Submit to the Outer Gods!”
END INTERLUDE 1
In Citrusville, the cat Ebony hisses before jumping into Jennifer Kale’s lap. Jen holds Ebony close, rocking nervously as she says a silent prayer to Zhered-Na.
The Sanctum Sanctorum
Daimon figured that, if you removed the many mystical light sources it housed, the Chamber of Souls would achieve absolute darkness—its literal centerpiece being the Orb of Agamotto, which illuminated the circular room with an eldritch radiance as it rose toward Daimon’s hand. It hung there, rotating slowly, as if dangling by a string.
“Think back,” Dr. Strange said. “The presence we felt—let it crystallize in your mind’s eye. Can you do that?”
Daimon’s lips curled. “Of course,” he said, though the devil-blood in his veins ran cold.
The orb waded in mists that wafted from its three-legged case below. Within the orb, amorphous gray smoke-shapes stirred as Daimon spread his fingers wide and flexed all the muscles in his hand up through his ropey arm. The haze seemed impossibly thick. He gathered his will and focused it; sharpened it in hopes of penetrating whatever it was that obstructed his view.
“Let the many legs of Agamotto bring the identity of this presence to us,” said Strange.
The smoke-shapes blackened as Daimon pushed, filling the orb. A white pupil formed inside. Daimon froze in its inhuman gaze. He heard a swelling sound, followed by something like thunder cracking glass...
KRAK!
Daimon covered his face and torso. He winced... but he felt no pain. When he let his arms fall, he first saw the stunned expression frozen on Strange’s face. Then the orb—resting in its case, light extinguished and smoke-shapes dispersed. A web-like fracture marred its otherwise flawlessly smoothed surface.
In Atlantis, Prince Namor’s court mage and vizier stammers. For reasons he cannot explain, Vashti urges the prince to unlock the royal armory.
Asgard
Amora gently dipped the tip of her finger in the scrying pool and began to stir. The water whirling, she lightly tapped the center of its surface, and from there the image of Valhalla rippled out on the liquid canvas.
Her nail lightly eased through the surface of the pool, the scene changing, tightening and expanding as her thoughts led her to her destination. She finally saw the dark, weathered exterior of the Hall of the Valkyrior, set there on the edges of Hel. She entered...
Noise and laughter, the smell of burning meat, music and smoke all assailed Amora’s senses as she shifted through the swirl of the scrying pool seeking one in particular. Amora saw her, yet a shade passed her sight and she gasped, her heart clenching.
“Skurge...” she whispered, wishing to follow the shade but knowing that now she could not. She focused instead on the Valkyrie at the head of the hall, First among Odin’s Choosers of the Slain.
“Brunnhilde,” she said, smiling as the Valkyrie stared...
Brunnhilde, most favored of Odin’s Valkyrior stared at the drone and jubilation of yet another raucous celebration. Somewhere on one of the Nine Worlds—Midgard, probably—heroes and martyrs had died in abundance. The Valkyrior had been sent out, and those worthy amongst the dead had been brought back to Valhalla astride winged steeds to serve eternity in the folds of Hela’s grace.
Banners were hung. Statues were erected and the Bards sang of the heroism of lost souls. And then the celebration began.
Brunnhilde sighed, swirling the liquid in her golden goblet as she watched, bored. Her purpose was great; as Odin’s favored she and her sisters would gather the fallen heroes and bring those worthy to the Halls of Valhalla where they would receive the respect and honor they deserved. Her task was important, but these in between times were... grating.
She almost longed for days past, the times she had spent upon Midgard in the company of the Defenders. Battling alongside the likes of Atlantean kings and emerald giants. Lord Odin however was adamant, and Midgard was banned to all save Thor.
Brunnhilde, First among the Valkyrior raised her goblet towards her lips, glancing into it only as the liquid within seemed to churn. The golden mead whirled into blonde tresses of hair framing a leering woman’s face.
Brunnhilde, her velvety voice lilted. My favorite Valkyrie.
“Enchantress.” Brunnhilde squeezed the goblet. The Valkyrior at her table, like those at every other in the grand hall, were far too busy clinking their cups and telling their loud, long tales to notice that she was speaking with her drink. “How dare you show your face here?”
This is merely a reflection of my face, my poppet. I wouldn’t dream of setting foot in your hallowed drunkards’ hall.
“Show some respect for the dead! A good many of them met their demise through your manipulations.”
I have respect for but one soul in Valhalla, and he is not why I’ve sought you.
“Leave this place,” said Brunnhilde as she tilted the goblet. “Tell your lies somewhere else.”
Oh! I suppose you must know about Midgard, then...
The goblet straightened. “What about Midgard?”
You mean Odin hasn’t told you? I suppose I’m not surprised.
“Say what you came to say,” Brunnhilde banged the goblet on the table, “or be gone.”
A pantheon threatens Midgard—gods so terrible that Odin himself had to look away from them, his one eye shut tight as he watched from his throne in Valaskjálf.
“The All-Father will not allow Midgard to be destroyed, if that is indeed what you’re implying.”
He will. For I heard Odin’s ravens whisper to him in their scratchy voices, and he whispered back that it must remain a secret, else certain gods and demigods might involve themselves and invite destruction not only to themselves but to the Golden Realm itself. His words.
“You lie.”
No. I saw it with my own two eyes through this very scrying pool. At that moment, the pool’s water went cold as Nifllheim, and I felt a great power enter the Nine Realms.”
“I will ask him, then.”
The mead-face laughed. You’d glean more truth from Loki himself. Is it so unlike Odin to keep his own counsel in such a way? Especially with his subjects so wont to run off to a lesser realm’s defense.
“Then I will see for myself.” Brunnhilde stood. “And I swear, Amora—if I find that you’ve lied to me, I shall cut your tongue from your mouth.”
How utterly savage, the mead-face said, but Brunnhilde was already gone. In the jeweled goblet, honeyed lips curled into a smile.
In Genosha, Wanda Maximoff shrinks into Prime Minister Dane’s arms—sobbing softly, unable to find the words to describe her hopelessness.
The Sanctum Sanctorum
“In my time serving you,” Wong said, “I have developed a certain physical sensitivity to mystical goings-on. ‘Feeling it in my bones,’ as it were.” A faint worry wiped across his brow. “Now I must wonder. Is this wise?”
The Cloak of Levitation eased itself off Dr. Strange’s shoulders and drifted to its perch.
“I have no choice,” Strange said, a plush pillow floating by his head and dropping at his feet as he spoke. “Certain beings--forces--have been able cloud the orb’s scrying abilities before. But they were the exception, not the rule. And the presence I felt was not one of those beings. My only option is to try and track the source of the disturbance from a higher plane.”
Daimon leaned his back against a bookshelf. “While we stay here and do what?”
“The point of having an apprentice was to train someone who could handle my earthly affairs while I’m gone.”
“Hm. I thought it was to find a replacement.”
Strange sat on the pillow, folding his legs inward with each foot pressed against the opposite inner thigh. He ignored Daimon, saying to Wong, “You remember our conversation?”
“Of course, Master. Every word.”
“We won’t burn down the house,” Daimon said. “Don’t worry.”
Strange furrowed his brow. “Daimon. What you felt earlier? That dripping cold wetness inside? That was merely a fraction of what I perceived. Something very ancient and very powerful was let loose on the universe. It briefly touched our dimension and withdrew. But we have to assume it remains free. Be wary in my absence—both of you.
“Now leave me,” he said, shutting his eyes. As the others left, he felt the amulet containing the Eye of Agamotto tingle on his chest, opening, his own third eye blossoming from his forehead as he entered the ghost world that was the Astral Plane.
And in the Nevada desert, Joe Fixit finds himself drawn east. He leaps over the sand dunes dozens at a time, cursing to himself, his lips curling into a sneer as he snarls: “Strange!”
Republic of the Congo, Africa
As Jill burst through the canopy—vomit flecking her black lips, the scrolls clutched to her breast—she prayed that, in leaving the jungle, she would also leave behind the things she’d seen.
Yet the images followed her into the sky, and even the Darkforce barrier enfolding her could not keep them out. They replayed themselves over and over, forcing her mind’s eye to watch...
After meeting with Abdul in Riyadh, markings on a body from the ravaged led Jill to Khartoum for a night of drinks and rest followed by a morning of Bloody Maries and hitting up the locals. The information she received put her on a long flight to Kisangani and a guided trip into the rainforest.
They were far from anything Jill would consider civilization when the guide bailed out, and it was a good distance from that point to her destination, according to the compass and map. She walked most of it. Flying in unknown surroundings is tough enough without two double Tequila Sunrises in you.
The compass needle started spinning around the time she passed the second statue. Like the first, it was a well-weathered obsidian figure that loomed over Jill, watching her as she went. A discomfort crept up her fingertips to the back of her pale neck— an unease— that intensified the further she went. She redoubled the Darkforce barrier surrounding her.
When Jill came to the third statue, the tension inside her snapped, and she lashed a path with the Darkforce. She could now see a clearing up ahead. She charged forward, aloft on solid shadow.
Some kind of gathering place, Jill was sure of that. Or at least, it had been.
A black foundation lay at the center, carved with markings. It wasn’t cracked but rather was bent—twisted. Its surroundings were similarly warped from the center outward in a way that Jill’s eyes refused to accept. She could not look directly at it, though she felt an unnatural gravity gently tug her toward the center of the clearing.
To turn away was to face the bodies. Light glinted off a gray-black surface among them. Jill landed there, trying not to breathe as she crouched to inspect the corpse.
It was an elderly woman of dark complexion, dressed in a kind of ceremonial garb. One hand squeezed the obsidian-bound scrolls tightly to her body. The other held a dagger speared through two eyes. Thousands of scratch marks blended with the many wrinkles surrounding the woman’s empty eye-sockets. Streams of blood and viscous humor had dried her cheeks.
Jill doubled over, vomiting until the bitter contents of her stomach were emptied, then wrenched the scrolls from the woman’s stiff fingers and got the hell out of there.
In a back room of the Voodoo Lounge nightclub, Topaz curls up with a glass of Syrah, her hands overcome by a sudden case of the shakes.
INTERLUDE 2
Kkallakku’s tongue licked the rows of his drool-drenched teeth. “It’s been so long,” he said. “So long since I’ve smelled the sweet-sour stench of fear...”
“Your people...” the Dweller said. Massive tentacles undulated under the veiny egg-shape of his head. “What has become of the Fear-Eaters?”
Kkallakku’s feelers made waves in the nothingness. “All gone. Long starved to death in this place—this pocket sewn shut on the underside of existence. The terror they felt as they wasted away has sustained me.”
The brown feelers wriggled, mimicking the rhythm of the Dweller’s tentacles. “You are different than I remember, Dweller.”
“My masters have remade me to better reflect their image.”
“Your masters?”
“Yes!” The Dweller reached out to Kkallakku so that their tendrils mingled. “For I am an agent of a higher power!”
And Kkallakku suddenly heard the wailing, then the words, and he gnashed his teeth as he was forced to understand. He smelled so delicious to himself. His weeping eyes tried to take in the shaking black hell that rose behind the Dweller.
“Like you,” the Dweller said, “my masters seek revenge on their jailers. Submit to the Outer Gods and they will free you, so that you may pave the way for their glorious return! And in doing so, you too will have your revenge!”
Kkallakku’s teeth chattered. “I—I submit!”
“Then eat! Eat, and be free!”
And Kkallakku began to eat, and eat, and eat some more. As he did so, he first felt the invisible chains that bound him loosening. Soon he found himself gnawing a hole in the nothingness where he’d been imprisoned alone and starving. He wormed his long body through the hole and into the Earth dimension.
END INTERLUDE 2
At the Nexus of All Realities, the Man-Thing roots itself deeply through the swamp water and into the soil below. It sullenly scans its surroundings, feeling the unease roiling through the earth...
Asgard
The Entrance to Bifröst Bridge
Heimdall had seen the Valkyrie Brunnhilde approaching for some distance, flying high on Aragorn’s back over the crags at the edge of Asgard. But even his keen gray he couldn’t have foreseen this—that he would be poised for battle, his uru sword drawn against Brunnhilde’s blade Dragonfang.
“Midgard is in great peril!” Brunnhilde said.
“So I’ve seen. But I have been ordered by Odin himself to deny you passage.”
“Then forgive me, Heimdall...” she said, raising her sword.
“Stay your blades!”
Odin’s voice rumbled through Heimdall’s bones and quaked the ground beneath his feet. Looking up, he saw that he stood in the All-Father’s long shadow, cast from an overhead peak.
“Have Amora’s words poisoned you so, Brunnhilde?” Odin said. “That you would strike down one of your own, merely to jump to Midgard’s defense?”
“The Enchantress is a liar and a wench. Yet it was she who told me of what transpires on Midgard while you watched in silence!”
Odin’s one good eye darkened. “You forget yourself, little Valkyrie. My ways are my own—my words, law—and I owe no explanation to you or any other. Your place is here, in the Golden Realm.”
“Stop me, then, if that is your will.” Brunnhilde sheathed her sword. “I have found fiercer battles, mightier warriors, and truer friends in my short time on Midgard than the ages I’ve spent in Asgard. I am bound to them by honor, even if it means I’m to fall fighting at their side!”
With that, Brunnhilde tapped her heel on Aragorn’s side. The horse’s wings carried them over the edge of Asgard, down the winding way of the Rainbow Bridge. Heimdall put away his blade, watching as the Valkyrie disappeared in the distance. Odin was behind him, then, speaking as softly as the great god ever did.
“What is it that forever draws my many children to Midgard, Heimdall?”
Heimdall scratched his beard. “Were you yourself not drawn to the Earth-mother Fjord long ago? Perhaps our two worlds are bound by more than this bridge.”
“I’m afraid history has proven that much time and time again.” Odin sighed. “Cast your gaze far and wide, loyal Heimdall. Keep your ear to the ground. No one—nothing—is permitted to leave or enter Asgard. The Golden Realm is sealed until I give the word.”
Heimdall turned to Odin. “What of Brunnhilde?”
“Let her stay on her beloved Midgard.”
Elsewhere, Amora traced the scrying pool’s surface with her lithe fingers. She cupped a handful of the water and rubbed her hands clean.
In the heart of the Dark Dimension, Clea struggles to dismiss the profound worry that so suddenly struck her.
The Sanctum Sanctorum
Outside the Cage of Cyttorak’s bars, Daimon studied his Darksoul from every angle. Its limbs were splayed out in an X on the Mystical Cross, making a display of Daimon’s infernal reflection. The invisible Crown of Blindness rested atop its head.
“I know you’re there,” the Darksoul said in Daimon’s voice. It licked its lips with a forked tongue. “I can practically taste you. Won’t you let me come out and play? You know you want to.”
Daimon stood very still. His chest throbbed with a circle of dull pain.
“I haven’t told Strange about our little visits,” said the Darksoul. “If he found out, he’d seal me away somewhere, and then how would you go about setting me free?’
“I’m never setting you free,” said Daimon. “Not ever.”
The Darksoul smiled. “Oh really? Then why are you here?”
“To test my willpower. You’ve brought me—and others—too much pain for me to ever let you out. And as soon as Steve and I figure out how to safely break the bond between you and me? I’m going to destroy you myself.”
Daimon spun on his boot heel and strode down the narrow hall.
“You can’t walk away from me, Daimon!” the Darksoul called after him. “Not for long! You’ll be back! We were made for each other!”
The yelling was still audible in the sanctum’s foyer, though muffled. Only slightly louder was the movement Daimon thought he heard from upstairs.
In a prison cell on the planet Hala, Genis-Vell’s muscles tense. Cosmic Awareness is a wondrous, horrid thing. To know instantly when something... anything is wrong in the cosmos is both blessing and curse. What exactly is wrong now, Genis-Vell doesn’t know. But he knows that it is on Earth.
What was the phrase that had been inserted into his mind? Wearing the flesh...
Kkallakku wore the flesh awkwardly. Controlling four limbs total, that was a simple task. But having spent his entire existence up to that point floating everywhere, things like gravity and balance—not to mention the shift in senses—threatened to fell his borrowed body with each clumsy step he took.
He shambled to a black mirror hung on the wall by its ornate frame. Dr. Stephen Strange stared back at him, and he smiled. He couldn’t imagine how humans got along with teeth so small and few, nor how he’d ever find the tomes and their key in among all these shelves with just two arms.
Then Kkallakku again heard the distant wailing. The words came to him, and as he repeated them, the double-doors sealed.
In the limbo called Otherplace, Amanda Sefton squeezes the hilt of her Soulsword. That she wears the Eldritch Armor is not comfort enough.
Republic of the Congo, Africa
Shadow-hands held her hair back as she vomited in the toilet. They were like the prom dates she never had, Jill thought.
When she stood, the shadow-hands undressed her while another drew a bath. One of them offered her the open vodka bottle. She took a pull as she stepped over her clothes to the tub.
One foot, two feet—sinking gradually in. The bottle clanked against the tub’s side as Jill hung her arm over and tried to relax. She didn’t care that the tub was a filthy as the rest of the bathroom, which was only marginally worse than the motel room itself.
Another pull of vodka. Jill put the bottle on the floor and leaned further back into the water.
The way Jill figured, sometimes a person needed to roll around in the filth. Even sleep in it. How long could she stay down there? No one ever asked that, no matter how bad she wished someone would. But if they did, she would say she was going for the record. She’d been digging that dirt-bed for too long to stop now.
Blackest blood dripped clouds in the bathwater. The Darkforce blade followed the longest vein in Jill’s arm from the wrist down to the elbow. Tiny feelers like insect legs wriggled out of the wound and a thick black length tore through, a single eye between the splitting of flesh—
Water surrounded Jill when she woke up. She shot up in the tub, gripping the sides as she gasped giant mouthfuls of air. She held up her arm—unopened veins under pale flesh. Shadow-hands followed Jill out of the tub that swathed her in a towel, pulled out the tub’s stopper, grabbed the vodka, and flicked the light switch as she left the bathroom.
The Dweller-in-Darkness’ bulbous blue-black head rose from the draining water, tentacles squirming beneath.
And in a barren galaxy, the Power Cosmic bristles inside Norinn Radd, and a woman’s face—beauty twisted with pain—flashes against the canvas of space, her cry primal in its desperation. The green of her robe. The blue of her eyes...
Unknown to the Silver Surfer, the direction of his drift leans toward distant Earth.
NEXT ISSUE: The players start to gather as the call goes out! Danger and darkness loom just shy of the horizon as a gathering storm threatens to lay waste to the universe. Standing in its way—a meager band of Defenders! Be back in 30 days for DEFENDERS #2, as we journey “Into the Void!”
