VAMPIRELLA / NAMOR:
2084
1. NEOROME
At the center of the city, every roof in Neorome supported a cross. They were tall, reaching skyward. But their light pointed to the streets below them like searchlights. None was brighter than the cross atop the Vatican III. It shone like an accusing sun, especially at night.
Cardinal Golding stepped into this light. Even as a son of god, the light stung his eyes. He raised one hand to shield his eyes. The other held the hand of a golden-haired boy of six. The light stung his eyes too, as he was dragged along, bewildered but complying.
The cardinal pressed his hand to the scanner at the front entrance. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the sentry priest approach. His hand rested anxious on the butt of his rifle. The cardinal smiled and nodded at the priest pleasantly as the unlocking device announced his identity. The door clicked open. The priest nodded back. He looked down at the boy as both the cardinal and the boy disappeared inside. The priest smiled more broadly now.
The cardinal shepherded the boy into his room. It was a chamber feverishly covered from ceiling to floor: on the walls were portraits of the savior and of the saints; there were frescoed scenes from scripture; and there were relics of ever size on shelves and atop the carved dressers and wardrobes and armoires. The cardinal posed the boy on the fourpost bed, folding back the silk canopy to gain a better view of him. He stepped back. He raised his hand to his mouth in stunned admiration, the other hand fiddling with his robes. The boy simply sat, unmoved in his innocence.
The fiddling hand lifted the red folds above veiny knees and above fatfilled thighs. Visibly excited, the cardinal advanced toward the boy. The boy frowned. His did not blink. He shied his face away. But the cardinal was hardpressed that they meet. Then the boy's eyes narrowed, darkened. His hair fell over his forehead. His eyebrows arched. His downturned mouth opened wide, revealing teeth milky against the dark throat. The cardinal did not recognize the boy now. He tried to pull away. He found he could not stop himself.
He felt the warmth he expected. He felt the wet, too—but the wet poured. It dripped audible onto the floor and hotly on his legs. In his efforts to free himself, he did not at first feel the pain. It came. He inhaled to scream. A little hand reached up to stifle the sound. But the hand that gripped the mouth was feminine with longnailed fingers. The nails bit into his cheeks. There was more flowing. A darkhaired figure rose from the bed, stepping quickly behind the trembling cardinal. Twisting his head to the side, exposing his neck, Vampirella smiled. The split in her bangs was the bat's head, her eyesbrows its wings—but all else about her face was captivating, ageless beauty. Her fangs showed briefly, before they sunk out of sight into the cardinal's flesh. Streaks of flowing red, like his flowing robes, ran over the already drying red on her chin.
The cardinal flailed flaccid arms. They dropped impotently—an aborted attack. He sank to the floor.
When the neck was pale and stiff, Vampirella finally unwound her booted legs from the cardinal's hips. Her hands on his face and on his chest let go. The corpse fell over heavily. Vampirella sighed. She leaned back, her head going back as far as it could to make sure that every drop of food found its way down her throat.
The meal made her drowsy. She dozed. Time was incompressible to her. When the loud thud sounded in the corridor without the room, she could not say how much time had passed. She lifted her lugubrious head, narrowing her eyes. She remembered where she was, sobered by the sound. She remembered what she had come there to do. Silently, she crept to the door. There she waited with bated breath and listened. Hearing nothing more, she stood, creaking the door open. Through this she spied the corridor, still and silent. All seemed as it was, except for the downed priest, sprawled on the tiles without his weapon. She opened the door wider, gingerly taking a step forward.
The door slammed fully open. She leapt back several feet. She landed with her stocky heels firmly planted, her knees bent, her nails at the ready.
Standing framed in the doorway was Namor, the Submariner. He was attired like a priest. His black eyes looked fiercely at her, yet he did not move. Even with the priest's rife in his hands, he did not threaten or attack. His face was stony. His nose was like the prow of a battleship. His cheeks were taut, to the point of being skeletal. Without taking his gaze away, he broke the rifle into pieces, casting them aside. He ripped himself out of the uniform. He cast this aside too
Neither spoke. Neither felt the need to. They each read ally in the other's looks. They read coconspirator in each other's muscles. And each felt attraction to a likeness: pointed teeth for pointed ears; the same fareast eyes; the same hyperhuman forms unrobed; the sense of water at their beings' core, hydrogen for hemoglobin.
They shared their names. Then, more trustingly, they shared their missions. Then, in a friendlier fashion, they shared their motives. Then, more intimately, they shared their stories.