A/N: I don't have much to say. I've been sick all weekend, plus I'm trying to finish my college applications and AP Chemistry homework as well. I did my best with this chapter. There is some lime (or orange or tangerine or whatever you'd call "creative kissing") but nothing too dirty.

Chapter 7
The Virus

After a most lengthy flight through the digital world's ominously dark sky, Angemon and Wizardmon sensed the presence of evil creeping into them as they neared the source of their greatest afflictions: Nightmare Castle. On the summit of the darkest, most immense mountain in the range that split Server in half, the castle had been a grey stone citadel and fortress, so dark it was almost black, shadowed by the omnipresent nimbus cloud as black as the vampire's former mantle. When the angel and the wizard arrived, the visual state had changed dramatically; Nightmare Castle had been reduced to the heart of the digital world's darkness to a crumbling ruin atop a towering mountain.

Angemon shuddered, for as he breathed, he was struck by the lingering stench of Evil that seeped through the cracks and cobwebs in the windows. He turned to Wizardmon, and the wizard gave him an empathetic (and somewhat fearful) glance, as if he could sense the odor himself.

They landed on the stone doorstep before the heavy wooden doors that signified the transition from Neutral to Evil, the gateway to Digimon Hell. The brass door-knockers on both sides of the portal were frightening in themselves; beasts that appeared to have been poached from the Inferno themselves and transformed into door-knockers for the purpose of a greater evil. Their mouths widely opened, their eyes squinted shut, painful expressions adorning their faces, bat-shaped wings erect, and no crease or tuft of fur had been overlooked in their craft.

Wizardmon felt a shiver travel down his spine as he glanced into their eyes. "I don't know whether to fear them or sympathize with them," he thought aloud.

"It shouldn't concern you," Angemon reminded his companion. "We're here to find the antidote for Angewomon." He gathered his strength and pushed the door open with a creak that sounded like a howling banshee. They hurried into the castle, letting the door to slam behind them.

"Luminé,"commanded Wizardmon, and the sun ornament atop his staff glowed like a lantern, shining light through the abandoned front hall. The air was thick with dust and the musty odor of ancient linen. Silken cobwebs filled the corners and adorned the brass chandelier on the ceiling like a gown. Tarnished knight armor, swords, shields, and empty torches lined the walls, and a tattered carpet lay on the stone floor. A stone staircase curved from across the room to into the darkness above, flanked by several passageways.

"All the other Digimon must have escaped," murmured Angemon.

"Or died trying…" whispered the young sorcerer. "Come," he added, a little too brusquely, "let's go to the study. We might find it there."

Their steps echoed as they journeyed up the stone staircase. Wizardmon knew the entire castle by heart; it had its own eerie feel to it… it was as if Myotismon himself had never truly become an angel and still resided there, waiting to seize Wizardmon again. No bat screeches or wails of Bakemon or tormented prisoners could be heard, except in the wizard's memory. The only sound that accompanied them was the faint dripping of water from the ceiling.

Staircase after staircase they climbed, ascending one long line of steps, moving over the landing and zigzagging through a long hallway until they found a set of double doors similar to those at the entrance. These were magohany and had silver bats for knobs. In the center of each bat's head, carved and filled with perfectly-cut ruby, was the letter M.

"I still feel the fear of approaching these doors," reminisced Wizardmon, wincing as if he had been whipped. "It was a gamble, indeed—whenever Myotismon was inside, we never knew if he wanted visitors or not… when he did, he told us to come in; when he didn't, which was often…" He shivered, remembering each lashing down his back with the Crimson Lightning.

"He is not here anymore, Wizardmon," the angel reassured the wizard, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But his presence still remains…"

They opened the door and stepped inside the study. To Angemon, the stench of Evil hit him full-force, but he knew that he had to endure it for the sake of Good. It was exactly as the wizard had remembered it, only time had taken a toll on it. Clouds of dust floated around, and webs clung to everything. The leather chairs near the fireplace and the wooden one upholstered in velvet lay abandoned, as well as the ebony desk decked with an open book, a quill pen and ink, and a candelabra. The fireplace, once ablaze with golden light, had become a home to nothing but half-burned logs and soot. The crimson rug embroidered with gold still lay on the floor, and Wizardmon shuddered as he saw several outlines of bloodstains where the carpet did not cover the stone. Two sides of the room—the ones that did not have the doors or the fireplace—flanked it with bookcases that reached up to the ceiling, enclosing yellowed pages of wisdom bound in paceboard and leather.

Angemon contemplated the thousands of books. "This is hopeless; he could have found the virus in any of these!" He strode over to the shelf on his left and began to read the titles. "Hamlet, Macbeth, The Art of War, Phantom of the Opera, The Scarlet Letter, A Tale of Two Cities, Beowulf, an entire series of Edgar Allan Poe… an advanced chess manual!"

"I doubt he'd write on the literature," Wizardmon pointed out. "He was quite the intellectual and took pride in owning classic works. Those were his entertainment; I believe it's the records of the digital world that we're looking for."

Angemon stared at the vast selection before him. "How…"

"The records are on the other side of the room, Angemon. He's written on those, and somewhere in that haystack we will find that coveted needle." The wizard levitated several books off the shelf and dropped them onto the desk. "We must start looking now. You can take those, and I'll glance through these."

The angel was already impatient. "Can't we at least use a spell—"

"I've tried that before; the ink he uses is enchanted. He was quite the alchemist as well, and he knew that others would want to gain an edge over them. He was always one step ahead."

Angemon uttered a scornful cough, then sat at the desk and took a heavy volume written in Ancient Digicode, then heaved a sigh. Although all Angel Digimon had taken lessons until they were fluent in the code, Angemon still loathed translating it. Fortunately for him, when he turned a page and laid his eyes on the text and many diagrams, he saw Myotismon's untidy handwriting scattered across the margins and even between the paragraphs and on the diagrams. Although it was difficult deciphering the vampire's atrocious penmanship, he still thought it was better than translating page upon page of Ancient Digicode. Occasionally he saw what he believed to be the key, but realized it was something different and resumed this tedious task.

Wizardmon sat against the shelf, the staff leaning against it beside him. He, too, felt as if this was one of the worst jobs ever, but remembering Angewomon, he knew he had to take it all in like bad medicine.

Hours passed, and the wizard felt as if he were traveling an arduous road where every turn led to a dead end. The text began to spin before his eyes… so many words and symbols! His head began to float into the darkness above him as his eyes softly closed. Suddenly, the exhausted wizard flopped onto the book, ripping the parchment as he fell into a deep slumber.

He fell into a memory that had burrowed into a corner of his mind and failed to emerge until that moment. The wizard trudged back to his dungeon cell with a flock of other Digimon; they had been training in the Digi-Gauntlet all day under the watchful eye of SkullMeramon. The last place Wizardmon desired to be at the moment was anywhere that required any sort of movement, for all his joints and muscles throbbed with pain every time he moved a finger. Before they reached the doors that led to their only sanctuary, Phantomon floated up to SkullMeramon and whispered something in his ear. (Wizardmon secretly hoped that the phantom's robes would be singed, but they were not.)

The fire demon grunted, then growled in his limited vocabulary, "You guys, go to your rooms. Wizardmon, go with Phantomon. Master needs you."

Phantomon nodded underneath his grey cloak, and Wizardmon could feel his insides protesting. He wanted to rest so badly, or possibly collapse and die to end everything. He refused to open his mouth about the pain; Phantomon or SkullMeramon would drag him along on a chain, so he decided to make use of his staff.

Silently, and turning his staff into a makeshift crutch, he followed the spectre until they reached the study doors. Phantomon knocked on them using the blunt end of his scythe.

"Come in," said the mature, authoritative voice from the other side, and the doors opened on their own.

Phantomon glared at Wizardmon, as if to say "don't follow me," and floated inside. "Master Myotismon, I have told SkullMeramon about Wizardmon."

"Is the wizard with you?" demanded the vampire.

"Yes, Lord Myotismon, and he is beyond willing to serve you." (Wizardmon had half a mind to shout "Liar!" but thought twice and remained silent.)

"Send him in, Phantomon."

Phantomon peeked from around the door and slowly moved his hand back and forth, beckoning the wizard to enter. Not wishing to sink into any more hot water than he might have been, he limped in, attempting not to show any signs of pain. He saw the vampire seated at his desk, holding his quill pen in one hand and a crystal chalice of red wine in the other. He set both on the desk and turned around in his chair until he faced the trembling wizard.

"Wizardmon, do you know why I summoned you?" questioned Myotismon, his voice sounding too gentle.

Punishment, thought Wizardmon. Torment, tongue-lashing, Crimson Lightning, Grisly Wing, the Gauntlet, swords, being fed to DarkTyrannomon, thrown in the fire, disembowelment, starvation, death… of Gatomon. Hundreds of conventional and morbidly creative tortures inflicted on himself and other Digimon flashed through his head at lightning speed. He gulped. "No… I don't."

Myotismon licked his amethyst lips until they glistened, relishing the wizard's fear. He could smell and taste it all. "I have found you to be a most commendable servant this month, Wizardmon," he explained, standing up to his full seven feet in height. "Which is why I am in need of your assistance for a most… special assignment." He bared his fangs in a sinister grin and chuckled to himself. Wizardmon felt himself cowering in fear, forgetting his aching muscles. Nothing was worse than when Myotismon showed no signs of anger; he was completely unpredictable. "Follow me," he said, and with a swish of his dark cape he headed out the doors to the study.

Wizardmon knew that he had to or suffer the consequences, so despite his pain he tried to keep up the best he could, keeping himself from wincing whenever the vampire glanced backwards, which was quite often.

Finally, they reached the dreaded tower in which the foul stench of potions floated downward and ambushed those who ventured near it. The wizard had heard of Digimon coming to horrible ends in that laboratory—poisoned or infected to death, or growing misshapen and deformed. Wizardmon could not decide whether he wanted to die or live the rest of his life as an amoeba or colloid mess.

The doors opened to reveal the interior of this crude, outdated laboratory. Half of the shelves were lined with jars and vials filled with brilliantly-hued but possibly deadly potions; the other half contained various ingredients, such as other potions, liquids, herbs, objects, and even body parts. The wizard felt as if he were going to vomit when he saw a gigantic jar stuffed with severed Gesomon tentacles which still violently squirmed. A gigantic black cauldron bubbled in the center as a filmy white steam curled into the air above it, suspended over a blazing pit of fire, and a wooden table with apothecary scales and various knives (as well as bloodstains) stood next to it like a guardian. The room had a dank, dusty atmosphere and was lit by the the torches on the walls. There were skylights on the ceiling as well, but since it was a new moon, no light shone through them. Wizardmon also noticed that several potion ingredients lay on the table, and he wondered what would become of him.

"I suppose you are wondering why I have summoned you to my laboratory," said the vampire, approaching a shelf and lifting a jar off. Inside it was a single eye that would not take its gaze off of Wizardmon, who gulped nervously. Myotismon placed it on the table alongside two other ambiguous items. "As a creature of the night who assumes human form, I am not gifted with the deep knowledge that has been bestowed upon you. What I have read in books has merely scratched the surface of your natural talent for Dark magic." He then strode to the cauldron and gazed musingly into it. "Wizardmon, your power is immense, and I am only capable of so much as a vampire. I have been blessed with immortality… but I need more." He took a tiny crystal vial filled with a violet liquid off one of the shelves, and his fangs elongated. He handed it to Wizardmon, who eyed it suspiciously. "Drink," he commanded, his hand glowing. "I have been saving this for you, so do not disappoint me."

Wizardmon was beyond suspicious at that point. He knew that he would die… but there was a slight chance that he would not. He closed his eyes and concentrated, but no hexes or poisons seemed to be present. But there was a possibility that the vial was enchanted…

"Wizardmon, I promise that you will not die or be reconfigured if you drink this, nor will this alter your physical state," said Myotismon. "Now drink, damn you," he hissed.

The wizard uncorked the tube, and a hissing sound erupted. He drank it all down, figuring that if he were to die, it would be his escape. It tasted sour and burned him as it went down. The burning entered his bloodstream and seemed to eat away at him from the inside… but nothing happened to him. No dissolving… nothing!

Two blades entered the nape of his neck, and he felt Myotismon sucking his life away, gorging on his blood as if it had been his first meal in weeks. But… he did not feel lightheaded or weak as he usually had when the vampire did this to him… he felt conscious and alive, but… something was missing, but he could not figure out what.

Myotismon pulled his fangs out of the wizard's neck, and Wizardmon demanded, "What the devil did you do to me?"

The vampire chuckled. "Attack me if you wish, but you will find that it is quite impossible. For you see, the potion has allowed me to drain you of your power and keep it for one glorious night… ah, I can feel it surging through my veins, and a new knowledge imbuing itself in me… it is ecstasy to me!"

Wizardmon gasped. He knew Myotismon was correct; no matter how much he wanted to attack or place a hex on his master, he could not even remember the simplest incantation.

"And now…" With a flick of his wrist, the door slammed shut and locked itself, and the wizard was rendered petrified. "…watch what I am capable of doing with your power." He strode over to the cauldron, allowing the objects on the table to hover in the air. The potion boiled to the point where the smoke billowed through the skylights. Wizardmon watched in horror. "I have spent an entire month creating what will soon be the deadliest and only incurable virus in the history of the digital world, but to give it its deadliness and incurability, it now needs the power of a wizard, as well as my own personal touch! MWAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The jars around the remaining ingredients vanished, revealing the eye, a white feather, and a glass orb filled with a blue flame. The vampire's clothing magically transformed from his cerulean suit and black cape into robes as black as night and crimson as blood—the attire of the Dark wizards. Hanging from a leather belt slung around his thin waist was a dagger in a black scabbard.

The eye descended into Myotismon's hand, and he held it over the center of the potion. "Eye of Daemon, track down your victims and watch as you smite them with your deadly stare!" He placed it in the center of the liquid, where it floated for a brief second, then sank downward with a nasty hiss. The potion turned bright red and emitted smoke of the same color with fire in the center. Next came the feather. "Feather of the fallen Angemon, assist in the travel, spreading your black magic!" When the feather hit the surface, it turned into a blue ink that bled through the liquid and turned it purple. Blue curliques rose in the midst of the crimson smoke. Finally, the orb fell into the vampire's hand, and he fingered it longily before placing it in the exact center. He held his hands over it. "Fire of the Inferno, power the virus with the flames of Hell!" The orb vanished, and the blue flames spread over the surface, towering so high they licked the ceiling. Screams of the tormented rose from the blaze, and then they died down to become but a flickering light dancing on the surface.

Myotismon was far from finished. He unsheathed the dagger, then held his left hand over the cauldron. Wizardmon knew what he was about to do. Myotismon held the blade but an inch from the exact center of the palm, then recited the spell, but sang. His singing voice was surprisingly beautiful. "Blood of the Virus, send the power of your soul… create a viral Angel of Death, the work of your very hands… my Evil rests within you!" He drove the blade directly into his hand, and his crimson blood spurted out of the wound and flowed down his hand into the cauldron. Although the vampire winced, he continued, the dagger still lodged in his hand. "Debau, DOMÉ!" The fabled words—"Evil, prevail!" He thrusted the blade even deeper, then quickly wrenched it out, holding his hand over the cauldron. Wizardmon watched his master stumble and grab onto the side of the table, spilling his own blood onto it, losing consciousness as the potion transformed again—a sinister black, with an enormous spout of black smoke filling the room and stinging the inside of the wizard's nose. He wanted to cough so badly… he wanted to die… he felt as if he were trapped in the thunderhead above the castle, feeling so hopeless and alone…

When he finally recovered, the cauldron was completely empty, and no smoke erupted from it. The wizard felt as if he had regained his powers, and the vampire lay unconscious on the floor, in his normal militant attire.

He had created the virus.

"It's INCURABLE!" Wizardmon's eyes sprang open as the words escaped his mouth. "Angemon, the virus has no cure!"

Angemon glared at Wizardmon. "It does too have a cure, you dolt! We just haven't found it yet! We're not looking hard enough!"

Wizardmon grabbed his staff and walked up to where Angemon sat. "I remember everything… I had a dream where it all came back to me. Myotismon created the virus to be completely incurable from Daemon's eye, fallen Angemon's feathers, and… Hell's flame…? And then he used his own blood…"

"You're out of your mind, Wizardmon," said Angemon. "No virus is incurable, regardless of what ingredients are used!"

The two walked towards the nearest bookcase, and Angemon held A Full History of Digital Alchemy out where the wizard could see. "I found this passage," he continued, pointing to a page in the foreword. "It says that for every virus, there is an antidote."

"Yes," said Wizardmon, reading the text underneath and pointing to it. "But it also says that if the creator is a Virus and he adds his own blood to it… there is no cure, unless the creator chooses to do so himself."

"Well that is just great," said Angemon sarcastically. "Fantastic. Wonderful. We come all this way here and read our way through incomprehensible scrawlings just to discover that Myotismon made his virus incurable? DAMN HIM! He might not even return alive, and Angewomon will be dead thanks to him. DAMN YOU TO HELL, MYOTISMON!" He attacked the bookcase with his Hand of Fate, and he and Wizardmon barely escaped as it crashed onto the floor, destroying hundreds of valuable records. Suddenly, he gasped when he saw what was painted on the wall behind the shelves. "Dear Goddramon," he breathed, backing away in awe. "A prophecy!"

Surely enough, a full prophecy was displayed on the stone—a history of AngeMyotismon and Myotismon Celestial Mode, it seemed, which the vampire had never known about. A crude figure of Wizardmon pointed his rod at the caped, faceless figure, and then it showed a version of him adorned in white with the six bat wings. Above him was a half-sun, half-moon with the Crest of Light inside it. Angemon gazed at a symbolic retelling of Myotismon's story until he reached the crucial point where the vampire had been sent into the Dark Ocean.

He arrived at a picture to which he did not know the meaning very well. There was what looked like a completely open Gate of Destiny—the ring and the markings matched it exactly. Inside it was Myotismon in the midst of flames holding hands with a very pregnant Angewomon in the clouds. Above it was the moon, and below it was the sun. Between the vampire and the angel, above their heads, was a brilliant Crest of Light that seemed to shine down on both of them.

Angemon read the markings on the Gate more closely, and discovered that they were not the same as what was written on his Gate. The Light and the Darkness shall overcome the ravaging Evil within them, and from the Angel's loins the Last Scion will break free, restoring the balance that has once ceased to exist… "Who's the Last Scion?" he wondered aloud.

Wizardmon, who had been reading the Gate as well, gasped. "Do you know what this means, Angemon?" he asked. "They'll both be alive and well!"

Myotismon, indeed, was still alive, but far from well as Daemon led him down the halls, shackles fastened around his neck as if he were a dog on a leash. Daemon pulled the chain that was attached to it, and the vampire walked more quickly down the dark hallways. These were eerie like the interior of Nightmare Castle, but in a different manner. The walls were completely black, but hundreds of prophecies were painted on them with phosphorescent ink, bathing whoever walked down the halls in red or green light. Every one of them depicted Marinedevimon or one of the Demon Corps conquering the Dark Ocean and tormenting tribes of condemned Digimon. There was not one picture of him among them, and the vampire breathed a silent sigh of relief. He would never have wanted to be immortalized on a wall in this pathetic state…

The tunnels grew narrower and narrower, and the markings grew sparse. They reached a set of double doors made out of black stained glass with silver handles, which the vampire could barely see through. The dragon and the demon unchained Myotismon, and Toxidramon grabbed his skinny arm before he had the chance to bolt or attack.

Both demons opened the doors wide to reveal a room made of the same black glass—except for the ceiling, which was possibly obsidian, supported by silver framework. The ceiling was covered with white symbols—not of prophecy, but representations of everything related to copulation and procreation for humanoids and beasts alike. Across the room, on a round bed with blue silken sheets and pillows and draped with a blue veil, was LadyDevimon. Instead of her revealing leather outfit, she wore what appeared to be black human lingerie and was missing her mask. Several stitched scars spanned her face.

The doors slammed shut behind the two, leaving them alone.

"I was hoping you would arrive soon, Myotismon," purred LadyDevimon. "You look like you could use some indulgence of the senses… forget about Angewomon and make love to me even better than before!" She eyed his scanty white suit. "And it looks as if you've already arrived prepared for tonight…"

The vampire said nothing as he reluctantly approached the bed and placed his hands on his upper belt, prepared to undo it.

"Keep your trousers on!" commanded the demoness in an unnervingly sharp tone of voice, and Myotismon gave a sigh of relief. Suddenly he realized what kind of love-making this meant, and he wished that he could have been granted the other choice. "I have already been acquainted with your monhood and don't wish for any more… because I've heard of what you did to Angewomon." She pushed her white hair over her shoulder, exposing her throbbing neck. "Please, give me the vampire's kiss… make love to me like a vampire would, and not a human!" She pulled the vampire onto the bed and lay on him so his body was pressed against hers, then she began to run her tongue down his pointed ear. He felt a tingling and somewhat disoriented when she wound her way down his neck and started to playfully nibble at him. She giggled as he moaned without realizing it.

Angewomon, I apologize… I… I… He lost all thought as LadyDevimon pressed her lips against his and forced her tongue into his mouth, then stopping for air and feeling her way into his mouth again. He started to feel lust overpowering him and gave into the feeling, closing his eyes and running his fingers through her hair and up and down her back. Her neck looked so beautiful then… filled with her forbidden blood…

The passionate kisses lasted for a long time, and both grew weary. The demoness proceeded downward, where his skin was exposed but not venturing into any forbidden places. She explored his chest with her kisses, striving to avoid his sensitive scar as he descended into an old relapse of the wrong kind of pleasure.

"Are you prepared to bite my neck yet, or would you like some more?" she wondered.

Myotismon unyieldingly surrendered, staring at the images swirling above him on the ceiling. That was when he saw the drawing—in one part of the ceiling, a human male and female were depicted in the act of coitus, and next to it was a woman who was swollen with child, appearing to be full of grief as if she were watching her husband committing adultery.

"I grow weary," said LadyDevimon, laying her head on his chest, listening to his heart beating quickly as she lazily ran her finger down his stomach. "Won't you kiss me? You know you want to… I want you to, my archangel of darkness…" She ran her fingers up and down him, feeling his muscles. "You're so tense, but why? I'm with you, and I know what you enjoy…" She proceeded downward with her kisses, and he winced as she reached around his navel, where he could still feel the burn from Toxidramon's poisonous whip. The scene above him bore into the vampire's mind, and he could see it when he closed his eyes.

"What's the matter? Am I hurting you?" wondered the demoness. "How could I be? You love this and want to sink your fangs into my neck… or else you want me to go—"

"NEVER!" shouted Myotismon, forcing LadyDevimon off of him. "I will never give into the so-called pleasure you gave me, and I will never be unfaithful to Angewomon!" He leapt off the bed and brandished his Crimson Lightning, relieved that the effects of the potion had worn off. "Tell me where the portal to Earth is or taste my Crimson Lightning!"

"It's in the castle," said LadyDevimon, grinning. "But you will never find it. Once Lord Daemon discovers that you never gave me the vampire's kiss, he will have your head… if not your life!"

Myotismon turned his back on the demoness and left the room in search of the portal. He had barely traveled for ten minutes when a voice rang out in the hallways, familiar to him but different from Daemon's or Toxidramon's.

"Stay where you are, Myotismon Celestial Mode!" shouted the being, whose demonic silhouette glowed farther down the hallways. "I have unfinished business to take care of."

It was at that point the vampire realized who it was. "InfernoDevimon!" he shouted, prepared to attack.

To be continued…