Chapter 87: Cure Hunting

"Doctor Strange…. As in the one who you and the Fantastic Four tried to get me to go speak with to relearn my magic?"

Ilyana nodded as she silently walked over to him, stopping at the kitchen counter where she calmly tapped the surface.

Brontë bit the cap off a beer and slid it to her. "This isn't you trying to sneak me into an intervention, right? Because that would be foul….. like foul as hell."

Ilyana shook her head and gulped down the beer. She hadn't had much of a break either.

None of them had.

Ever since they caught their last Vampire it felt like the world had been going in three times speed.

Listening to her drink slowed it all to a near stillness. Watching her lick the bubbles off her black glossed lips froze everything over completely.

"What is wrong?" Ilyana asked genuinely.

"Nothing. Were you saying something?"

"You are tired. You should rest, we can pick this up tommorow—"

"What? Do you know who I am?"

"Mutant Demi-God, Wakandan Royalty, popular musical artist, superhero and older brother. None of these things are invincible." Her accent thickened as she spoke.

Brontë choked on his beer, "Close enough, though. You're talking about a possible cure. We go tonight. I'm sure William would want his mom back as soon as possible….. we can apply that to people all across the U.S. We have a responsibility."

"We do. I'm glad you think so."

Brontë smirked, "So you didn't mean what you said?"

"No. I was testing you, come." Ilyana headed for the door.

"Are you joking right now?" Bronte asked as he left his beer on the counter and grabbed his leather jacket and blue hoodie.

"Maybe. Am I funny?" Ilyana said as Bronte held open the door for her.

"You'll get there, Magik." Behind the door, one of Ilyana's portals awaited them as if it was simply an aspect of the whole apartment complex. Thankfully there were no cameras.

The two said goodbye to the dogs and headed out of his apartment.

Suddenly they were in Central Park. Snow fell like rain in slow motion— reminding him again of how fast life had been going in a game of contrasts. Their breaths hung on the wind like lumbering ghosts in a dead wasteland.

"So quiet…" Ilyana commented.

"It's been like that all afternoon." Bronte said as they walked through the quiet and destitute wintery forest.

"How does that make you feel?" Ilyana asked.

Brontë thought it over for a moment before shaking his dreaded head, "Man, you always ask me questions. How does it make you feel?"

Ilyana gave a quiet laugh before going serious as usual, "Well…. It makes me something like sad and angry. These people— they don't ask for this. They get caught in it, you know? Our fight. Our battles. And the longer it goes the more people get caught. The longer it stays quiet."

...

Brontë shook off a shiver. He wondered if she ever wrote more than the dark sigils she used to hang in the walls of her old room at the Xavier Institute. "Word. So let's wrap this shit up and get the city loud again."

Ilyana rubbed her hands together for warmth as her slim brows pressed together in determination, "Word."

The discussion felt serious but Bronte exploded into laughter.

Ilyana smiled, "Am I funny now?"

For obvious reasons, that verbal answer would have to wait…

***

Central Park was a distant happy memory that melted like the snow on their cities empty streets as they entered true Manhattan.

Empty high rises lit up the dark with signs and advertisements full of fake smiles and absent noise. Abandoned cars with busted windows lined the streets. In the alleys blood and dropped items scattered like the rats.

Dystopian was an understatement.

In the breeze, long ropes of half dissolved webbing blew like hair strands.

At least someone was still out.

More people came into view as they padded through neighborhoods and commercial districts until they finally reached Greenwich Village.

"Can you feel it?" Ilyana questioned.

Brontë lifted his hand to his face, watching as the hairs stood on end.

Magic clung to the air like fog. So thick and complex you couldn't see twenty feet in front of you. At least in regards to more of the various magics, because Bronte could perfectly see where they needed to be. Just across the street.

The Sanctum Sanctorum as Ilyana called it. He scented the air, checking for alarming scents. Gunsmoke, leathers, blood, fear. Nothing.

It was way less… magical, than he thought it would be.

Sure it looked old, but like early settlers in America old. Not arcane. Nothing like Oshtur or his ancestors. It was all dull brick and and white sandstone guilded by black metals and a mossy green helm.

It was there that he found the attic window, twisted by shapely metals and perfect roundness. I figure stood behind the glass, watching.

"Let's go." Ilyana said before crossing the street. "Just…. One rule."

"Yea, what's up?"

"Don't touch anything." Ilyana said firmly, "Everything relies on the stillness of everything else. You start touching and activating things and we'll be in a new dimension halfway through the house tour."

"Who said I need a house tour?"

"Figure of speech." Ilyana replied as they climbed the stone steps and stopped in front of the door.

Before either of them could knock the door opened… by itself.

"Sometimes people with magic are so extra…." Bronte thought as he entered the building.

When the door closed behind them the silence only deepened.

"So the two of you have started a life together? HAHA!? I would like to name the offspring and teach them to walk through symbiosis….. where are WE?!"

Brontë looked down at his arm. Back like it never…. Got cleaved off. "Mend?! What the hell…. How?"

"After all of the Vampires were properly restrained I stayed behind and healed some people in nearby hospitals…. THEY REQUIRED MENDING…. ERHM…yes, then I entered a gaseous state and recollected myself entirely in your earths stratosphere before conjuring a wind current to carry me to you…. TADA!" Mend explained in a jumbled mess.

"You can do that…?"

"WE… can do this."

A man suddenly stepped down a long stairway in front of them.

The dimly lit chandeliers cast gold hues over his old face.

He was very plain looking. An older Asian man wearing dark robes and holding a staff.

"Doctor Strange?" Bronte said.

"Wong."

"What?"

"I am Wong. Ilyana you should tell your boyfriend about your coworkers before taking them to work with you." Wong stepped more completely into the light and his staff became a broom he used to dust off the steps. The dust in question sparkled like jewels and burned like embers as it scattered down the steps.

"He is not my boyfriend— and I did tell him about this place. Just not about you." Ilyana replied.

"I'm deeply hurt by this— but you enjoy that don't you, Demon Queen?"

"Very much, Janitor King."

Despite the humor of the discussion, listening to them talk was like watching to colorless steel walls gain mouthes.

"So who is your… friend?" Wong asked.

"Bronte." Bronte replied for himself. Ilyana nodded beside him.

Wong was now no more than a few steps from them, still tending to the house interior. "No no… your real name. You know, the name that the world recognizes. Don't say you don't have one, young man. Biceps don't grow that large for no reas…."

He trailed off and looked at Bronte. "I saw you on the news…. You didn't have an arm."

"Been a long day."

"Even longer in many nearby dimensions." Wong whispered and adjusted a vase standing against a wall. Something roared inside it, causing Wong to jump slightly.

"What..? Listen, Mr. Wong, it's been nice chopping it up with you but peoples lives are at risk. I don't mean to walk into your place and make demands but we need help finding a cure for Vampirism. Like now."

"You know what happened out there." Ilyana added.

Wong faced them, leaning on his broom. "I do….. but such a task is no simple feat. Vampirism is a dark magic as old as…. Well… we actually don't know for sure. Hell, it could've inspired art for the Angels and Demons. It could've started with Dracula… or the men that walked in caves. There's… many variables. Like pieces to a puzzle. I hate puzzles."

"But puzzles can be done." Ilyana replied.

"They can…. I think….. unless puzzles are the wrong metaphor altogether—"

"Aye man! God damn, I didn't graduate high-school can we please not talk like it's honors English class and we're writing dialogue through riddles." Bronte craved another beer.

"A cure may be possible… but it also may not be." Wong explained plainly.

"Well, is there anything we can do to help?" Bronte questioned.

"You don't want me to say no, do you?" Wong sighed before turning and heading back up the stairs, "Come with me. I hope you all like reading."

"Dammit!"