by Marv Wolfman
The door opened. Frankie peered through the narrow opening and smiled at Johnny. She undid the chain and opened the door fully. “I thought I heard the bell ringing. Johnny Storm, am I ever glad it’s you.”
“Huh? I thought you never wanted to see me again.”
Frankie Raye nodded. “You’re right, I thought so, too. But I’ve gone mad these past few days. I’ve called you every hour. I went to the Baxter Building but I couldn’t get inside. Johnny, oh, Johnny, I’m just so happy you came back. You didn’t know what I was thinking, how I was punishing myself for everything.
“You have to understand something about me, Johnny. I get very afraid sometimes. I’ve been alone for too many years, and when you walked into my life I thought I’d never have to be alone again. But then, well, when I learned who you were, what you were, I knew that someday you might go out and never return, and I’d be alone, and I just wasn’t able to cope with that.
“It wasn’t your problem, Johnny. It’s mine. And I don’t know if I can change, but, oh, God, Johnny, I want to try. I don’t want to lose you, and I don’t want to change you into something I don’t want. If you’re willing, if you’ll have me after everything I’ve said, will you come back?”
Johnny paused and said nothing. He just stared into her beautiful eyes for a long while. Then finally he grinned.
“How about a burger and some fries, kid? It’s not fancy, but it’s me all the way.”
“That sounds good to me, Johnny Storm. Sounds just great to me.”
Twenty-Seven
Boris sat in the darkness of the castle for a very long time, rocking in the old chair his master had given him many years before. Muffled through the windows he could hear the singing in the streets, the shouting of happy people. It had been so long since he had heard his people laugh.
He thought of his master and remembered him when he was young. He was always such a bright child, yet even then his destiny could be read in his dark, brooding eyes. His end would come by his own hand. That had been the prophecy, he remembered. His great pride would ever be his downfall.
Boris forced himself to stand. Then he rested a moment on his staff before moving on. He heard the rocking chair slowly creak to a halt, and he thought he heard his name being called, but when he turned he knew the sound he had heard was only the howling wind.
At the doorway he paused to catch his breath. He smiled, remembering his master standing young and proud in his Latverian lab months before fate first brought him to America. His mother’s diary was open on a table before him, his bright brown hair rolling in the gentle breeze.
“Nothing shall ever stop Victor Von Doom,” he stated then. “With my diary and my resolve, all secrets will be revealed. Not even death itself will be a mystery to me. Indeed, faithful Boris, I swear to you now, the dark region of the shadows will never claim my soul. When the time comes, when the other world seeks me out, then I shall face my greatest challenge. Then I shall prove that Dr. Doom has even conquered Death itself.”
Boris turned from the room and hobbled down the long stone corridor tapping his cane before him. The wind rushed through the winding hall and Boris slowly walked to the window and drew the shutters closed. He paused and wondered what he would do now, where he would go, how he would live. This castle had been his home for so many years, it would feel strange not to live here still.
All his friends had died many years before; now he was alone, old and crippled.
He left the chamber and entered his small room. From the closet he withdrew a bag. It was small and torn, but there wasn’t much he wanted to take with him. He stuffed one shirt in the bag, folded in a pair of pants, and zippered the bag shut.
Wistfully, he smiled as he left the room, walking down the long corridors to the main entrance. Upon the walls were paintings of Doom: standing proud, hands on his hips, riding horses, greeting his subjects.
So tragic, so very tragic.
He paused again in the main chamber and stared at Doom’s empty throne. There will never be another like him again, he thought. Such strength, and such arrogance. Such brilliance, and so little compassion.
Doom could have been a great man, but now he would go down in history as a villain, one of the infamous in the same league as Khan, or Hitler.
Boris heard the wind howl his name again, but the shutters were closed tight, and no curtain rippled. He thought he could see Doom sitting in his chair, his heavy iron hands outstretched, beseeching him to come closer.
Boris shook his head. I am an old man, too old. Much too old. I should find a place to stay tonight, then lie down.
Then he heard his name called again, softly, like a shadow’s whisper.
And this time he knew he had not heard the wind.
Table of Contents
Back Cover
Preview
Titlepage
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
