Michael's fingers loosened around the stem of the glass as the truth settled in his mind like a stone dropped into pitch. The room felt suddenly warmer, though no change had occurred. Only his blood, his senses, his instincts.
Behind the rim of her glass, Semira watched him with undisguised interest. Her lips formed the hint of a knowing smile.
"You realized it at last," she murmured, studying his reaction. "The scent gives it away. New ones are always overwhelmed at first."
Kraven leaned forward slightly, elbow resting on the table, his gaze sharp in a way that made it clear he was assessing something beneath Michael's skin. "Not just overwhelmed. Conflicted. As though you cannot decide whether to drink it or throw it across the room."
He tilted his head. "Tell me, Doctor, which instinct wins?"
Michael forced himself to breathe slowly. "I am not... whatever you think I am."
Kraven chuckled softly. "You are exactly what we think you are."
Dmitri gently lifted a hand, signaling for calm. "Let him breathe, Kraven. He deserves the courtesy of comprehension before interrogation."
Carlisle placed his glass down with deliberate care. His voice held the calm of a man accustomed to storms. "Michael, what you are feeling is natural. Your senses are shifting faster than your mind can process. The drink before you is meant to aid that process, not frighten you."
Michael looked around the table. None of them showed surprise at his reaction. None seemed confused, all behaved as though they had expected this moment.
Carlisle folded his hands neatly. "Dr. Morbius, forgive us for the abruptness of this night. We mean you no harm. We simply recognize what you are."
Michael swallowed once. "And what is that?"
The table fell silent for three steady heartbeats.
Carlisle answered.
"A fledgling vampire."
Carlisle continued, "Every newborn requires a guide. Someone to ensure the change does not overwhelm them. Someone to balance instinct with reason. If you will allow it, I can take on that responsibility."
Michael studied him, searching for any sign of judgment, fear, or superiority. He found none, only quiet certainty.
"You would help me," Michael murmured, "even though you barely know me."
Carlisle nodded once. "It is what I am meant to do."
A moment passed. Then Semira swirled the red iquid in her glass and shifted her attention to Carlisle.
"Speaking of responsibility, have you found any trace of your brother?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual.
Carlisle hesitated before answering. "No. I have not. Searching for him alone has proven difficult. I have no new clue to follow, no certainty of what became of him after I left home."
"You have a brother?" Nathaniel, who had been sipping champagne quietly, lowered his glass. "This is the first I've heard of it."
Carlisle nodded. "Yes."
"May I ask his name?" Nathaniel inquired.
Carlisle's expression softened with a mix of nostalgia and concern.
"Barnabas Collins."
The name hung in the air, carrying its own strange weight.
Semira inclined her head respectfully. "May your search yield answers one day."
Carlisle gave a small, grateful nod.
The meal continued politely, though the atmosphere had grown more thoughtful, more aware of the shadows beneath their genteel conversation. Eventually, as the plates were cleared and the last of the wine was poured, Semira rose gracefully.
"We shall take our leave," she said. "There are matters we must discuss."
Kraven stood beside her with a cool, unreadable expression. Varga and Dmitri followed, offering polite farewells before they drifted toward another reserved table, their voices blending into the soft hum of the dining saloon.
They left the table with quiet elegance, melting back into the ambiance of the saloon until only four remained.
The hum of the dining room felt distant now, as though the rest of the ship existed far from this one small circle of candlelight.
Carlisle folded his hands on the table and looked at Michael with the full weight of calm sincerity.
"Now then," he said gently. "There are things you must know."
______
The corridor outside the third-class bunks was nearly silent now, the earlier cheer of passengers fading into distant echoes of accordion music and stomping feet. Overhead lamps swayed gently with the subtle roll of the ship.
Bjorn and Olaus walked side-by-side, their steps slow, deliberate, the measured pace of predators conserving energy.
They spoke little, they didn't need to.
When they reached the upper decks, the air grew colder, crisper, carrying the distant fragrance of polished brass and cigar smoke. Stewards passed occasionally, their footsteps brisk, their attention fixed on evening duties.
Olaus inhaled subtly.
"He is here," he murmured.
Bjorn nodded once, gaze sharp. "Then we find his records."
They slipped through a narrow stairwell, unnoticed among the bustle moving toward First Class. Soon the polished corridors thinned into a quieter hallway where only one steward stood guard beside a locked door.
A brass plate above it read:
PASSENGER MANIFESTS & PRIVATE RECORDS
AUTHORIZED STAFF ONLY
The steward noticed them immediately.
"Gentlemen," he said with polite firmness, stepping forward. "This area is restricted. If you require—"
He never finished.
Bjorn moved with a speed no human should possess.
In a fluid, soundless motion, his hand clamped over the steward's mouth.
The man gasped, muffled, frantic.
His wide eyes saw Olaus' fingers extend… the nails lengthening, sharpening into curved, dark claws like a wolf unsheathing talons.
"Shhh…" Olaus whispered almost kindly.
And then he drove the claws into the steward's throat.
The man jerked once, a choked, wet sound escaping beneath Bjorn's palm then went limp.
Together they eased him to the floor without a thud.
Bjorn lifted the body by the collar, dragging it into a small linen closet beside the door. Olaus wiped his claws on a towel, the retracting nails leaving faint bloodied grooves in the fabric.
Olaus exhaled softly. "Too loud."
Bjorn smirked. "Next time, do it quicker."
Olaus clicked the door lock, then knelt beside the filing cabinets.
"Morbius," he murmured. "Dr. Michael Morbius…"
He cracked open the first cabinet.
Passenger lists, cabin assignments, medical notes, background documentation.
They began their search and with every passing minute, they grew more certain:
Dr. Morbius was somewhere near them.
And they were closing in.