Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3

by Gareth K Pengelly

“She can and does. Only you, Helsing, with your ring and the abilities it gifts you can survive such an encounter long enough to placate the creature.”

  “Then send Gertie,” he gasped. “She can fight better than I can. And look at her; she clearly swings both ways.”

  The others all glanced at the Master of Combat, who merely shrugged, before Heimlich turned once more back to Brian.

  “Be that as it may, we’re yet to encounter a bisexual banshee.”

  “How can you be so sure? You done a survey?”

  “Bloody hell, Helsing, it’s up to you, alright? It’s your job, what do you want; a raise? Is a million a year not good enough for you? Now stop stalling and get to the Dojo with Gertie so she can show you some moves. Banshees come out at night and I won’t be having the people of Bodmin kept up by another eight hours of tortured wailing.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Brian rose from the couch and followed the Master of Combat from the Snug, heading down one of the labyrinthine corridors towards the arena. As they walked, he could hear the girl giggling quietly as if to herself.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You, of course. You make out like you’re some autistic uber-geek, but you’re not too shabby when it comes to reading people.”

  He frowned for an instant, before it clicked.

  “Wait, you really are bi?”

  “Pansexual, I think is the term.”

  “And what does that mean when it’s at home?”

  “Means I’m not picky,” she told him, eyeing him strangely, before hurrying towards the Dojo, the door of which was fast approaching up ahead. “Now come, young warrior; I’m eager to see if you’ve learned anything after yesterday’s beating.”

  He grimaced in anticipation, knowing that probably he had not.

  Chapter Fourteen: Faces Of The Past

  Brian stood in the ring, limbs a-tingle with nerves, muscles suffused with that curious sense of weakness that adrenaline gave, despite its effect supposedly being the opposite. Gertie stood before him, her diminutive figure hardly imposing, yet he knew not to underestimate her; she might be over a foot shorter than he, and he might have the ring of the Helsings on his finger, but she’d forgotten more about kung fu than he could ever hope to learn in a month of Sundays.

  “So, you gonna teach me some flirting skills, then?” he asked hopefully, though he could see the answer in her eyes.

  “Nah. Combat again.”

  “Damn.”

  “Not, not damn,” she admonished him. “You ever fought a banshee?” she asked quite rhetorically. “They’re fast as lightning, with long claws that can tear your head off in a heartbeat. You’re going to have to learn how to move – and fast – if you’re to stand a chance of surviving your date.”

  “Don’t call it a date.”

  “Well it is, albeit one where your date is a homicidal maniac.”

  “I think I’ve had a few Tinder matches like that.”

  “Then it should be a walk in the park. Now, listen; the key to fighting a banshee is to constantly keep moving. A banshee lives in the past, so despite their insane speed, all it takes is to not stay in one place for any length of time and she’ll always attack the spot you were last standing.”

  “Don’t stand in the fire,” he murmured to himself, nodding.

  Her eyes widened, curiously.

  “You play Warcraft?”

  “I… yes, do you?”

  “I dabble,” she smiled. Once more, Brian found himself staring at the girl with a strange mixture of fear and fascination. She continued. “But yes, the principle is the same as taking on a raid boss; if you keep your wits about you, don’t get distracted, keep moving every few seconds, you’ll be fine. Now, put these on.”

  She proffered a set of bulky-looking ear-defenders his way.

  “What are these for?” he asked, puzzled as he took them from her hand.

  “A banshee scream will frighten the living daylights out of anyone, a Helsing included, especially one as spineless as you. If you wear these noise-cancelling headphones, any screams she throws at you will be muted enough that you won’t shit yourself. So you might as well get used to wearing them now.”

  “Well, okay then.” He placed them over his ears, the sounds of bustle from the Sanctum, the incessant ringing of Frank pounding metal in the Armoury, all receding to dull noise. When he spoke, he could barely hear himself. “WHAT NOW?”

  Gertie winced.

  “Now you stop shouting. And start moving. You’ll get two seconds in each location at most. One. Two.” With that, she lunged forwards, driving a knee into his abdomen like a muay thai kickboxer. As he crumpled to the floor, gazing up at her with a look of ‘why,’ she shook her head. “I gave you warning that time. The banshee won’t. Now up; I’ve given you too long in this position as it is.”

  Slowly, wheezing for breath, he rose.

  “Two,” she said, a wry smile on her face.

  This time, out of pure not-wanting-to-get-pummelled-in-the-stomach reflex, he managed to dart out of the way, dashing to one side just as her foot lashed through empty air where he would have been standing. He allowed himself a brief, pained smile, which faded as he saw her mouth ‘two’ once more. Again he darted to one side, just as her spinning elbow whistled through the area his throat would have been. Another two seconds, another dodge. This time, he didn’t stop, instead, keeping moving, his feet somehow dancing an intricate patter across the floor, his mind clearing, as he’d been taught yesterday, the ring feeding him whispers of what to do. Every two seconds she would aim for where he’d just been standing, with a punch, a kick, always finding empty air. A keening noise began to emanate from her lips, that of a whale, calling through the sea for its long-lost mates.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” he enquired, still moving.

  “It’s my banshee impression,” she explained, sucking in another gulp of air ready to ‘whooo’ again.

  “Well, it’s terribly distracting.”

  “Good, it’s supposed to be.”

  For long minutes they danced like this across the straw matting of the arena floor, Brian casually, slowly pacing his way back and forth, as all the while Gertie deliberately punched empty air and howled like a cat on heat. Steve, the spotty young functionary, walked past the entrance, stopping and staring, nonplussed. Brian paused and turned to him with a shrug.

  “Banshee training,” he told him, before a bunched fist pummelled his meat and two veg, sending him to the floor with a groan.

  “And how’s it going for you?” Steve asked.

  “Well, not so good now,” Brian croaked. “But I was getting the hang of it.”

  “You were indeed,” Gertie agreed, before reaching down and hauling him to his feet. “You’ve got it down just fine. Just don’t stop moving, even if annoying busybodies come along and poke their beaks in.” She darted Steve a look that said ‘scram,’ and he did as he was told, hurrying back to the Sanctum. “If you stop moving near a banshee, you’re a dead man, understand?”

  Brian nodded, the abominable ache in his mid-section slowly starting to fade, in the way that a Force 10 hurricane died down to a mere howling gale.

  “About that,” he said. “When XII died, he vanished in a cloud of smoke, what’s that all about? I thought that was a vampire thing?”

  She nodded.

  “He didn’t burn up; he was translocated back here. It happens to every Helsing, their bodies enchanted to return to the Sanctum upon death. It both lets us know that a new one is on the way, and it gives us a chance to inter them into the Crypt, placing them in a position of honour next to their predecessors.”

  “The Crypt?” As with all the rooms’ names around here, he could hear the capitalisation.

  “Follow me,” she told him, before striding from the arena and back towards the Sanctum.

  He did so, the pair winding their way past busy functionaries, before reaching a spiral staircase on the edge of the Sanctum that he�
�d not noticed before. Down, the stone steps went, down then further down, till he almost felt dizzy, the hubbub from above fading to nothing, before they entered a narrow corridor, dimly lit by the soft glow of candles in recesses in the walls.

  “This is a holy place,” she whispered. “So be quiet.”

  “WHAT?”

  She started at the sudden noise, before removing the ear-defenders that still sat on his ears.

  “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

  “As I said, quiet; you’re treading on holy ground.”

  Slowly they crept their way along the corridor, till it expanded out into a hall, low and wide. Soft music played from speakers somewhere, lending the ambience of a museum or art gallery. All about the mausoleum, glass display cabinets like those in the Bestiary. This time, no gribbly monsters of earth and hell; instead, men. The nearest cabinet, Brian noticed, contained a familiar figure, stood upright and in a heroic pose. Long brown trench-coat spread out behind, as though flapping in some still, silent breeze. From one hand, a crossbow, pointing to an imaginary demon. Wide-brimmed hat was pulled down low over a grizzled face. No wounds on XII’s chest now, his injuries of before covered up, repaired.

  “Is he… is he stuffed?” Brian asked, incredulous.

  “God no,” Gertie replied, as if bemused by his question. “He’s embalmed.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well you stuff a turkey, you embalm a Helsing.”

  “I see. Clear as mud.”

  Slowly, he meandered his way through this gallery of the dead, gazing up at each of his predecessors, as all the while Gertie watched him, curious. One Helsing was clad in the khaki of a British WWII soldier, an Enfield rifle in one hand, a crucifix in the other. A plaque beneath his case read: Helsing XI, Hero of his age. Thanks to his brave sacrifice, the efforts of Himmler to harness the powers of the supernatural for the Nazi war-machine were foiled. And millions saved.

  He regarded the plaque for a moment, before gazing back up at the preserved man. Then, after long moments, he moved on. Another Helsing was finely moustached and clad in Victorian dress; a top hat, a suit, a briefcase by his side and a cane in one hand, the handle of which was partly drawn to reveal a silver sword, thin and razor sharp. Another was wearing the brightly emblazoned colours of an eighteenth century Royal Navy officer. Another, a green jerkin, a long bow about his shoulders and a rondel dagger in his hand. More and more such Helsings he passed, each proud of bearing, heroic in stance, their glorious deeds proclaimed on the plaques beneath them. Each, it seemed, had changed the world in some way, protecting Earth from some dire catastrophe that had threatened to befall it.

  Finally, he reached the last cabinet, given pride of place at the end of the room and lit by lights from either side that glinted from silver plate and mail. From beneath a glittering crusader helmet, a face peered out, square of jaw, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that, even dead, seemed to bore into his very soul. By his side, a shield with a cross upon it, the very same that was on his finger, along with a huge claymore broadsword that looked so large no man might heft it.

  “Helsing, the first of his name,” came the whisper from the girl by his side.

  Brian nodded, regarding the noble figure before him, thinking back to all the others he’d just walked past. All strong, skilled. Worthy.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered to himself.

  Yes, you should, came the unvoiced reply from the first Helsing before him. My ring wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise.

  Brian frowned, glancing to Gertie, but no hint on her face that she’s heard the ghostly voice.

  “But I’m a coward,” he whispered again, so softly under his breath, that Gertie couldn’t hear him over the gentle music.

  Yes, and an idiot too, the voice agreed. But the ring doesn’t choose based on who you are now. It chooses based on your potential. You have greatness inside you, Brian. For you are a Helsing. And you always were.

  Brian’s mouth opened, and he staggered backwards half a step, stunned by the words. Then a loud artificial tone pierced the air; Gertie’s mobile. Answering it quickly so as to not disturb the sanctity of the Crypt, she whispered into her phone.

  “Sup, Heimlich?” A voice from the other end, then she nodded. “Alright, on our way up.” She turned to Brian. “Come, Helsing; Heimlich wants to do some more magic practice with you.”

  Brian nodded and turned, following her, not sure quite how he felt following his encounter with his forebears.

  Chapter Fifteen: Blink 182

  “There will come times where your speed and strength, even enhanced through the power of the ring, won’t be enough,” Heimlich told him, eyes glistening in the light of the anteroom’s fireplace. “And it is then that you’ll need to call upon the magic. For only through use of magic can you…”

  “Yes, magical by nature, blah, blah, you’ve already said that. But you also said this Blinking malarkey is dangerous. Dunno about you, but I already think this new career is going to prove dangerous enough, without adding an extra garnish of voluntary danger on top.”

  “Danger? You know nothing of danger yet, Helsing. You’ve faced what? A couple of measly vampires? There are horrors out there you can’t even dream of yet and when the day comes that you face them you will be glad of the ability to translocate out of harm’s way.”

  Brian raised an eyebrow.

  “What good will it do to Blink out of the way of some troll’s club, only to reappear halfway through a tree? Think I’d rather be smashed by the club. Least it would be quick.”

  “It’s highly unlikely you’ll be fighting any trolls.”

  “Oh. I thought I saw them in the Welcome Pack?”

  “You did, but they live up North, in the Troll Country. Sweden, Norway. They have their own people taking care of them. Rangers and such.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway,” Heimlich told him, gesturing to the bookcase next to the fireplace and waving his hand in some eldritch pattern. “Enough stalling.”

  The bookcase began to swing open on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a room beyond. A room bigger by far than any he’d yet seen in this subterranean complex, dwarfing even the Armoury in its scale. Huge columns, scaled by ladders, with rope swings, bridges, boulders rolling down slopes, only to be towed back to the top and set loose to roll again, like some bowling alley from Tim Burton’s fever dreams. It was like an adventure playground for kids, frequented by parents who truly regretted their life choices and wished only for a blank slate. Everything thirty feet up and below looked somehow scorched, blackened as if by fire. A smell of burning filled the air, but he couldn’t see from where it was coming.

  “And what fresh hell is this…?” Brian sighed.

  “An obstacle course,” Heimlich explained. “Think of it like Ninja Warrior. Except if you fall, it’s concrete not water.”

  “Right. And you really expect me to climb up there and leap from platform to platform? Have you lost your marbles? There’s no way in hell I’m even attempting it.”

  Heimlich’s sudden grin was unnerving, almost as unnerving as the way he slowly sauntered backwards out of the room, the bookcase closing, this side just a scorched stone wall. And suddenly Brian was left alone in the room, confused and growing more nervous by the second.

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this, Heimlich?” he called out into the air.

  “I’d get moving if I were you, Helsing,” the Master’s voice crackled through a speaker in the roof.

  All of a sudden, the smell of burning intensified, gullies about the edge of the room, Brian noticed, beginning to fill with liquid that snapped and crackled, burning with hungry, licking flames. The gullies filled higher and higher, the liquid threatening to overflow onto the very slabs upon which Brian still stood, gazing about in fear.

  “What the hell, Heimlich?”

  “I knew you’d be anxious about testing out your new powers. All Helsings were, even those of old, especially a
fter they’d learned about the dangers. So I thought you might need an extra little push. Ever heard the phrase, ‘baptism by fire’?”

  “Ever heard the phrase, ‘Master of Magic found dead in pool of his own blood’?” Brian snarled in reply.

  The pools of liquid fire began to suddenly overflow, racing across the floor towards Brian’s feet and he yelped.

  “I’d get moving if I were you, lad. There’s a ladder over there. Climb it or burn, your choice.”

  Some choice, Brian thought, running as fast as his singed trainers would carry him, before leaping for the dangling rope ladder. He caught it, climbing up several rungs, just as the floor beneath him caught light with a whoosh, the heat rising and causing him to sweat after mere seconds. The bottom of the ladder now began to smoulder and catch light, the flames licking up the rope and racing upwards after him.

  “The bloody ladder’s on fire now!”

  “We’ve got spare ladders.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have spare feet!”

  “Then I’d suggest less stating the obvious, and more climbing.”

  Brian did as he was sarcastically instructed, clambering like some gangly, ill-coordinated monkey up the ladder. He’d tried climbing ropes at school, in PE lessons, hadn’t proved good at it. Didn’t like heights, ironic given that he was already six-foot by the time he was at high school. Yet somehow the climb felt easy, his muscles full of strength, not tiring out, though whether that was the ring’s doing or mere terror it was hard to say. Finally, he climbed with obvious relief onto the stone platform at the top of the ladder.

  “I wouldn’t rest too long, Helsing. Take a look down.”

  Brian did as Heimlich suggested, his face paling, even in the orange glow of the fire; the burning pool was rising higher and higher.

  “The only way is up,” Heimlich told him. “Make your way along the obstacle course. At the very top, after completing every obstacle, there’ll be a lever. Pull it and the pool of fire will drain away and I will open the door.”

  “What happens if I don’t make it?”