Triple twenty.
He gawped at his own luck, even as the two thugs uncrossed their arms and glanced at each other worriedly. Still confused, Brian drew back to throw his next arrow. The second one soared with all the precision of the first; another triple twenty.
“What’s going on ‘ere, then?” short-round growled.
Brian wondered the same himself. And he didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice either, nor the way he was popping his knuckles. Should he miss this last throw? He’d rather lose a tenner than risk getting into a fight with burly drunkards. He nodded to himself; yes, he’d deliberately fudge up the last throw. Haphazardly, not putting any effort into it and certain it would land in the black, or else merely bounce from the board, he threw the last dart. Triple-twenty once more.
“You cheating gits,” the taller of the two locals spat. “We don’t take kindly to being hustled round ‘ere. There’s a gentleman’s agreement that if you’re a professional player you don’t get to bet. What is there, Frank?”
“Gentleman’s agreement,” short-round repeated, eyeing the pair menacingly as he drew near.
Brian gulped, backing away a step, glancing at Neil beside him; the lad was smiling, as though finding this all funny. Was he hoping that Brian would launch into some dazzling display of Helsing fighting prowess, knocking the pair to their arses? If so, he would be disappointed.
“Here’s a twenty,” Brian blurted out, grabbing a note from his wallet and proffering it the pair’s way. “And sorry, lesson learned. No hard feelings.”
Broken-nose glared at him for a moment, then his eyes dropped down to the twenty, before he grabbed it, his ugly mug breaking out into a smile.
“No hard feelings,” he agreed, his venom of before evaporating in a heartbeat.
“A fun game, fellas,” Neil grinned, placing his hands on Brian’s shoulders and guiding him away. “But it’s getting late, and my mate here has a big date.”
“Good luck with that,” Broken-nose told them, before glancing to his friend. “C’mon Frank, let’s grab another pint.”
Brian and Neil made their way towards the pub door, opening it and striding out into the cool night air. The Camaro sat in the car park, looking angry, impatient and out of place amidst a sea of battered Peugeots and shiny BMW rep-mobiles. Across the way, the purple neon of Premier Inn blazed, their beds for the night awaiting. But no bed yet, not for them. A task first. And certainly not a date.
“You could have had them, you know,” Neil told him as they strode across the car park, turning left and following the sign that pointed down the road towards the cemetery. “I saw you fighting that Beth vampire-girl in the beer garden. You’d have had them on their arses in seconds.”
“Maybe,” Brian shrugged. “But the Welcome Pack was quite specific about that; no showboating, no using your powers against civilians without due cause.”
“Getting beaten up over a darts game sounds like due cause to me.”
“Aye, but hardly world-ending. Besides, it’s only money. I’ve plenty of that these days. And I’d gladly pay ten times that to not get into a fight. Anyway, enough about those Neanderthals; the cemetery’s just up ahead.”
Neil grinned at the prospect of some supernatural shenanigans. Brian didn’t share his confidence; despite everything he’d already been through the last couple of days, this world still felt strange and terrifying.
“What do you reckon she’ll be like?” Neil asked. “Chains? Sheets?”
“No idea,” he whispered in reply as they made their way up to the gates. “The powerpoint presentation showed pictures of women in rags. With boobs.”
“Boobs?” Neil’s face lit up at the mere suggestion of ethereal bosoms, but then his smile faltered as he eyed the chain firmly fastening the pair of wrought iron gates shut. “Damn, locked.” He turned to Brian. “Break the chain.”
Brian looked at his friend as though he’d just slapped a baby.
“What?”
“Break the chains. Use your Helsing strength.”
“You’re having a laugh.”
“Well what else do you suggest? We’ve got to get in there.”
Brian sniffed, casting his gaze about. The gates were those old fashioned black ones so prevalent amongst cemeteries; all spiky at the top, promising inevitable death should one try to make entry. At least any would-be vandals would be in the right place. He looked left, then right; the stone walls were ten feet tall. Perhaps he could jump them, especially after his showing at the Obstacle Course, but there was no way he could reach down to hoist Neil up. Wait, he suddenly thought, what had he learned in that playground of terrors? He could possibly Blink through the gate; the gaps between the bars were certainly wide enough that he could see the ground on the other side. He could probably take Neil with him, to boot. But a large part of him still feared that they might simply end up buried to their waists in the earth, his attempt ending in them joining the numerous corpses already slumbering on the other side. No, he didn’t want to try that. Could he Shadow Form his way through? Maybe, but how then would he open the gates from the other side? He’d be in much the same predicament as now, only without the backup of his friend. He thought, hard. Then suddenly, it came to him.
“One second, mate,” he told Neil, before drawing a deep breath and holding it.
Lightness, softness, insubstantialness, if that was even a word. Cotton buds, soap bubbles. With a gulp, and under Neil’s puzzled yet rapt gaze, he walked forwards towards the gate.
“Ow.”
“Why did you just walk into the gate?”
“I was supposed to walk through it.”
“It’s locked, mate.”
“I know, Jesus. Just shut up and let me concentrate for a minute.”
Rainbows, kittens, fucking bubblewrap and spiderwebs, he furiously thought. Lightness, transparency. Morning bloody mist. Drops of dew on god-forsaken blades of grass. At length, he walked forwards once more, wincing in anticipation. This time, he walked clean through the bars and out the other side.
“You just walked through the bleedin’ gate!” Neil gasped. “That was incredible.”
“I know,” Brian replied, recovering his breath.
“But how are you going to get me through?”
Brian grinned at the foolishness of what he was about to do.
“Move aside mate,” he told Neil, backing away a few paces, then a few paces more. Then another pace, just to be sure. Then placing his fingers in his mouth, he whistled as loud as he could.
Long moments passed, silent bar the low rustle of dying leaves about the cemetery.
“What are we…?” Neil began, but then Brian held up a finger.
There it was, he thought with a wry smile. Distant at first, then slowly growing louder; the rumble of a huge engine. Neil turned, looking down the road in time to see a pair of headlights growing closer and closer.
“Is that?”
“Yup.”
“But there’s no-one driving it!”
“Yup.”
Bertha rumbled, accelerating down the empty suburban road towards them. Brian grinned at the genius of his idea, then suddenly his smile vanished to be replaced by a look of apprehension. The car was closing fast and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Closer, she roared, louder, and with a look of panic on his face, Brian turned and sprinted away from the gates and leaping up to a low-hanging tree branch, just as the Camaro smashed through the gates with her indestructible face, snapping the chain like fishing line, before screeching to a halt but ten feet from where he clung.
“This just keeps getting better and better,” Neil declared, giggling like a child as he strode into the now open cemetery. “She’s not even got a mark on her! How’s that even possible?”
Brian dropped out of the tree, surprisingly managing to land on his feet.
“Unicorn piss,” he offered by way of explanation.
“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?”
Her master’s summons now answered, Bertha switched off her engine and waited patiently, as the two began to make their way slowly and cautiously into the cemetery proper. It was dark, creepy, all rows of graves, some tended to, shiny and new, others forgotten about, hundreds of years of weather and erosion causing them to all but topple, the names of those buried beneath long-since erased by the uncaring Cornish rain.
“We’ll have to be quick,” Brian whispered. “Someone might have called the rozzers; Bertha’s entrance made enough noise to wake the dead.”
“Somehow I think they’re already awake,” Neil whispered in reply, pointing ahead.
Brian followed Neil’s questing finger, his eyes widening first in surprise, then fear.
Was this the banshee, he thought, before wondering at his own stupidity; how many floating, spectral women in eighteenth century dress could there possibly be? The figure floated about the graveyard, passing through stones and trees as though she were no more substantial than mist and, as he watched her, Brian started at how accurate the woodcuts and paintings on the powerpoint presentation had been. The banshee was a slim woman, her age hard to determine, what with being nigh-translucent, with a pretty face upon which was writ forlorn sorrow, and wholly inappropriate curves that all but fell out of her gossamer white dress that flapped as though in some unfelt breeze.
“Dude… your date is pretty hot for a dead girl.”
Before Brian could even dart a dark look at his friend, the banshee paused and opened her mouth, staring into the sky and wringing her hands as if in some great torment. And then she screamed, the keening wail that washed out across the cemetery, the town and the moor beyond, filled with rage, pain and carrying with it terror itself. And Brian and Neil, but a few dozen feet away, bore the brunt of it.
They ran, fleeing as fast as their trembling legs and pounding hearts could carry them, back towards the car, having about as much control over their actions as hungry dog in a butcher’s back room. Finally, after long moments, the haunting wail ceased and the pair began to slow, their pulse thundering in their ears. They stopped by the car, hands on knees, breathing hard.
“The hell was that all about?” Neil gasped.
“I forgot to warn you,” Brian huffed and puffed in reply. “They do that, so I’ve been told. We should have been wearing ear-defenders.”
With that, he popped the boot of the Camaro, picking up the two pairs of ear-defenders and handing one to Neil. Before they could even place them on their heads, the banshee wailed once more, and once again the two were off, this time out of the gates and some way down the road before the cry ended.
“Jesus,” Neil panted. “How often is she going to do that?”
“Every time someone dies, apparently,” Brian replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
“This is Bodmin, not fucking Midsomer!”
Wasting no time, the two placed the ear-defenders on their heads, before nodding at each other and purposefully striding back towards the cemetery. All they needed to do was get to the banshee, flirt with her a bit, then hopefully she’d bugger off and they – and the people of Bodmin – would finally be able to sleep.
“What’s the plan?” Neil asked.
“What?”
“What?”
Shit, thought Brian. He hadn’t thought this through.
Chapter Eighteen: Cyrano De Bergertwat
Neil nodded to him from where he was crouched behind the gravestone, giving a big thumbs up as though this was a walk in the park, not a terror in a cemetery. I know where you can stick your thumb, thought Brian; I’m the one out here with a fricking deadly, man-hating banshee.
At least she was easy on the eye, if not the ears.
She’d cried out once more as they’d approached, this time the terror, dulled by the ear-defenders, not quite enough to send them packing into the night, though still enough to turn Brian’s already weak knees to jelly. But now at least she was silent again, seemingly content to float about and sob quietly to herself. Brian had never had to comfort a crying woman before; his mum had died first and his dad hadn’t been one for tears, not his own, at least. A nasty man, his dad had been; the bottle his friend, his son a stranger. Though such dark, distracting thoughts weren’t going to help him this night, not when he was supposed to be wooing.
“What are you waiting for?” Neil called out from his hiding place. “Say hello!”
“WHAT?”
At Brian’s bellowed question, the banshee turned, frowning as she saw him. Brian gulped as he turned back to face her, raising a trembling hand and waving a pathetic hello.
“Err, hi. Come here often?”
At his faltering words, the banshee’s frown of confusion turned to a mask of rage. Brian’s eyes widened as her long, dainty fingers suddenly erupted with talons that burst from the ends. He almost froze to the spot in fear, then Gertie’s words of training whispered into his ear and he obeyed, darting to one side. And just in time; seconds later those deadly claws whistled through the air right where he’d been stood. The banshee turned to him with a hiss, as though frustrated and confused that she’d missed her mark.
“Introduce yourself!” Neil shouted, loud enough now that Brian could hear him, if only muffled.
“I’m Brian,” Brian told her, face almost as pasty white as her own, holding a trembling hand out in greeting. “What’s your name?” The banshee screeched. “That’s an interesting name,” he replied, before launching to one side again, rolling in the grass, just as she lunged again. “It’s not working!” he called out to Neil.
“What?”
“I said it’s not fucking working!” he screamed.
“Compliment her! Tell her she’s pretty!”
Brian half-jumped, half-fell out of the way of another well-telegraphed attack, before clambering to his feet once more.
“You’ve got very nice… eyes,” he told her, trying to tear his gaze from her spectral breast. “And very, erm, see-through skin.”
The banshee stared at him, obviously as uncomfortable at the exchange as he, before Neil called out once more, his eyes glistening with what Brian could only assume were tears of laughter.
“See-through? You’ve gotta do better than that, mate.”
“What?”
“Better!”
Wet her? How would that help, Brian pondered, even as he dashed to one side out of the way of another swish of tearing claws. He was getting frustrated now, flirting wasn’t his game, it didn’t come naturally to him like it did to Neil. Neil obviously thought so too, as, to Brian’s mounting dread, he climbed up from his hiding place behind the gravestone and strode out onto the grass, shaking his head.
“Let me show you how it’s done, amateur.”
Before Brian could even call out in warning, the banshee had already turned at his words, eyeing this new man with the baleful glare only a scorned woman could possess. Neil, much to Brian’s consternation, seemed as ever unfazed.
“Hi,” he smiled, putting on his best charming voice and fixing her with his blue eyes. “I’m Neil. Now I know what you’re thinking, you’ve been hurt by men before, but let me tell you; I’m different. I’m a nice guy. And all I want to do is to get to know the woman behind those hurting eyes…”
The banshee paused for a moment and Brian blinked, nonplussed. Had it really been that easy? But then even as Neil continued to approach, smile on his face and hands raised to placate her and show he meant no harm, the ring on Brian’s finger vibrated in warning. And he knew that Neil was doomed. Had he been moving sideways, not in a straight line towards her, perhaps he would have had a chance to escape, the spirit, despite her supernatural speed, slashing at empty air. As it was, Neil didn’t have the advantage of Gertie’s instruction. The banshee began to move, soaring towards the lad, one clawed hand raised and ready to sweep down to end him. Even as Neil’s smile began to vanish and fear began to register in his eyes, Brian knew that he would never be able to dodge in time. No, he couldn’t l
et Neil die. It was his fault he was even here and in the path of an angry spectre! But what could he do? He couldn’t hope to run the twenty yards in time. He stared at Neil’s frightened face, burning his image into his mind in case it might be the last time he laid eyes upon his friend.
A puff of black smoke and suddenly Neil was before him, but a foot away.
Brian shoved with all his might with both hands, launching Neil clean from his feet and several yards away, to land on his arse on the grass, well out of the path of the angry banshee. Sudden, flaring pain erupted down his back, the sensation of his own skin tearing, the hot tickle of blood trickling down his back as he gasped in pain at the banshee’s touch. Even as he grimaced, the spirit now raising her hand anew, ready to strike him a killing blow, Neil stared up at him, a mixture of wonder and fear writ large upon his face.
“You just… you just… teleported…”
“Enough!” Brian yelled, before pointing a wavering finger at his fallen friend. “Enough with your childish enthusiasm. It nearly got you killed!” The banshee behind let out a bloodcurdling cry, causing him to wince despite his earmuffs and he spun on the spot, waving his admonishing finger in her face now. “And enough with your fucking crying!” The banshee paused and became silent mid-scream, one hand and its sharp talons poised high, her face frozen, mouth open and eyes confused. “You think you had it bad because you were rejected once? Once? Let me tell you about rejection missy, because I know more about it than you do. Pretty much every girl I approach on a night out sneers and turns me down, chatting and laughing about me to their mates. And you know what? I don’t blame them; because it’s a me problem, not a them problem. I’m gangly, I’m awkward, I am distinctly lacking in social skills and it’s all my fault because I shut myself away and play games rather than dealing with real life and all the confusing people in it. The only girls who’ve ever shown interest in me were my ex who stole my dog and a bloody vampire who wanted nothing more than to suck my blood from my god-damned neck.” He paused for breath for a moment. The banshee remained frozen. Neil looked on in bewilderment as Brian continued his tirade. “You think you had it rough because a man rejected you? Well let me tell you something; that man, whoever he might have been, was clearly an idiot. Even now, two-hundred years dead, you’re still a knock-out. Look at you; long, wavy hair, stunning face, perfect hourglass figure. Not a bad set of pipes on you either. You could have been on X-Factor if you wouldn’t have made everyone stampede for the doors. You see what you’re not getting is that it was a him problem, not a you problem. And that’s better; for every him, there’s a thousand others that weren’t him. If you’d forgotten about whatever Irish Stevie Wonder you’d been pursuing, you’d have found one and no doubt been loved and appreciated for who you are. Do you get what I’m saying? Am I making myself heard loud and clear?”
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3 Page 13
