And then the frontman began to sing.
Neil’s jaw dropped open beside him. Old men who’d been conversing in irritated tones over the screech of guitars paused and turned to watch, to listen, eyes glistening in wonder. People began to rise from tables and make their way, faces alight with joy, to the clearing before the stage, starting to bob, to tap their feet, then finally bounce up and down, throwing horns into the air. As the sounds of his haunting, soulful voice reached out through the half-open door, they pulled with beckoning invisible fingers to the passers-by, hauling them in from the cold as though powerless to resist, to join the adoring throng. Among the stream of people that made their way in through the door, a familiar face, making her way towards the pair by the bar, all bouncing, brightly dyed pigtails and wide eyes. Eyes that, even as she approached, seemed drawn irresistibly towards the stage.
“He’s… incredible,” Gertie breathed, mouth open in that same stupid gormless gaze as Neil, as all the others in the bar save Brian himself seemed to be wearing.
“Hello to you, too,” Brian greeted her, and as if shaking some spell from her mind, she turned to him.
“Sorry, Helsing,” she replied. “How are you?”
“Good, thanks. Nice to see Heimlich let you off the leash for a night. How are you?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, attention already being dragged back to the stage. “Yeah, that’s… yeah.”
Brian frowned, puzzled, before turning his own gaze now towards the stage, following those of his friends. The singer was good, he had to give him that, but he was no Bruce Dickinson. Why, then, was everyone so strangely enthralled by him? His answer came from an unexpected source, vibrating in pent up fury on his finger.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned.
“What’s up?” Gertie asked him, somehow managing to tear her eyes from the stage for a few brief moments, though the effort of doing so was clear to see on her face, her eyes making continuous attempts to dart back that way, like dogs straining on a leash.
“He’s a vampire.”
“Oh,” she replied, her face still alight with the joy imparted by those wailing tones, eyes already being dragged inexorably back to the band up front. “That makes sense. It’s… glamour… and stuff…”
Her voice, even mid-reply, died to nothing more than a distracted murmur. Brian sighed.
“You know that means I’m going to have to kill him, right?”
“Kill him?” Neil gasped to his side. “But… listen! He’s got the voice… of an angel.”
“Neil’s right,” Gertie told him, moshing up and down now with ever-increasing enthusiasm. “Let him sing. You can kill him after the set’s done.”
His two friends now moving off to join the masses bouncing and throwing horns at the front, old and young alike, Brian shook his head, before turning to the bar in resignation.
“Another Doom Bar please, mate,” he called to the barman.
“Hmm?”
The barkeep was likewise transfixed, a smile of elation on his face.
“Doom Bar! Pint of! Stat!”
“Yeah, sure, sure…” he replied, slowly, as though sleepwalking, reaching for a glass without looking, sending the first one to smash on the floor, before his questing fingers finally found another and began to fill it up. It was overflowing by the time Brian impatiently snapped his fingers, the man sliding it his way across the bar. Brian held out a fiver, but the barman had already begun to walk away, drawn like a moth to a flame towards the source of the singing.
Brian shrugged, before leaning back against the bar and taking a sip of his pint. He should be nervous, he knew, knowing that he would soon be facing a vampire for the third time in his life. And yet, strangely, he wasn’t. Was it the influence of the ring that still vibrated like an angry wasp on his finger? Or was it the five pints he’d already had that evening? He didn’t know, and to be frank, he didn’t care. He’d long resigned himself to the fact that this was his job now and that no matter how much he sulked or protested, no-one else would or could do it for him. He only had to look about at the mindless zombies, including his own Master of Combat, Gertie, of all people, all moshing like idiots in the centre of a quaint Cornish pub, to see that. Whether the ring was protecting him from the vampire’s glamour, or whether it was merely his own strangely cross-wired brain that rendered him oddly immune, as had been the case when he’d met the seductive Cassandra on that first, fateful day, he didn’t have a clue. Regardless, as he leant back and watched the band, the singer now belting out the opening verse of Holy Diver in what Brian had to admit was a passable impersonation of Dio, he sipped his pint, content merely to wait this out and see how it ended.
And, to be fair, the band weren’t actually half bad.
Chapter Two: Coitus Interruptus
Brian grinned as the pair made their way unsteadily back towards him, sweat glistening on their brows as they blinked in confusion, as though they’d been making their way through a long, dark cave and had now at last stumbled painfully into the light.
“Welcome back,” he chuckled, lurching unsteadily. “You’ll have to excuse me; I helped myself to several pints while you were making fools of yourselves and I’m pretty intox… a bit inebri… I’m fucked,” he finally admitted.
“What the hell was that?” Neil asked, rubbing his head as though in the throes of some mighty hangover.
“Glamour,” Gertie spat, as though angry at herself. “The hypnotic charisma of a vampire. He had us dangling like puppets from his strings. God, I feel so… humiliated. I’m a Master of the God-damned Order. I’m supposed to be teaching Helsing, setting an example.”
“Well you certainly made an example of yourself,” Brian laughed, making to sip his pint and spilling some of it onto his shoes. Gertie glared daggers at him and his grin flickered and faded, fully aware of the many ass-kickings he’d received at her hand. “Sorry,” he added.
“Kill him,” Gertie told him. “I’m gonna get a drink. See if it won’t blot out the memories. Neil, you’re buying.”
Neil reached for his wallet, then frowned.
“Wait, why aren’t you buying? I thought you Order guys were all rich?”
“No, he’s rich,” she answered, gesturing to Brian with a thumb. “Because he’s the one doing the hunting.”
“Aren’t you going to help me?” Brian asked, puzzled. “I mean, I’m pissed as a fart!”
“Yes, and I intend to be too within minutes. Now go do your job. Once you’re done, you can come and join me. I’ll be five Disaronnos in by then, that’s if this bloody barkeep hurries up!”
She raised her voice several decibels for that last sentence, the barman hearing her and wandering over, his own shirt drenched with sweat and face etched with the same strange, puzzled frown worn by everyone else in the pub. Neil and Gertie now with their backs to him, intent on their drinks, Brian shrugged, before staggering away from the bar and screwing his blurry eyes, gazing towards the stage. The band members were beavering away, dismantling their kit, but the frontman was nowhere to be seen. Where had he scarpered off to, he wondered? There was a car park out back of the pub and he meandered unsteadily through the dispersing crowds towards the back door that led to the beer garden. The cold air outside was fresh, as befitted Cornwall in the depths of winter, yet it did nothing to sober him up. If anything, it made him feel worse, the slabs of the beer garden, as he traversed them towards the car park, see-sawing from side to side as though he were on the Scillonian ferry visible half a mile distant in the harbour.
Where might the bloodsucking crooner be hiding, he pondered, making to scratch his chin yet missing and poking himself in the mouth. There was a big, white van there, rear doors open, one of the band members cursing as he tried to load the bass drum into it. Staggering towards the man, Brian called over.
“Eyup, mate. Where can I find your singer? I want to, erm… congratulate him on such a great set.”
The man pointed a questing finger a
cross the car park, to a campervan, all bright, garish colours, with curtains drawn in the windows.
“In there mate. But I wouldn’t disturb him. Couple of blonde pieces in there with him. Think he’s giving them the, aha, backstage tour.”
With that, the man went back to trying to load the van, as Brian duly ignored him and zig-zagged his way towards the camper. As he drew nearer, muffled noises from within, the sounds of giggling. He paused for a moment, wondering whether to listen lest any more interesting noises began to sound, before shaking his head clear of the thoughts and instead, rapping his knuckles on the metal side door.
“Go away,” called the singer’s voice from within.
“Erm… room service?”
“The fuck you on about? Go away!”
With a shrug, Brian reached for the handle and slid the door open. Within, the singer with his Metallica t-shirt and leather jacket discarded, revealing pasty-white skin and the ripped physique so typical of such creatures that shunned the light yet seemingly never the gym. On either side of him on the pull-out double bed, two young women from the pub crowd, both in various states of undress. Brian hadn’t even the time to gawp at their hastily covered up forms before the man in the middle shouted.
“Close that bloody door, you twat! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Brian told the trio. “But ladies, would you mind making yourselves scarce? Me and this man need to have a chat.”
“No, stay,” the man told his guests, before turning back to Brian. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here and ruining a perfectly good ménage a trois?”
“You might have heard of me,” Brian grinned, the ring now beginning to feed him a confidence that went beyond mere inebriation, before reaching over his back and grasping with his fingers. “My name is…” Suddenly, his grin vanished to be replaced by a frown of confusion, and he began to spin round and round on the spot, still reaching over his back for something that frustratingly refused to manifest. Finally, it clicked. “Shit.”
“Well, Shit,” the man snarled. “I’m gonna close this door now and if you don’t fuck off with immediate effect, there’s gonna be trouble. Comprende?” With that, he reached out and slammed the door shut once more with a bang. Brian could hear his muffled voice through the metal. “Now, where were we ladies?”
As the sounds of giggling began anew, Brian strolled off across the car park. Two Camaro’s, hunched, grey and angry looking sat there at the far end. No, wait, he thought, narrowing his blurry eyes. One. One Camaro, but one was all he needed. He sauntered up to Bertha’s boot, fumbling in his pocket for the key, before unlocking it and lifting the lid. His eyes found what they were looking for and he smiled.
“There you are,” he murmured.
Scabbard now belted over his bony shoulders, he closed the boot, before making his way unsteadily back towards the campervan. He reached over his back to the scabbard that was now well and truly there, withdrawing the sword. Moonlight would have glinted dramatically from steel, had the night sky not been filled with pesky clouds. Thankfully, thought Brian with a wry smile, this particular sword was self-illuminating. He thumbed the ancient runes on the hilt, opening his mouth, before pausing. Wait, what were the mystic words again? Flameo? Flambards? No, nothing to do with flames. He wracked his booze-addled mind, resting the blade on his shoulder. Something to do with lizards? Iguana? Ignis! It came to him with a grin.
“Ignis Veritum,” he whispered.
The blade caught light with a whoosh of holy flames, causing him to drop it as his black Pantera hoodie smouldered just above his shoulder, the sword falling with a clatter on the tarmac, flames puttering out as quickly as they’d first appeared.
“Christ! That’s the third time,” he berated himself, before putting out the glowing embers on his shoulder and bending down to retrieve his weapon. Holding it at a distance from him now, he whispered the words once more, this time through gritted teeth. “Ignis bloody Veritum.”
This time, the sword ablaze but his own form blissfully untouched, he continued on his way to the campervan, stopping outside and rapping on the door with his knuckles once more.
“What did I say?” came the exasperated cry from within. The door slid open to reveal the angry face of the band’s frontman once more. “There’s gonna be…”
His eyes widened as he caught sight of the burning blade held nonchalantly by Brian’s side. The two girls behind him, now in even less clothes than before, recoiled from the heat, striving to hide their modesty, each pulling at a small sheet that could cover one of them, then the other, but never the pair at the same time. Brian blinked and stared for a moment, as equally transfixed as the vampire, if for different reasons, before recovering himself with a start and turning his gaze back to the still-frozen man.
“Trouble?” he finished the man’s sentence for him. “Why yes, I believe there is.”
“You’re the new Helsing,” the vampire growled.
“What gave it away?” Brian asked, swishing the flaming sword from side to side.
“The fact you’re an idiot. I’d heard on the grapevine that the new hunter was a buffoon. It seems Cassandra was right.”
“Wait, how the hell do you guys keep hearing about this stuff so quickly? Is there some kind of vampire twitter I’m not aware of?”
“There’s a lot you’re not aware of,” he growled, slowly and warily climbing his way out of the van, before stretching himself up threateningly to his full height. As he did so, he realised the full extent of Brian’s towering stature, the lad’s amused face still nigh a foot above him, and some of his bravado seemed to dissolve, but only for an instant. With a snarl, he turned back to the campervan. “You girls stay there, I’ll be back in a jiffy and we’ll pick up where we left off.” With that, he slid the door shut, hiding the pair of terrified faces within, before fixing his venomous gaze once more on Brian. “Now, let’s get this over with.”
“I have to warn you,” Brian told him. “Last time I killed a vampire, it was without even trying. Pure accident, really. This time I’ve had training. And I’ve got, well, this.”
He swished the flaming sword in a circle, the bright orange blaze reflecting in the vampire’s eyes. Eyes that puzzlingly enough seemed merely amused.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got them.”
He nodded his head over Brian’s shoulder, who turned and followed his gaze. The rest of the creature’s band mates were strolling slowly across the car park, each wielding various instruments, guitars, cymbals, even a keyboard, hoisting them like weapons. On their faces, blank looks, giving them the appearance of the world’s least enthusiastic roadies.
“Erm… what?”
At his confusion, a voice called out from the beer garden; Gertie, leaning against the wooden fence, a glass of amaretto and coke to hand, Neil standing beside her and smoking a cigarette, both wearing looks of amusement on their faces.
“They’re his thralls; try not to kill them if you can help it. Once he’s dead, they’ll get their free-will back again.”
“What is this?” the vampire growled. “A fucking audience? This isn’t some pantomime, you know.”
“I do wonder at times,” Brian admitted with a shrug. “Anyway, where were we?”
“At the point where you die,” the vampire hissed, his fangs now growing long and pointy, fingernails erupting with fierce talons.
“Nope,” Brian mused, shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound right to me.”
The vampire lunged, ready to rip his head from his neck, but Brian darted to one side with supernatural speed, trainers dancing a ballet on the tarmac. His sword swept in a fiery arc towards the demon’s neck, but the beast possessed similar speed, ducking and flipping away with a smirk. Before Brian could even thrust towards him, a resounding crack on the back of his head, bits of Yamaha keyboard exploding all about. Out of reflex, he whirled, ready to bisect this new assailant, but Gertie’s words of before stayed his hand,
the sword’s edge stopping just in time.
“Sorry,” he murmured to the strangely hypnotised-looking rocker. “Nearly forgot.”
The man, if man this blankly-staring zombie could be called, merely growled, discarding his broken keyboard and launching himself towards Brian, who replied with a front kick. Even without the aid of the ring, his ostrich legs would have packed a punch; as it was, empowered by sorcerous means, his kick sent the man flying back twenty feet to thud into the side of a people carrier. No time to marvel at his newfound strength, for a war-groan went up, another shaggy, long-haired band member racing towards him, the sharp stand of his hi-hat cymbal aimed like a javelin. Brian didn’t move, instead filling his mind with strange thoughts; candy-floss, bubble-wrap, that brown oasis stuff that you got in garden centres for putting plastic flowers into. The vampire’s thrall passed through Brian’s form, cymbal and all, as though Brian were no more substantial than smoke, his own momentum carrying him forwards to smack into the side of the campervan, falling to the ground with a groan.
“Such parlour-tricks won’t work on me, Helsing,” the vampire hissed, before lunging once more, magical claws ready to rend and tear.
Even as the creature reached him, Brian was no longer there, instead vanishing in a puff of acrid black smoke to reappear several yards behind him, a wry grin on his face at the vampire’s confusion.
“That one’s called the Heimlich man-“
His quip was cut short, the business end of a Gibson Les Paul whistling into the side of his face and stunning him, before a snare drum smashed down over him, imprisoning him in a circle of steel and wood, legs sticking out the bottom, head the top, arms pinned to his side and sword falling uselessly to the car park, its flames dying with a sigh.
“I’ve always wondered what a Helsing’s blood tasted like,” the vampire chuckled, stalking towards him and licking his lips as his minions withdrew.
“Right now, probably very alcoholic,” Brian told him.
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3 Page 15
