Read all Curtis Jobling’s series!
MAX HELSING
Max Helsing and the Thirteenth Curse
WEREWORLD
Rise of the Wolf
Rage of Lions
Shadow of the Hawk
Nest of Serpents
Storm of Sharks
War of the Werelords
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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New York, New York 10014
First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2016
Text and illustrations copyright © 2016 by Curtis Jobling
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
Ebook ISBN: 9780698191914
Version_1
For Andrew Eaves—furry cousin, fossil collector, and fellow cryptozoologist.
CONTENTS
ALSO BY CURTIS JOBLING
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE: THE MERMAID OF THE MYSTIC RIVER
ONE: DON’T FORGET YOUR TOOTHBRUSH
TWO: WELCOME TO BONE CREEK
THREE: LET’S GET CAMPING
FOUR: A GUIDED TOUR
FIVE: HERE BE (TINY) DRAGONS
SIX: MISPLACED MONSTERS
SEVEN: BEDBUGS
EIGHT: MORNING IS BROKEN
NINE: “MESSING ABOUT IN BOATS”
TEN: THE BOY AND THE BLOODSUCKER
ELEVEN: BAREFOOT VS. BIGFOOT
TWELVE: THE MAN WITH THE ANSWERS
THIRTEEN: THE BRITISH ARE COMING
FOURTEEN: THE LAST SUPPER
FIFTEEN: HEAD COUNT
SIXTEEN: VACATION VACATED
SEVENTEEN: THE HUNT
EIGHTEEN: ONE-MAN CAVALRY
NINETEEN: UNEXPECTED ANSWERS
TWENTY: TRACKING 101
TWENTY-ONE: THE DEAD HOUSE
TWENTY-TWO: A FOREST PAINTED RED
TWENTY-THREE: X MARKS THE SPOT
TWENTY-FOUR: THE DYRE DUEL
TWENTY-FIVE: BATTLE FALLS
TWENTY-SIX: GRATEFUL FOR GIDEON
TWENTY-SEVEN: THE DEVIL WALKED IN
TWENTY-EIGHT: FOREST OF FEAR
TWENTY-NINE: TURNING THE TABLES
THIRTY: NOWHERE TO HIDE
THIRTY-ONE: FRIENDS LIKE THESE
THIRTY-TWO: HOMEWARD BOUND
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EXCERPT FROM MAX HESLING AND THE THIRTEENTH CURSE
PROLOGUE
THE MERMAID OF THE MYSTIC RIVER
The fisherman sat on the end of the jetty, huddled beneath his blanket, the hulking behemoth of the Tobin Bridge straddling the night skyline at his back. With its green painted girders lit up, the cantilever crossing dominated this corner of Boston, towering over the rolling waters of the Mystic River. The blood, sweat, and toil of good and honest Massachusetts men had gone into the bridge’s construction in the 1940s. If there was a greater piece of engineering, or more handsome man-made structure, Henry Fitzpatrick hadn’t seen it. Fitz might have been biased, of course, as his father and uncles had helped build it.
He hunkered down in his deck chair, a rod on either side of him, both set upon their rests. The lines disappeared into the darkness, out onto the water, the fluorescent markers on the nylon quivering in the breeze. If there was a bite, the elderly angler would see it. He checked them over. The one on the left, fine. The one on the right, fine. His feet were up, resting on the cooler, a trio of empty brown beer bottles stacked neatly beside it. Beneath the deck chair, his bulldog slumbered, snoring to his heart’s content.
“Fine company you are, Shamrock.”
The sound of traffic passing over the Tobin Bridge was a gentle reminder to Fitz that he wasn’t the only soul awake at that ungodly hour. Not so long ago, there would’ve been company for him, up and down the wharf, other night fisher-men sharing the river. Those days were gone. Fitz was the only one who remained, the only one who hadn’t been scared off.
He glanced up at the moon, full and white overhead. He’d been warned by the gang in the bar not to go, to head home to his wife, Maggie, but Fitz wouldn’t hear it. Not that he was averse to spending time with Maggie, of course, but Fitz was at his happiest on the jetty, and everyone knew it, even Maggie. The lure of the river was in his blood, as it had been in his father’s, and his father’s before him. Fitz checked the lines. Left, fine. Right, fine.
The folk who lived around the docks, who’d worked there all their lives, were a fearful bunch. Gullible, in Fitz’s opinion. Two poor saps had gone missing over the previous full moons, so naturally the superstitious said this was the mermaid’s mischief at work, luring the men to a watery grave with her siren voice. The Mermaid of the Mystic River. Fitz chuckled. Utter hokum. The two men had simply had one too many ales and walked off the wharf to their watery graves. They wouldn’t be the first fools to get washed away down the Mystic.
Fitz reached down and opened his cooler, removing a fresh bottle of beer. He cracked the cap off, flicking it into the tide, a dozen feet below. It spun through the air, reflecting the moonlight before it plopped into the waves. He tipped the bottle back, taking a hearty swig, his eyes glancing at the rods. The one on the left, fine. The one on the right, bowing, flexing, the fluorescent marker humming on the line.
He placed the bottle down carefully, reaching across to take the rod off its stand. He stood and braced his feet on the rough timbers of the jetty, hand gripping the reel. He’d been here for three hours and this was the first nibble of the night. It was almost as if, until now, the fish had been scared away. Striped bass was what he was after, and his stomach was rumbling already as he imagined one cooked in butter and lemon. What a treat that would be for tomorrow’s dinner. He wound the reel in.
The bulldog was awake now, whimpering beneath the chair.
“What’s the matter, Shamrock? Get out here, ya lazy mutt.”
The dog didn’t come, instead knocking the deck chair over as he backed away fearfully.
“C’mere, ya dumb dog,” snapped Fitz, irked by Shamrock’s sudden and unexpected cowardice. The bulldog scampered down the wharf, abandoning his master. The rod suddenly yanked hard, almost shooting out of Fitz’s grasp. The angler was an old hand and a canny fisherman, though, and he quickly struck back, cranking the reel.
“Big fish, are ya? That’s fine by Fitz. The more bass for my plate,” he snarled, grinning as he wound in the line.
“You might want to let this one go.”
The voice came from the shadows at his back. Fitz half turned, not wanting to take his eyes off the bowing rod and taut nylon. A boy was walking forward, some young punk who was clearly lost and more than a bit deluded if he thought he could tell old Fitz how to fish. His drainpipe jeans had seen better days, his Chucks were so dirty they could’ve walked away by themselves, and if Fitz wasn’t mistaken, he was carrying a lady’s handbag across his shoulder.
“Who the hell are you?”
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“Me?” said the kid in the bomber jacket and ratty jeans. “I’m your new best friend.”
• • •
MAX HELSING WATCHED AS THE OLD MAN CONTINUED to wind in his catch, struggling and straining. The fisherman wasn’t listening to the boy’s sage words of advice. This was nothing new. Folk of most ages seemed more than ready to disregard what the thirteen-year-old had to say. He was obviously kicking off the wrong vibe, one that said pimply teenager as opposed to kick-ass monster hunter. The bulldog had the right idea. The hound was probably downtown by now.
As he leaned over the wharf edge and took a peek at the choppy waters below, the battling old man raised an eyebrow at him. The fishing line was vertical now, pointed straight down, as it cut one way and then the other through the water.
“Okay, I’m no fisherman, but I do know you’re fishing for bass. And I also know bass are about . . . yea big.” Max made the shape with his hands. “I don’t think you’ve got a bass on the end of your line, dude.”
“Like I said, who the hell are you?”
Max was rummaging around inside his messenger bag. “That’s not important, but what is important—”
“Is that a purse you’re carrying?”
“Purse? Really? I like to think of it as my manbag.” Max shook his head and pulled his hand out of the messenger bag. “What I was trying to tell you before you so rudely interrupted was that you might wanna stick these in your ears.”
He held out a pair of wax earplugs, placing them atop the cooler.
“Will it mean I don’t hear your voice?” grunted the man, wincing as he cranked hard on the reel.
“Probably, but more important, it’ll save your life.”
The man’s laugh was sarcastic. “Get lost, ya little jerk. A man’s at work here.”
Max sighed with regret and popped his own plugs into his ears. “Ditto.”
He leaned back over the side just as the “catch” emerged from the briny water. Max had been following this story from a distance for three months now. Local legend had always said there was a mermaid in the Mystic River. There was some truth to the story, of course, but this was no mermaid. It was a selkie, an ancient creature that had followed the Irish immigrants across the Atlantic centuries ago. Romantic folklore told that they looked like seals beneath the waves, but when they emerged from the water, they transformed into enchanting humans. The truth was far more grim. This particular selkie had been putting in appearances every three decades, regular as clockwork, rising for three full moons to feed before vanishing back into the deep. If it failed to feed on each of these nights, it would starve. It seemed to Max that a selkie’s life was a bit of a cursed existence. Though Max felt sympathy for it, he wasn’t eager for any more humans to be slaughtered. Tonight was Max’s last chance to send the selkie packing.
The creature that emerged from the Mystic bucked and writhed on the end of the line as the fisherman continued to winch it in. It was never going to win a beauty pageant. Its head was bald with bumpy ridges, a pair of large pale eyes glowing like head lamps. The monster’s mouth was wide and drooping, like that of a grouper, with jagged needle teeth jutting out from all angles. Max could see its throat flexing, wobbling, as a frog’s might when it croaks. The beast was singing, Max realized, and he was relieved to be wearing his plugs—the song of the selkie was its principal weapon, and the way it bewitched sailors and fishermen.
Two humanoid arms ended with webbed hands and taloned fingers, while its lower torso was that of a serpentine fish, ending in a great tail that twisted and thrashed at the water. Its flesh had the pale greenish-gray pallor of a corpse that had been found after floating in the sea for days. The hook wasn’t in the monster’s mouth, of course; it was clenched in one of those grotesque hands, the line wrapped around its puckered forearm intentionally. It had meant to be caught. It wanted the man to haul it ashore. It needed the man’s assistance if it was meant to feed.
“Okay, fishsticks,” said Max, waving at the selkie from above as the fisherman reeled it in, ever higher. “Here’s how it has to be. I’m afraid you’re done snacking from the Boston All-You-Can-Eat Human Buffet. The restaurant is now closed. I’m giving you one chance to turn tail and disappear back to Atlantis, or wherever the heck it is you’ve come from.”
Although the monster was warbling its hideous ballad, its eyes narrowed when it spied Max, its teeth gnashing as it rose closer to the wharf.
“Guess that’s a no on the skedaddling, then?” said Max, straightening up and turning to the man. He was about to ask for help, but quickly realized it was futile. Twin rivulets of blood dribbled from the old angler’s ears, while his eyes were pale and glassy, utterly entranced. Max shook him violently, trying to dislodge the rod from the fisherman’s hands, but it was hopeless. The boy flipped open his messenger bag’s flap, rooting inside for a knife to cut the line. Without that connection, the beast couldn’t rise the twelve feet out of the river to feed. It would be doomed to go without, and would (hopefully) starve. Just as Max’s hand closed around his pocketknife, he felt teeth clamp around his ankle. He cried out, looking down, expecting to find the selkie feasting on his foot. Instead, he found the little bulldog, returned to defend his put-upon master from Max. As the fisherman continued winding the monster in, the dog snarled, worrying the boy’s drainpipe jeans, which ripped and frayed. Having Eightball, Max’s own dog, with him right now would have been helpful—especially since he was a hellhound—but Max was alone on this one.
He shook off the dog, who bounced away then came straight back. This time he leaped, jaws snapping around the messenger bag and dragging it down to the ground. The knife went loose inside the satchel as Max hit the deck, the strap came free, and the bulldog danced away with the bag in his mouth.
“Crapsacks!” shouted Max, as the selkie’s head appeared over the side of the wharf, its webbed, clawed fingers now gripping the timbers as it let go of the hook and the line.
Max scrambled forward to the empty beer bottles. One, two, three; they whipped through the air, striking the selkie in the head and splitting the ghoulish flesh. The injuries hardly spoiled the creature’s good looks. It reached out, grabbing Max’s foot and biting down hard. Its needle teeth punctured the tread of his Chucks.
“What is it with my feet?” he screeched, booting the river monster in the face.
The boy’s hands went into the cooler, grabbing full bottles of beer now and sending them at the selkie. The creature ignored the barrage, crawling ever closer, claws digging into the decking. The cooler lid was the next thing to hit the beast, buckling as Max smashed it over the selkie’s ridged, knuckled skull. Its mouth opened wide as it wailed in agony. Max could feel one of his earplugs coming loose. He jammed the cooler lid into its open jaws and then snatched up the loose coils of fishing line. He rolled over the monster, wrapping the line about the creature’s neck in quick succession, three times in all. He yanked back hard.
The selkie shrieked and gurgled, big white eyes swelling wide like they might pop. Max cried out as he pulled with all his might, feeling the strong nylon cord cut into the flesh of his hands and fingers. The selkie’s great fish tail flapped and slapped, striking the timber jetty as it gasped in vain for breath. One last cry from Max as the line reached breaking point, and there was a wet ripping sound, like piano wire going through an overripe cucumber. He felt the cord give as it sliced through the monster’s neck. The selkie’s head rolled away, the white light ebbing in those dreadful eyes as its black blood washed across the wharf.
The fisherman came to suddenly, shaking his head, looking down in horror at the monstrosity from the deep that lay at his feet and the boy from Gallows Hill Middle School lying across its decapitated corpse. His bulldog trotted up and began to lap at the pool of oily fish blood.
“Bass is off the menu, I’m afraid, sir,” said Max, anchoring his chewed-up Chucks on the dock as he
clambered to his feet.
“Have you ever tried sushi?”
ONE
DON’T FORGET YOUR TOOTHBRUSH
“Are you sure you have everything?” Jed asked for the hundredth time.
“Yes,” lied Max as he dashed past the old-timer in his La-Z-Boy. “I’m not some dingbat, you know?”
Of course, Max had left everything until the last minute. The selkie gig on the Mystic River had been a welcome distraction from Jed’s never-ending nagging. Now, on the morning of departure, he was breathing down Max’s neck (from the comfort of his recliner). Max slipped into his bedroom, out of the old man’s line of sight.
“Eightball!”
It was bad enough that the hellhound was on Max’s bed—his bedroom was a strictly no-go zone for the demonic pooch due to the sulfurous gases that emanated from his behind. The rotund puppy’s head was buried within Max’s backpack, merrily rooting through whatever the teenager had already packed. Max knew instantly what his puppy was after.
“Get outta there,” Max growled, giving Eightball’s shiny black bottom a playful but firm smack. The dog’s head emerged, the contents of Max’s emergency Twinkie stash smeared across his slobbering chops. With a clap of hands, the cream-splattered dog was bouncing off the bed and departing the room. Jed didn’t even try to hide his laughter. Max shook his head, returning his belongings to the bag. It was bulging by the time he’d finished. Hefting it across one shoulder, he tramped back into the living room.
“Sweet spawn of Shug, what have you got in there, boy?” exclaimed Jed, rising half out of his chair as Max passed back by. “The kitchen sink?”
“You always said I should be prepared,” said Max, slamming his backpack down onto the kitchenette counter.
Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 1
