He walked out to the edge of the truck parking lot, where there were no floodlights. The truck was exactly where he’d left it. He’d made sure it was utterly nondescript. Forgettable. As he neared the vehicle, he heard footsteps dash up from behind him. He turned just in time to see the butt of a gun strike him in the face. He went down, landing on all fours, as the three figures circled him.
“Your keys, man,” said one of them, in a thick Marseille accent. “Hand them over. Now.”
“You don’t want the keys,” said Guillaume, waving his hand, dismissing the request.
“Nice try,” said another. “Hand over the keys, or my man here’s going to use his gun again. Only this time he’ll use it properly, you hear me?”
The thug got up in Guillaume’s face. The man in black could smell the cigarettes and alcohol on the youth’s breath. So, these three were the ones who had been lying in wait in the Range Rover. Guillaume fished the keys out of his overcoat and held them out, the leader of the trio snatching them from him and whooping.
“What’s he got in the back?” asked the third man, hopping as he ran up to the truck, banging the side of it. The metal clanged. Guillaume smiled and dabbed the blood from his mouth.
“Open up. Let’s see.”
The ringleader fumbled with the keys and soon found the one he was looking for. The thug with the gun grabbed Guillaume by the scruff of his neck, propelling him toward the rear of the truck.
“You’re Italian mob, right?” said the gunman. “I can tell by the shoes. Whatever you think you can ship through Marseille, think again. This is our town. And this is where you pay your tax. You understand?”
Guillaume felt the muzzle of the gun at his temple. He nodded. The shutter rolled up at the back of the truck, and the first two thieves went straight in. The gunman kept his grip on Guillaume, standing on his tiptoes to look into the darkened rear of the vehicle. It was a big space, and dark.
“What’s in there, man?” he asked.
“Some big box, Gabriel. Help me with this, Thierry.”
There was a groaning, creaking noise within the darkness as the two youths struggled to lift the lid of the box. The man in black chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
There was a commotion within the truck, a scuffling, frantic noise. The vehicle shook, as if something struck one of the interior walls. A ripping, rending sound was followed by more thrashing.
“What the hell’s going on, man?” asked Gabriel, alarm shrill in his voice as he craned his neck, trying to see through the gloom in the rear of the truck.
Guillaume moved fast.
His right arm looped, catching the thug’s gun hand. He locked it in place as his left fist shot up, striking Gabriel’s elbow and snapping it in one vicious punch. The young gangster screamed, dropping the firearm, which Guillaume caught in one fluid movement. It was now his turn to grab the gunman by the neck, forcing him back toward the rear of the rocking truck.
“What . . . what are you doing?” sobbed the youth. “You broke my arm!” All the while, he was trying to look behind him as he approached the darkened vehicle exterior.
“In you go,” said Guillaume, pressing the muzzle against the thief’s forehead.
The young man was crying as he clambered into the back of the truck, rolling onto his broken arm as he did so. He screamed.
“Hush, Gabriel,” said the man in black, a finger on his lips as he kept the gun trained on him.
“Thierry? Christophe?” said the youth, turning slowly and squinting into the darkness. His breath steamed before his face, the air cold like a meat locker.
“Gabriel, as in the angel, yes?” said Guillaume, climbing up to take hold of the base of the shutter. He dragged it all the way down. “You may want to start praying, little angel.”
The door clanged shut, and the vehicle began to shake once more. Guillaume looked at the handgun without interest before tossing it into the bushes at the side of the parking lot. He brushed himself off and returned to the rear of the vehicle. He checked his watch: one a.m. The ship would be sailing at six. Now was as good a time as any to head down to the freight terminal. He spied the blood dripping from the bottom of the shutter door, running off the metal to trickle down the license plate. Perhaps it was worth hosing the truck down first. He’d have to do that when he dumped the remains of the bodies. No need to attract unwanted attention at customs.
The noises had ceased in the truck. Guillaume picked up the keys where they’d been dropped on the tarmac and made his way to the cab. He settled into his seat, belted up, and gunned the engine. Immediately he was whispering the arcane words of the Unspeakable Oath, the secret language of the Brothers of the Endless Night. The darkness moved behind him, in the back of the truck, drawing nearer, Guillaume’s flesh prickling with a chill, deathly cold. His Master was there at his shoulder, whispering through the grilled window that joined cab to rear. It didn’t matter how many times he’d heard that voice—each occasion turned the priest’s insides into knots.
“Brother Guillaume, do we near the French port?”
“We do, Master. We arrive at long last.”
“Goooood,” purred Hastur, the King in Yellow. “Such a swift journey.”
To the Master, perhaps. Guillaume had been His chauffeur for four months, driving Him through the most inhospitable winter conditions Europe could throw at them. Not that the King in Yellow minded, stopping every short distance to feed and build His strength, to gorge on whatever souls His humble servant could find for Him. Those months had dragged for Brother Guillaume, but they were the blinking of an eye to the God of Vampires.
“Tell me, Brother Guillaume,” said Hastur. “Will I be able to dine upon this . . . ship?”
“There is a crew, Master,” said Guillaume. “You may dine.”
“Excellent.”
“I will meet you when you arrive in the New World, Master. All preparations are in place. Each and every eventuality has been covered by the Brotherhood. I will be waiting for you, Master. Fear not.”
The laughter that resonated from the rear of the truck caused the entire vehicle to tremble on its chassis. Guillaume thought he might vomit.
“Fear, child? I know of no such emotion! But Van Helsing will.” Hastur chuckled. “Van Helsing will.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks, as ever, to my wing-women—Emma Jobling for proofing and Kendra Levin for editing. I’d be lost without you two, and the book’s all the better for your input, and that of copyeditors Janet Pascal and Abigail Powers. To Kate Renner and Jake Wyatt: another awesome, iconic Max cover—thanks, guys!
I should also probably tip my hat to the various books, films, and myths I indulged in as a child that instilled a love of monsters in me, specifically cryptids, or misplaced beasts. From Arthur C. Clarke’s Mysterious World to The Legend of Boggy Creek, if it featured a gorilla-suited hominid, I was on it like a boss. So to every sasquatch, sea serpent, and sewer alligator out there—stay hidden and keep firing our imaginations.
Join Max on another adventure in . . .
Text copyright © 2015 by Curtis Jobling
PROLOGUE
THE WALDEN WOODS HORROR
The twigs snapped underfoot like skeletal fingers crushed before they could snatch and seize hold. The teenager’s steps were hurried, kicking up wind-tossed leaves and weather-beaten branches as she swiftly climbed the slope. She glanced back occasionally, spying through the trees the neighborhood lights, twinkling into life at dusk. Her dorm backed up to the woodland’s edge, her bedroom window overlooking the forest, this wild, wonderful world, right at her doorstep. His world.
Her eyes darted, searching the shadows on either side of the trail, checking to see that she was alone. He was a recluse for good reason; the folks who lived in this quiet corner of Lincoln, Massachusetts, were suspicious of strangers. Whe
re better for him to hide away than up here, in the woods? She knew how he felt. She’d never fitted in, always the outsider, even in her own family. It wasn’t easy being a Goth when one’s younger sisters were preppy, pony-loving princesses. She’d imagined life might get easier once she got to college, but she remained a square peg in a round hole. Yet those misfit days were behind her now. That the two of them had found one another was a miracle. It filled her heart with hope that there was somebody out there for everybody, even the loneliest soul.
Stepping through the forest, the young woman emerged at her destination. She stopped for a moment, taking one last cautious peek back the way she’d come; nobody on her trail, nobody in pursuit. She turned about, toward her lover’s home. The old mill loomed out of the darkness, its windows boarded, the stream rushing through its broken waterwheel. It looked sinister at twilight, but that didn’t bother her.
It gave her a thrill, truth be told. Spooky things got the pulse racing, the blood pumping; they made her feel alive. A nighttime rendezvous in an abandoned timber mill? This was their secret place. She reached for the long black scarf about her neck, fingers twining through the material to brush her flesh. She would be in his arms again soon enough. She’d waited too long for his kiss.
“Lovely evening for a stroll!”
She looked up, startled to see a figure standing in the tree line at the top of the slope.
“Who . . . who’s there?” she asked, squinting through the dim, dusky light. “Come out where I can see you. I’m not scared, you know.”
He stepped out of the shadows. He was just a kid, a middle-schooler. His face was hidden within the hoodie cowl that poked out of his bomber jacket’s collar. The scuffed leather had seen better days, as had the drainpipe jeans and battered Chuck Taylors. In his right hand, a yo-yo spun lazily up and down; he made it rise and fall with the deft skill of a seasoned slacker. Over his shoulder he carried a khaki satchel, the bag resting against his hip. Finally, the boy tugged the hood back, his grin emerging in the gloom.
“You should be.”
• • •
MAX HELSING HAD HOPED HIS SMILE MIGHT PROVE disarming to the young woman in black. Unfortunately, accompanied by those words, it just came across as creepy. She gave him a sideways look, reaching a hand into her pocket. Perhaps a can of pepper spray in there? Or something worse? Not that Max was too bothered. Nothing could be as bad as last summer’s Colorado job and the Case of the Cold Canyon Killer. The petrifying spitting venom of a dust dragon had turned his baseball cap into a bonnet of stone. That was his favorite hat, he recalled with a pang.
“Sorry,” said Max, pocketing his yo-yo and raising his hands peaceably while stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. I promise, I’m totally harmless.”
“That’s close enough,” she said, backing away in the direction of the ruined mill. “What are you doing here?”
Max made an embarrassed face. “Well, I was kind of hoping I could dissuade you from going in there.”
He pointed at the dark building. She stole a glance, as if it might have transformed since the last time she looked.
“Why’s that?” Her hand emerged from her pocket, clenching something solid and rectangular. It looked ominously like a gun. Max cringed; okay, so that could possibly rival the dust dragon.
“Haven’t you heard? Legend says the old mill’s haunted. Well, at least the locals do. They say it’s cursed. That terrible things happen to anyone who enters. Some big bad juju went on here in the past.”
“So?”
That wasn’t the reply Max had hoped for. Usually the “big bad juju” line would put even the most numbskulled norm off. The fact that it hadn’t only confirmed what he feared.
“So you’re not scared easily? Cool. Maybe we can go in together?”
The woman eyed him suspiciously. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Max strolled toward the building, its double doors slightly ajar. He peered through the gap, the dark void impenetrable. A host of smells assailed his nostrils, none of which was pleasant. He was getting the musty aroma of mold and damp, a hint of rotten timber, and the sweet scent of decaying flesh; a heady bouquet indeed. This was the place, all right.
“I said you shouldn’t be here,” repeated the young woman.
Max looked back at her. She was in her late teens, no doubt a student from the university in nearby Waltham. A Goth, too, judging by her dark attire. He might have known; they were so often Goths. He spied the scarf bound around her throat. Hiding something? Before he proceeded any further, he needed to discover just how deeply she’d been glamoured.
“There’s no harm in taking a look inside, is there?” he said finally, fishing a flashlight from his bag. “It’s abandoned, isn’t it?”
“It’s not abandoned. Somebody lives here.”
“Don’t be silly. Nobody would choose to live in a wreck like this.”
“My boyfriend does.”
Max arched an eyebrow as he seized a door and tested it. It groaned, resisting his pull. “Boyfriend? Is he a hermit?”
“He just doesn’t get along with people,” said the student, her words both cautionary and concerned as she stepped suddenly toward him. “You really should leave.”
“It doesn’t look like he’s in,” said Max, before ducking between the doors into the gloom beyond.
While she called after him, he flicked his flashlight switch. A bright beam lanced through the pitch black, the atmosphere alive with a swirling sea of dust particles. Max gagged now, the woodland aromas no longer providing adequate cover for the stench. This was the lair, undoubtedly. Behind him, the Goth girl struggled through the entrance, cursing the intruding twelve-year-old. Max ignored her objections, instead searching the chamber for signs of life. Or worse . . .
Exposed rafters were vaguely visible in the darkness overhead, the rest of the ceiling shrouded in shadows. A rusted saw was suspended from a wall bracket up high, while log chains hung like iron curtains against the boards. The odd hand tool remained pegged in place, covered in cobwebs after decades of neglect. Long-forgotten offcuts littered the dirty floor, wedges of rotten timber that crawled with spiders and slugs.
“When you say he doesn’t get along with people, what do you mean exactly?”
“He doesn’t like crowds. Can’t say I blame him.” She seized Max by the shoulder and spun him around. “I said you shouldn’t be here, and I meant it.”
Max now recognized the item in her hand, and was shocked to see it leveled at him. “Um . . . you appear to have a Taser pointed at me. What gives?”
“You shouldn’t have come here,” said the woman, snatching the flashlight from his hand. She glowered, gesturing for him to move deeper into the mill. “I gave you fair warning, but you didn’t listen, stupid little jerk.”
Max smiled sheepishly. “Seems we might’ve got off on the wrong foot,” he said, attempting to step within reach of her. If he could get in close, there was a chance he could disarm her. Slim, but better than nothing. He’d hate to be at Taser-point when the master of the house finally woke up. The teenager shone the flashlight beam directly into his eyes.
“Back up, and don’t try anything stupid. You’re going nowhere.”
Max quit trying to get close to her, his dazzled eyes now searching the earthen floor of the building. Where are you? he wondered, seeking a sign that would reveal the occupant’s resting place. His present predicament confirmed the girl’s mental state; she was in the monster’s thrall, completely under its spell.
“The man-purse,” she said. “Throw it over here, now.”
Reluctantly, Max unhitched his messenger bag, regretting the fact that he hadn’t tooled up before arriving at the mill. There was an old, homemade catapult in the bag, his earliest childhood weapon, which might have come in handy if he’d had the foresight to pack it in his pocket. The canva
s satchel that now sailed through the air to land on the floor between them was his box of tricks.
“So this boyfriend of yours,” said Max as he backed up into a wall, the tools that adorned it rattling overhead. “He doesn’t sound like a people person. Is he a bit of a shut-in? Only comes out at night?”
“He only comes out for me. We have something wonderful. Special. Our love’s timeless. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I think I would,” Max muttered, eyes still flitting across the floor. Maggots squirmed blindly in the soil, trying to avoid the student’s booted feet. Unless Max was very much mistaken, the earth there was stained dark. Dried blood, perhaps? Was she standing over the beast? Maybe it would burst from the ground at any moment, just like in the movies. He shuddered. It was rarely like in the movies.
He looked back to the young woman. A goofy, lovey-dovey expression had appeared on her pale face.
“You got indigestion, or has something tickled you?”
“You’ll meet him soon. Then you’ll understand the nature of our love. Maybe, right at the end, you’ll realize what a fool you were.”
“The end? Sounds a bit final.”
“My love will be hungry when he wakes. He’ll need to be sated.” She placed the fist that held the flashlight against her chest, caught up in the Gothic drama, the beam illuminating her face from below as in a Halloween prank. Her scarf hung loose, revealing the punctured skin of her throat.
“He sounds like a real catch. I take it he’s the silent type? Broody and moody? I bet he even sparkles . . .”
“He’s intense,” she said dreamily, before frowning as she caught Max smiling. “Ours is a unique love. He and I shall live forever. He’ll make me his bride.”
Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek Page 20
