Dembinski’s footsteps were behind her now, close to entering the room. Syd glanced down at Eightball, who, thank goodness, remained totally silent, his big eyes fixed on her. She could feel the lock straining to give. She pulled her wire hair clip out of her ponytail, adding it to the pick in the lock and giving it a final jimmy. The tumblers clicked and the door swung open, inward. She ushered Eightball forward into the gloom, just as Dembinski’s boots found the polished floor of the American Room. By the time the guard had reached the cauldron of witches, the chamber was empty, the door was closed, and Syd and Eightball were descending a darkened staircase into the basement of the museum.
TWENTY-SEVEN
xxx
A COLD DATE
Max sat in the boughs of the Hanging Tree, watching the sun set in the west. He wondered if this was the last time he’d witness the spectacle. He was, after all, effectively gift-wrapping himself for sacrifice. Was this how life had been for his forefathers? Had their teenage years been dogged by apocalyptic curses, or did they get to date, play hooky from school, and hang out at the mall? But there was no point in dreaming about what life might have been, like if he’d been a norm. He smiled as the sky darkened to the color of an angry bruise. He was a Van Helsing, and it rocked.
“So good of you to keep our appointment!”
Max started at the voice, looking back between the branches, east through Gallows Hill Burying Ground. The entire cemetery was built on a slope, descending down to Witch River and the hideous Hanging Tree. Two figures emerged through the gloom, walking side by side between the avenues of headstones, marsh mists separating as they came. Vendemeier’s gait was shambling, stiff-legged—Cunningham’s corpse had taken quite a beating. Beside him came Jed, shuffling along, his hands bound before him and his head bowed. He looked like a beaten man. Max hated to imagine what the warlock had put his old friend through, and it took all his self-control to resist throwing himself at the preacher.
“You couldn’t have kept me away, Udo. Can I call you Udo? I’m gonna call you Udo. I feel we have a . . . rapport; that’s the word, right?”
The warlock’s hips made a sickening, grating sound with each step as he came closer. He stopped short of the boughs of the tree.
“You almost sound pleased to be here, child.”
“Not often I get asked out on a hot date.” He shivered. “Maybe hot isn’t the right word. But why the mash note? You could’ve asked me to come in person, Udo. Whodathunk you were so shy?”
Max could see that the guard’s clothing was stained dark, a bib of blood covering his throat and chest where he’d collected an impressive collection of injuries. Chief among these was a broken neck, a compound fracture of the collarbone, and one of Jed’s stakes buried in his breast. His aged mentor remained by the warlock’s side, head still downturned. Max could see bloodstains on the old-timer’s vest. He could feel his fists clenching, knuckles popping. Play it cool, kid; play it cool. Apart from the three of them, the graveyard appeared empty, but Max was taking no chances. His attention was fixed upon Vendemeier, but his gaze flickered around the burying ground.
“You came alone, Van Helsing.”
“Well, kind of. Just me and the birds,” he said, gesturing into the surrounding branches at the mob of crows who roosted within them. Vendemeier made a gurgling, disapproving noise, causing a couple of his avian friends to flap nervously. “Don’t tell me you hate birds, too, Udo. Is there anything you actually like?”
“Like?” said the warlock, rolling the word around his mouth as if it were an exotic morsel of food. “That’s such a weak word, I find. A pathetic waste of speech and thought. To like something, one may as well have no feelings at all. Like is nothing. There is only love and hate. I love my Master, the King in Yellow. His time approaches.”
“Gee, Udo, you do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you? Did you always speak in riddles? Y’know, before my dear old granny got the better of you?”
Vendemeier shook Jed by the shoulder. The old boxer was still in fine shape, his muscles bulging where the warlock’s rotten hands clutched his flesh, but he was like a rag doll in Vendemeier’s grip.
“That witch may have turned up unexpectedly, but she only hastened the inevitable. My sacrifice was always part of my plan. I had to fall long ago so that He could rise today. I made that vow when I chose to serve Him. I took the Unspeakable Oath.”
“There’s a question that’s baffled me, Udo,” said Max. “Why couldn’t you bring forth your end of days back then, when Liesbeth dispatched you? Three hundred years is a heck of a long wait for a punch line!”
“Hastur’s great sleep is no trifling, mortal nap. He . . . changes. He becomes. While He sleeps, His brood multiplies. You must feel very proud of your work, Van Helsing. You think your family has rid the earth of Hastur’s children? You believe them dead?” Vendemeier laughed. “An army slumbers, to rise alongside the King in Yellow.”
“You’re losing me again, Udo. I ask you a normal question and you vomit gibberish everywhere. It’s messy, dude. Makes a conversation such hard work.”
Vendemeier smiled, the right-hand side of his face hanging loose. He reminded Max of a stroke victim, albeit one who’d gotten a bit mangled. “Are you coming down out of the tree, child?”
“I kinda like it up here. Great view. You’d know all about that, though, wouldn’t you, Udo?”
Max slapped the main bough of the Hanging Tree, the bark still smooth from the ropes that had once hung there. Vendemeier pulled the wavy dagger from his belt and placed it beneath Jed’s ribs. That caught Max’s attention.
“Down you come, boy.”
“You release Jed first,” said Max.
He shifted on the branch, ensuring his messenger bag was flush against his right hip. Vendemeier brought the knife to Jed’s wrists and cut the rope that tied them together. He kept a hand on the old boxer’s shoulder, looking back to the tree.
“Down, child.”
“Jed,” said Max, ignoring the talking corpse. “Walk straight forward, toward my voice. To the foot of the tree.”
His mentor shambled forward, a hand from Vendemeier propelling him on his way. Jed came to a halt beneath the Hanging Tree’s main bough, directly beneath Max. The birds squawked, some hopping from one foot to another or flapping their wings anxiously.
“Your end of the bargain, Van Helsing. Come. Now.” The warlock beckoned with the Egyptian dagger.
“Stay put, Jed,” whispered Max, loud enough for the old man to hear but not Vendemeier. The teenager looked back to the maniacal minister. “You choose this spot for any particular reason?”
The warlock chuckled. “Call me sentimental. This was the scene of my greatest work. You cannot imagine the thrill of seeing a pack of people turning on their loved ones. Brothers, sisters, fathers. Even children, screaming until their mothers were swinging from that bough.” He pointed at the branch Max sat on. “You’re touching history there, Van Helsing. You should feel honored that I invited you, of all your family, here this night.”
“Oh, I’m flattered, Udo, believe me. Knowing I get to finish off Granny Liesbeth’s work is a real feather in my cap.”
More gurgling laughter. “Your witticisms make you feel vigorous and full of bravado, no? I’ve seen such false courage before, in another life, foolishly fighting for a human monarch before the King in Yellow showed me His grace and favor. At the Battle of the Boyne, a battle-hardened corporal from Yorkshire, constantly making merry on the eve of war—he took a pike to the belly; opened him up from navel to chin. That quelled his quips and irritating jibes. Make light of your situation while you still can, Van Helsing, for soon enough we’ll see the color of your innards.”
Vendemeier looked past the Hanging Tree toward the river, its dark waters churning past.
“Witch River. So nostalgic of the local oafs to rename it as they did. We flun
g enough of the wretches in there, after all.”
Max felt the anger take him. He threw himself from the tree, landing on all fours a few feet in front of the man. Vendemeier smiled.
“You hate me? Good, come closer, child. That rage in your blood can only please my Master when I cut your throat. Fear not, Van Helsing. I shall not spill a drop. The elixir will quench His thirst in fine fashion upon His return.”
Max looked at the knife in the man’s rotten hand. “Huh, I don’t see any bottle or basin for you to sluice my juice into. Looks to me like you’re gonna make a bit of a mess.”
“You underestimate my powers, child,” said the warlock, striding toward the crouching boy. He ran his swollen purple tongue along the dagger’s edge. Vendemeier whispered words of ancient, perverse magic over the tainted dagger. Emerald flames suddenly danced along the blade, following the waves in the folded metal.
“At the exact moment that the cut is made, these fires shall cauterize your wound. You will then be prepared for Hastur’s return. When the King in Yellow arrives in the New World, He shall dine upon your carcass.”
Max was on his knees before the warlock, right hand slipping into his pocket. Vendemeier’s eyes were blinding now, the fire that played along the wickedly serrated knife matching their enchanted emerald light.
“As I said”—Vendemeier drew the flaming sacrificial dagger back with a sickly smile—“I shall not spill a drop.”
“Seems like a lot of extra fuss,” said Max, “when you could’ve just borrowed my flask!”
Max’s hand came up fast, palm open in his best Spider-Man impression. The yo-yo flew straight and sure, whipping repeatedly around the warlock’s wrist. Max yanked back hard like a fisherman striking the line, the string going taut and tugging Vendemeier’s arm. The ancient blade flew from his hand, landing in the mud at their feet. The green fire spluttered out, the spell momentarily broken, and the warlock roared with anger. Max let go of his trusty toy, the loop of thread slipping off his middle finger as he scrambled clear of the raging madman.
Dashing back to the Hanging Tree, Max found Jed still standing there, swaying. He threw his arms around the old man, squeezing tight for a moment, before clapping his hands onto those muscular biceps.
“We have to go, Jed! Let’s get you back to Helsing House, quick as we can!”
He gave the man a shake, the boxer’s head still bent, gray stubbled chin resting upon his bloodstained vest. What had the warlock done to him?
“You have to wake up, Jed. Like now!”
Max heard noises now in the graveyard as a host of horrors materialized through the gloom. They crept around tombstones, slinking between trees as they drew ever nearer. Countless white eyes shone in the dusk light, pinprick pupils trained upon the young monster hunter. Jaws smacked hungrily. It seemed every ghoul from across Massachusetts had been drawn to the warlock in preparation for this night. And now Vendemeier had let them loose. Max balled a fist, punching Jed desperately in the chest, trying to shock him into action.
“You wanted your friend back, child,” said the warlock, hidden in the depths of the darkness. “Have him.”
Jed’s head came up at last, eyes closed, jaw hanging loose and gormless. Max’s heart froze as dread seeped through every bone in his body. He reached up, a trembling finger touching the man’s throat. There was a pulse. Max gasped with relief. Then Jed’s eyes opened.
They burned with the same green fire that shone in the sockets of Vendemeier’s skull.
“Bring him to me,” said the warlock.
Jed lunged, the crows squawked, and Max ran.
TWENTY-EIGHT
xxx
VENDEMEIER’S LAIR
Eightball strained against his leash, his collar cutting into the roll of flesh around his throat. The little dog’s tail wagged furiously, pug nose flat to the floor as he followed the scent. Syd stumbled along behind, trying to rein him in, one hand bound in the chain leash, the other clutching her flashlight. If the exhibition halls of the Museum of Anthropology were confusing in their layout, nothing could have prepared her for the vaults. Since descending the staircase, Eightball had dragged her through a warren of corridors and storerooms, their route switching left, right, doubling back on itself. It appeared that the museum’s basement had been designed for King Minos; Syd half-expected his bull-headed monster to pop out of a broom closet at any moment.
“Attaboy, Eightball,” she said, giving up any attempt to haul the puppy in. “Seek it.”
Dembinski hadn’t given chase, clearly missing their exit from the American Room. That had been ten minutes ago. She had to wonder just how big this place was, and how good Max’s dog actually was at tracking; there was one particular fire extinguisher she was convinced she’d passed by a number of times already. Enormous shelving units rose up to the ceiling, each one loaded with museum paraphernalia. Each way they turned, Syd encountered another tower of oddities, crates and pallets stacked with who knew what. She didn’t have the time or inclination to investigate. It was the box she sought, and she hoped the little hellhound could lead her to it.
The portly pooch suddenly came to a halt at a crossroads of shelves, picking one route and then the other, changing his mind repeatedly. Syd found herself entangled in his leash. Eightball growled as he threw his head back, sniffing at the air. Then his hackles rippled. If a chubby puppy could ever “point” like a hunting hound, that’s what Eightball would be doing. His body quivered, muscles locking, eyes trained on a corridor that Syd didn’t recognize. She turned around, stepping over and out of the tangle of chain. She crouched and stroked the dog affectionately, feeling him tremble beneath her hand.
“Good boy, Eightball,” she said in a soothing voice. “If you wanna hold back, I completely understand.”
The puppy shuddered as Syd advanced down the passageway, casting the flashlight beam straight ahead. At the end of a dingy, cluttered hall, the light bounced off a closed door, the sheet metal dull and dirty. She gave it the once-over as she drew nearer, noticing that there were marks in the grime around the handle. Even the dusty floor revealed telltale footprints where the door had recently opened out toward her. She tried the handle: locked. Undeterred, she pulled her pick out once more and set to work. Within a minute the barrel was turning. She grabbed the handle again and pulled. The door shifted only an inch before jarring to a halt. Something was barring it from within.
Syd looked around, sticking the flashlight’s end in her mouth as she rifled through the shelves around her for something she could use to prize open the door. On one side she found a case of toilet rim blocks for the restroom, a pallet of paper towel rolls, a huge stack of brown envelopes, and boxes full of gift wrap. She turned her attention to the other side. Higher up, there was a glass box that contained some kind of African tribal mask. Below this there was an Australian didgeridoo, a great bamboolike pole that Aborigines would blow through to make music. Perhaps that could act as some kind of fulcrum, but she’d have to shatter the end first. Even then, would it work? On the lowest shelf, her eyes finally alighted on the perfect tool.
Syd searched the long glass case for a lid and found none. The museum had clearly vacuum-sealed the display, possibly to prevent any damage to the metal. She’d heard about how oxidation could ruin iron, and suspected that contact with air would do irreparable damage to the artifact. But what choice did she have? She made a quick apology to the Holy Mother before bringing her boot down and smashing the long panel on the top of the box. Glass tinkled into the display case and showered the item within. Syd deftly reached inside, grabbing the haft and pulling it free.
With force and maneuvering, she was able to wiggle the spearhead into the gap between the door and its frame, just above the handle. The shaft jutted out at a forty-five-degree angle, quivering like a giant arrow. The label on the glass cabinet had informed her that this was an Aztec spear. Syd pushed with all
her might. The spear bowed, the weapon’s head trembled, but the door didn’t give. She moved along its length, to the spear’s base. Drying her hands on her jeans, she bent her back and pushed hard once again.
Eightball looked up at her, kneading his little paws anxiously as she struggled. She cried out as the spear flexed, prompting a bark from the pup. Just when she thought her back might break before the spear, Eightball leaped in the air, hurling his body at the bending weapon shaft. He struck it hard beside her, adding the extra bit of weight that Syd was missing, before bouncing back to the ground. Girl and spear lurched forward suddenly, a snap sounding beyond the door as the flashlight tumbled to the floor with a crack.
The metal door creaked as it swung open, a cloud of dust billowing out of the darkness into the basement vaults. Syd scrambled for the flashlight, swinging it up into the open doorway. Beyond was a crowded storeroom. White dust sheets broke up the pitch black, materializing as the flashlight’s beam passed by. She entered warily, slicing at the air with the ray of white light as if it might cut any terrors in two. She didn’t see any other exit from the room. The beam flickered intermittently, losing its intensity. Syd gave it a shake, willing life back into it. On the floor she found a broken wooden bar, which must have barricaded the door shut. She also found a large piece of broken masonry, bricks protruding from its crumbling cement. Syd stepped over the detritus, scanning the room. One exceptionally large shape sat atop a wooden table, draped in a sheet. She grabbed its edge and pulled it free, catching her breath.
It was a sarcophagus, the faded script and gold paint all but vanished from its surface. Hieroglyphs were scored along its length, no doubt spelling out the name of the inhabitant. It was at that moment the flashlight blinked out. She shook it ineffectually. Now she was in a pitch-black basement, blind. Not for long.
The Thirteenth Curse Page 18
