“Bad idea, lad,” XII told him. “Don’t want to leave a gaping hole in the werewolf prison, do you?”
“I see your point,” Brian admitted to the shade, lowering his fist. “What would you do instead?”
The ghostly reflection pointed to the winding mechanism on the inside at the edge of the skylight.
“Shadow Form your arm through and turn the winder?” the spirit of his predecessor suggested.
“Well how is that supposed to work? My fingers will go straight through it.”
XII rolled his eyes.
“You’re supposed to be practicing your powers in your spare time, lad. I’d figured out within a few days that I could make only parts of myself intangible at a time if I wanted. Put your hand through the window, then concentrate on making your fingers solid again. Only your fingers, mind… unless you want to lose your arm.”
Brian gulped, before calling upon the powers of the ring once more, this time bringing to his mind thoughts of lightness, insubstantiality; bubble-wrap, helium-balloons, fluffy cheesecake. Slowly, he reached out with his hand towards the glass and, when physics finally dictated the two ought to meet, instead his questing fingers and forearms passed straight through the glass as though ‘twere no more substantial than smoke. His fingers reached the winding mechanism, and he paused.
“Concentrate, Brian. Remove the effect from your fingers and only your fingers. Keep the rest of your arm in Shadow Form.”
Sweat beading his brow, Brian nodded and did as he was told, willing his fingers and fingers alone back to their normal solid state. With a deep breath, he reached out and grasped; the winder felt solid and real and Brian grinned and chuckled to himself as he turned the mechanism, the window slowly opening further and further, XII’s apparition becoming more and more distorted in the glass as it did. Finally, the aperture was at least a sheep’s-width open and he stopped winding, before making to withdraw his arm from the glass. With a hard rap, his arm abruptly stopped at the fingers, as solid flesh made contact with the equally solid pane, his digits trapped on the other side. At XII’s laughter, Brian flushed, before willing his fingers ghostly once more, and pulling them through. Releasing his hold on Shadow Form, Brian shook his arm, clenching and unclenching his fingers, as though making sure everything still worked as it should. Thankfully, that appeared to be the case.
“Good work, lad,” XII’s stretched out form applauded from the half-open window. “But I have to ask, why go to all this trouble? I’m pretty certain the Masters wouldn’t have asked you to be the lycans’ babysitter? The easier route would have been to burn the entire barn down with them inside.”
“They’re still people,” Brian told the ghost. “And if I can keep them alive whilst at the same time saving others from being eaten, then surely that’s the best course of action?”
XII shook his head sadly.
“A sticking plaster, Brian. Nothing more. You might solve this problem, this full moon, but what about next time? Werewolves are roamers, never staying in one place for too long at a time. Next month they’ll be elsewhere and others will be in danger. What you gonna do; download your track-a-lycan app and follow them, babysitting them every time the moon comes out?”
“I… I’m not really thinking that far ahead at the moment.”
“No, you’re not. And yes, I do get your thinking. They are humans, underneath all that fur and hunger, and their actions aren’t their own. But they’re still dangerous, lad, and mollycoddling them isn’t going to make the problem go away. You might be able to stave off their hunger for this month, but what about next month? What about a year from now? You’ve got to think about the big picture. One day, you won’t be there. And someone’s gonna get eaten.”
Brian stared at the shade. XII was right, he knew that, but having seen for himself Aaron, so human, so vulnerable, so… normal, he couldn’t think of the monsters as being just that – monsters. They were people, too, and they had to be protected as such, to the best of his abilities.
“I’ll feed them tonight,” Brian suddenly declared. “I’m already up here and I’ve got a sheep, so would be a waste not to. Then tomorrow I’ll have a good old think what to do.”
The spectre shrugged.
“Your prerogative; you’re the living one.” Suddenly, XII’s eyes narrowed as they looked over Brian’s shoulder. “Heads up, lad. My murderer’s back. Like a bad smell, that one. Look lively, or you’ll be joining me in this glass.”
Brian frowned and turned, to spy a slender figure standing atop the roof not five yards distant.
“Cassandra,” he hissed.
“Hi,” she replied, smiling that predatory, cat-like grin.
Standing silhouetted in the light of the full-moon, her pale, flawless skin, raven hair and perfect, leather-clad physique would have caused any other man to grow at once wobbly in the knees and far less wobbly in the nether-regions. But Brian, protected from her charms by both his own miswired brain and the power of the ring, felt merely anger. And, perhaps, a not insubstantial amount of fear, what with his sword being still down in the car.
“What do you want?”
“Was just passing by,” the vampiress shrugged. “Heard the insane ramblings of a madman talking to a sheep atop a barn roof, thought I’d come check it out.”
“Just passing by?” Brian stared about, incredulous, at the windswept peninsula. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“Fine. I was stalking you. I’m a vampire, you’re the Helsing, natural enemies, blah, blah. It pays to keep tabs on your whereabouts. We’re nemeses. Nemesises?”
“Nemeses, you had it right first time. And really? You’re immortal, with a perfect body and supernatural glamour, and you can find nothing better to do than to follow me about the Cornish-blood-countryside?”
“Well, if I hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have you here and now, in this precarious situation, would I? Unarmed, your friends all the way down there, out of sight and unable to help. The sheep, well, I’ve no idea what use that might be, but hey, who knows? I could probably find someone to knit me a commemorative ‘I killed Helsing’ jumper.”
Brian backed away a couple of steps, down the slope, fully aware that everything the vampire was saying was the truth; he was indeed alone, unarmed. He’d bested the vampire before, but only through sheer rage, luck and with no small amount of help from Scylla, whose own supernatural powers nearly rivalled the vampire’s. Cassandra stalked slowly towards him, standing between him and the open skylight now. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and slowly, a smile began to spread across his pasty face. Cassandra paused in her advance, inclining her head to one side, curious.
“Go on,” she sighed. “What is it this time? I had a good scout about and couldn’t see any armies of Nymphs hiding anywhere that might have your back. So spit it out, otherwise your last words are just gonna be a strangled gurgle as I sink my fangs into your neck.”
“You were almost on the right lines, but not nymphs,” Brian chuckled. “Take a sniff.”
The vampiress did so, using her supernatural senses, finely honed to seek out prey. Prey, however, was not what they warned her of this time. Her eyes widened and started casting about in something that, amusingly enough to Brian, bore a remarkable resemblance to fear.
“Lycans,” she whispered. “Lots of them. But… where?” Brian glanced down to the barn below and Cassandra bit her lip, before slowly looking behind her to the open window, then finally back to Brian. “Shit.”
“Indeed,” Brian replied, before lashing out with the full force of his telekinetic Mind Whip, launching the vampire clean off her feet and back up the slope towards the beckoning gap of the skylight.
Her razor fingernails gouged long lines in the wood of the roof as she was carried upwards by the force of his psychic blast, her beautiful face twisted with fear as the window drew nearer. Finally, her legs fell through, but she managed to catch the window ledge with his fingers, hanging on for dear life as Brian sl
owly sauntered over to where she clung. Down in the darkness of the barn, far below, deep growls reverberated, the smell of canine musk wafting up to meet them. Cassandra stared up at him with wide, imploring eyes.
“Don’t do this, Helsing. Help me up, please.”
Brian snorted.
“You what, mate? You came here to kill me! Now the tables are turned, you want me to save you? What do you think I am, an idiot?”
The vampire’s mouth opened as if to reply on auto-pilot, but she thought better of it and quashed the words, before coming out with something different.
“It’s just what we do, child. Helsings hunt vampires and, in return, we hunt you. It’s not personal. It’s all part of the eternal game.”
Brian nodded.
“Aye. A game you’ve just lost.”
With that, he slammed the skylight shut onto Cassandra’s fingers, who screamed, before letting go and falling into the darkness below. Clapping his hands together as though satisfied, his belly now full with a strange tingling warmth, Brian turned to the sheep with a grin.
“Well, Shaun. It appears this might be your lucky night. What say you about that?”
“Baa.”
“Thought as much. Let’s get down from here.”
Chapter Eleven:
Who Let The Dogs Out?
Neil played with the now-freed sheep, throwing sticks for it to fetch. Fetch them it wouldn’t, instead simply standing and staring, alternately up at him, then the sticks, before sauntering off in search of grass to eat, as was a sheep’s wont. Brian, Scylla and Aaron leant up against the car, eyeing the large front door of the barn with suspicion.
“How long since the hubbub stopped?” Scylla asked. “It’s been quiet for what seems like ages.”
Neil sauntered over, gazing down at the expensive watch on his wrist.
“About fifteen minutes now.”
“Reckon that’ll be long enough?” Brian asked Aaron.
“I… I think so, yeah,” the hippy shrugged. “Doesn’t usually take long, once we’ve eaten. They should all hopefully be back to normal now.”
The four stared at each other for a moment, before Brian sighed.
“Right, might as well get on with it then. Let’s do it. Neil, you get in the car, cover us with the Punisher just in case things go awry. Scylla, you’re with me. Aaron, just… stay out of harm’s way.”
His companions did as he bade as Brian slowly, cautiously made his way towards the barn door, Scylla beside him. Behind him, as he walked, the bonnet of the Camaro whined, a panel in the centre of the hood sliding to reveal a gap, from which the huge, three-barrelled shape of the Punisher rose, darting left and right like a fifty-calibre dog straining at a leash. Neil nodded his readiness from the controls within the car as Aaron paled and shivered with apprehension beside him.
“You ready?” Scylla asked him as the pair reached the door.
“As I’ll ever be,” Brian replied. “Which means not at all. So let’s get it over with.”
Between the two of them they hoisted the heavy iron bar and cast it to one side with a clang. Slowly, slowly, Brian reached for the handle and pulled the barn door open towards them. Silence greeted them. Silence, and smells, a powerful aroma washing out from the darkness; a heady and nauseating mixture of wet dog, cannabis, patchouli oil. And something else, too. Something that didn’t belong, something sweet and flowery and far too familiar.
“That was a cheap trick, Helsing,” came a low hiss from seemingly nowhere. Suddenly, the empty air but a few paces before them began to coalesce into a shape, feminine, familiar and entirely pissed off. “Even invisibility doesn’t help much against their ridiculous sense of smell. After fifteen minutes of constant moving from cover to cover, I’ve built up quite the thirst. Unfortunately,” Cassandra began, pausing as a chorus of low, reverberating growls began to build up from behind her, “I don’t think I’m first in line at the buffet. Therefore I shall leave you to be hoisted by your own petard. Au revoir, Helsing,” she laughed. “And good luck.”
With that, the vampire vanished, rushing past them in a blur, leaving the duo standing, perplexed, as the sounds of low, hungry growling grew nearer and nearer.
“Brian,” Scylla whispered, as huge shapes and glowing, yellow eyes began to manifest in the gloomy interior of the barn. “I don’t like this. What do we do?”
“The doors, let’s close them, quickly!”
The two rushed to the wide open doors and swung them shut as fast as they could, but not fast enough; an enormous, furred arm launched through the gap, titanic, razor claws scrabbling and swishing this way and that, stopping them from closing them entirely. A bang, then another bang, then another, as enormously heavy lycans shoulder barged the door from the other side. It was all Scylla and Brian could do to hold the doors as closed as they were. Slowly, their feet began to slide back in the dirt, even the combined strength of a Helsing and a Water Nymph no match for a horde of swollen were-beasts. Another jolt, the doors parting just enough for the lead werewolf to launch through the gap and out into the farm yard. The eight-foot lycan whirled and roared in confusion and hunger as it found itself in open air, before turning and spying the duo that still strained and sweated as they held the doors closed. Brian glanced over his shoulder at the snarling beast as it approached, but he could turn, couldn’t fight, couldn’t let off the pressure on the door for an instant lest the entire pack be released.
“Neil,” he roared. “Light it up!”
The Punisher whirred as the barrels began to spin, the werewolf turning towards the Camaro at the noise, just in time to be shredded by a hundred rounds of supersonic lead. The beast fell to the earth with a thud, twitching in a pool of its own slowly spreading blood. Brian allowed himself a slight grin, but then another savage bang from the door nearly knocked him to from his feet, and he strained once more, calling upon his chi to feed his waning strength.
“Let them out one at a time, Bri!” Neil called from the car. “I’ll take them out as they come.”
“No!” Aaron cried out, face distraught. “That wasn’t the plan. These are my friends, not animals.”
He was right, Brian thought. This wasn’t the plan, but then, when did his life ever go according to plan? From birth till now, his life had been one of constantly winging it and hoping for the best. But what could he do? Both he and Scylla were tiring and couldn’t hold this door against the onslaught forever. A sudden, pathetic bleating cut through the din, and he looked up to see the sheep still stood by the fence some yards away, chewing mouth filled with grass as it watched the scene with curiosity. Brian nodded, knowing now what he had to do.
“Scylla,” he grunted. “When I give the word, open the doors a fraction.”
“Are you mad?”
“Yes. Three, two, one. Now!”
As the pair relaxed their pressure on the doors, only slightly, the gap between them growing larger, Brian summoned with all his mental might. The sheep launched from its feet, dragged as though by God’s own fishing line, soaring towards them like a woolly missile.
“Baa,” it exclaimed, as it shot through the gap in the doors and vanished into the darkness.
Suddenly, the pressure on the doors and the sounds of baying, bestial throats eased off, and Scylla and Brian slammed the doors shut, wasting no time in grabbing the thick metal bar and sliding it back into place, before collapsing to the ground in exhaustion. The Camaro’s doors opened and the other pair strode across the farm yard. Aaron’s eyes were sad as he took in the form of his fallen friend, body torn to shreds by the might of the Punisher cannon, but it was Neil’s voice that was filled with pain.
“Poor Shaun…”
“He died a warrior’s death,” Scylla comforted him.
“They shall sing of his bravery in sheep Valhalla,” Brian added. “I only hope his sacrifice will do the job.”
“It will,” Aaron told him. “You did the right thing, Helsing.”
I hope so, Brian th
ought, staring up at the werewolf. And yet, part of him couldn’t help but think that maybe he’d been going about things the wrong way entirely. Even if tonight were dealt with, there was still tomorrow. And with a vengeance-thirsting vampiress on the loose, constantly intent on meddling with his plans, he didn’t foresee tomorrow’s escapades being any easier. All it would take was one rogue werewolf to escape, to kill an innocent and unwary denizen of Cornwall, and Brian’s determination to save as many of the lycans as he could would surely come back to haunt him.
In the windshield of the Camaro, lit by the silvery light of the full moon, XII regarded him with sad and knowing eyes that sent a shiver down his spine.
Chapter Twelve:
To Kill Or Not To Kill
Between the unseasonably warm rays of the spring sun overhead and the pungent haze of marijuana smoke that hung over the little group, Brian’s head was swimming. Neil and Scylla seemed cheerful, but then they almost always were, especially here and now in the midst of a music festival, with partygoers streaming on either side of the little circle, and banjos and drums blaring out from the stage at the far end of the field. The mood, despite the heavy mud that clung to everyone and everything, was light, the small group of werewolves and Brian’s two companions laughing as they sat on logs, chatting and passing around the blunt. And yet Brian didn’t laugh. He scowled. For once more he was struck by how normal and human his ‘prey’ were.
And that made his job all the more difficult.
Craig, the new ‘alpha’ of the pack, following the untimely departure of Barry outside the barn the night before, took a sup of cloudy cider and regaled the group with yet another humorous anecdote of his life on the road. Full of long-haired hippy charm, with a large, pink tattoo of a love-heart on his right cheek, not an inch of him looked like a killer. Then again, neither did any of the others in the little group of werewolves; men, women, all various ages, shapes, backgrounds, yet all chilled and hippyfied, seemingly simply happy to be in the company of like-minded people who all knew what the other was going through. A shared burden of guilt, lessened by good humour, good weed and good company. It was hard to dislike any of them, let alone ponder how to go about killing them, should the need arise.
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Mission #3: Howlin' Mad Page 7
