The Triumph of Death

by Jason Henderson

  “There are so many layers to this painting.” Astrid sounded excited. “I can’t believe I wasn’t familiar with it. Minhi has a mind like a trap.”

  “I’ll say.” Alex changed the subject. “So, what is it we hope to accomplish by looking at the actual painting that we can’t tell from an art book?”

  “Well, for one thing, we can get a look at the physical paint and see if Bruegel left anything in it that they didn’t pick up. That’s more of a Polidorium activity. But for another—Alex, Bruegel actually touched this painting. There might be a spiritual spell I can do to learn about what he was thinking when he made it.”

  “More of your magic beans?” It didn’t sound all that special to call yourself a witch if your power basically amounted to using premade tools.

  She studied his face. “You don’t think much of Prepared Spells, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Alex shook his head. “It’s really not my…I’d say concern, but that sounds so formal.”

  “You think it’s…a cheat? I’m using someone else’s work?”

  He was actually thinking, I just found out my mother is a witch, and she was able to shut a window with a few words. She didn’t need to throw any prepared weapon at it.

  She closed the book and set her hands on it, crossing them. “Do you know how we prepare them?” When Alex shook his head, she continued. “We make them ourselves. There are some spells that can be done on the fly, with a flurry of words, but many of them take more incantation than you’re likely to have time for in the field. Remember also that spells of conflict are especially costly and take more time and energy. So we very caringly prepare spells. It takes me hours and weeks to put a full library together. Everyone prepares them for themselves. The decoding spell you saw me use, I made myself.”

  “I’ve…seen other spells cast,” Alex said. “And they didn’t use tools.”

  Astrid nodded. “This would be your mother.”

  Alex’s ears pricked up. “Yes.”

  Astrid seemed to brighten when the subject came up. “Amanda is very much admired in the community. I mean, people talk about her, Alex. She can work faster and more efficiently than anyone of her generation and many older witches. She has both the innate talent and the years of training.” Astrid paused and leaned forward, looking the way Sid often did when he learned something new about vampires. “Can you tell me about her? What was it like growing up with such a powerful witch?”

  Alex felt his mouth drop open as he searched for an answer. The truth was going to be embarrassing. She seemed to know more about his mother than he did. “Um, she didn’t ever use her power when I was around.”

  Astrid didn’t seem to understand this. “Really?”

  “Really,” Alex said. “I didn’t know.” It was worse than that; he didn’t just not know—his parents had actively hidden the existence of the paranormal world from him. Vampires, werewolves, and witches, ghosts and zombies, and of course any significance to Alex Van Helsing’s name were all the imaginary stuff of books and movies. His parents had lied about the fact that the books, especially, carried clues regarding the truth about all of those things. He wanted to say, What else can you tell me about my mother? but he felt himself brimming with irritation.

  “She must have sacrificed a great deal,” Astrid said.

  Must have sacrificed. For Dad first, then for Alex and his fraternal twin, Judith, then for his three younger sisters. For all of them.

  But what did that mean, must have sacrificed? Was Astrid suggesting Mom was miserable? No, no, stop flying off the handle. He caught himself overreacting. He slowed down the way his father had taught him, as he would if he suddenly found himself losing his balance on a ski slope. He was hearing every word that Astrid said and for some reason he was giving it all the worst possible reading. Why was he doing that? It didn’t matter. This panic you’re feeling is not real.

  Alex shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.”

  Astrid’s eyes darted rapidly and she seemed to be looking over his eyebrows, and if he didn’t know better he’d think she was trying to read his mind. Could witches do that? “There’s a lot going on in there.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Alex asked.

  “Anything!” she said. “Alex, do you know you’re the only teenager I’ve met who’s aware of this weird little world we run in? It’s nice not to have to pretend to be normal. Go ahead, ask away.”

  “When you said that you insisted on working with a Van Helsing—I guess I’m confused. My mom was the witch, but what’s so special about the Van Helsings?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “Alex, you should know this stuff.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that.”

  “Let’s just say that just because your dad says the family belongs on the Polidori side of the equation doesn’t make it necessarily so.”

  “What do you mean? We’re not magic users.”

  “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  “I have a…” He looked at his hands as though he had the right description written on his palm. “I have an ability to sense evil. I can’t do spells or anything. And apparently it’s unusual.”

  “And you’re thinking you inherited this from your mom?”

  Alex shrugged.

  “Well.” Astrid leaned forward conspiratorially. “I do know something about this. You’re not the first Van Helsing to have power when it comes to vampires. You might be the first in a long time, but not the first. The Van Helsing that John Polidori met and worked with is someone my people admire greatly.”

  “You mean Abraham?” Alex knew that she was talking about the Van Helsing, Alex’s great-great-great-grandfather, who had given Bram Stoker notes on the hunt for Dracula that had played out in the 1880s. As a man in his twenties, Abraham had met John Polidori, who had started by faking his own death in 1821 and hunting Lord Byron. By the 1850s, Polidori was gathering vampire hunters and sharing information around the globe, starting a network of agents in the field and writers who were paid, coerced, recruited, and seduced into seeding information into literature. By the time of the Dracula affair at the end of the 1800s, Abraham was in his late seventies and John Polidori was long dead, finally actually dead. But what Alex had never understood was that Polidori and Van Helsing had coordinated their efforts on occasion with witches.

  “Yes,” Astrid said. “But even Abraham didn’t have the power you have. The gift belonged to Abraham’s first son before he died. That’s the last one we know of.”

  What? This was all new information for Alex. There had been other Van Helsings with the abilities he was developing? He felt a rush of excitement and relief. “This is incredible,” Alex said. “You know about my obscure uncles.”

  “We find you very interesting.”

  “Great! So what happened to my…” Alex tried to do the math. “Great-great-great-uncle?”

  Astrid looked up as though reading through a file floating in the air. “Abraham failed to find anyone who could help him with the powers he was developing. The boy went insane and died in a mental institution in the 1870s.”

  Alex paused, then mumbled, “Oh.”

  Astrid quickly changed the subject. “So, do your friends know about you?” she asked. “Minhi seemed to get really serious when you started asking about the painting.”

  “Yeah.” Alex nodded resignedly. “They do. I tell them pretty much everything.”

  “So you hate to say what’s in your head but you talk a great deal.” Astrid smiled.

  “It’s not like that.” Alex brightened suddenly. “Sid is a genius when it comes to vampires. He catches things that the Polidorium can miss. Paul is a rock of support. I need him. And Minhi is…”

  Astrid studied him, reminding him again of a curious bird. “A mind like a trap.”

  “She’s also a kung fu master,” Alex added.

  The young witch smiled. “You’re very protective of them.”

  “I don’t know if pr
otective is the word, I—they took me in.”

  Astrid shook her head. “Alex, you have such a destiny,” she said. “I don’t think you realize it. And I just wouldn’t want to see you throw it away.”

  Alex rose. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t know you. I’ve worked with Sangster and the Polidorium for months, and they trust you, so I’m following their lead. And I’m not trying to be hard on you. But it’s not as easy for me to trust you. Minhi and Paul and Sid—they’re like family to me, and I do trust them. So I have no idea what you mean when you say I’m throwing my life away, but listen: It’s my life.”

  He turned abruptly and went to his seat, wrapping his jacket around him. He needed to sleep.

  “Okay, but I think we should talk some more about Bruegel,” she offered, ignoring his outburst.

  He shook his head and closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this right now. “Just get some sleep, Astrid.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Prado Museum in Madrid, a vast, light gray palace lined with columns and plants, well-manicured lawns, and trees, had three entrances. The first, Puerta de Goya Alta, was for tourists. The second, the Puerta de los Jerónimos, was for groups, and the third, Puerta de Murillo, was for reservations and guests. At six A.M. on Tuesday morning Alex found himself in Spain going in the third way. They had four hours before the museum opened.

  Alex, Astrid, and Sangster left Armstrong reading in the Spanish-loaned van at the curb in front of the Atocha Metro stop and crossed the busy avenue in front of the museum at a run. As they neared the Puerta de Murillo, Alex could hear morning birds calling in the trees, and he could see a man in a suit walking down the steps to meet them.

  As they approached, Alex whispered to Sangster, “So they’re actually going to let us look at it?”

  “It’s a favor from the government.”

  “Do you guys have agents in every government?”

  “Not an agent, in this case,” corrected Sangster. “A friend who owes us a favor.”

  “Buenos dias,” the man said as he approached. He was tall, with silver hair and glasses and a neat mustache. Alex had the vague sense that they’d seen him before. They stopped in the shadow of the columns before the Puerta de Murillo. “Come, come, we have not much time if you want to get a good look.” The man gestured for them to follow. He led them up wide steps to a large wooden door that lay half open. “We have set aside space in the lower level, where the jewels are kept.”

  “Are you the curator?” Alex asked.

  Sangster said, “Alex, this is Federico Cazorla, Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

  Alex shook the man’s hand, and just as he was marveling that for some reason they were going to be led around by a minister, he lit on the man’s name. “Cazorla?”

  “Alex!” came another voice, and he looked ahead to see a girl just coming out the door. She was smoothing down a brown dress that perfectly complemented a familiar green scarf on her neck. Her brown hair was shoulder-length, wavy, and lush. It had grown since he had seen her last. The girl ran and nearly tackled him, throwing her arms around him and kissing each cheek.

  “Vienna,” Alex said, smiling. “I had no idea you were back in…”

  “Back home? Of course.” Her voice was husky and lush.

  Alex turned to Astrid. “This is Vienna Cazorla; she used to be a student at Glenarvon-LaLaurie.”

  “Except that it wasn’t originally called Glenarvon-LaLaurie. Just LaLaurie, until Alex blew up his own school and the students were thrown together.” Vienna’s huge eyes crinkled when she talked and held him momentarily spellbound. The scarf moved with her throat, and Alex remembered the scarf had once been alive, a magical curse that bound her to put Alex in harm’s way as surely as it held her head to her shoulders. She was still wearing it, and he wondered if it still held her in thrall, or if she just loved scarves.

  Astrid introduced herself and Vienna kissed the air next to each of Astrid’s cheeks. She took Astrid and Alex by the arms and led them in, ignoring the adults. “Alex, I didn’t know you would be bringing a friend.”

  “I gotta say, I didn’t know I’d even be here!” Alex replied. “And now I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I live here,” she said cheerily. “How long are you in Madrid?”

  “A day at most. The Polidorium has six days to stop the end of the world, I think,” he said casually.

  Vienna nodded. “So, you’ll be staying at my pensione tonight. You won’t begrudge a friend the opportunity to be hospitable. Will you?”

  Alex smiled. He’d forgotten about Vienna, the arm-sweeping, flirty vivaciousness of her. They all looked back at Sangster.

  Sangster shrugged. “I think that sounds swell.”

  “You hear that?” Alex asked, smirking. “Swell.”

  With that settled, they stepped into the museum, and Alex was immediately overwhelmed by the expansiveness of the place—just the first hall was massive, with long red-and-gold carpeting and vaulted ceilings, and paintings stretching back as far as the eye could see. All was deserted other than a small army of custodians wearing blue overalls, walking mopping buckets and sweeping with wide cloth brooms.

  “This is the jewel of la ciudad.” Vienna slowed them expertly as Minister Cazorla pulled ahead. “El Prado houses over 7,600 paintings, over a thousand sculptures, and several thousand more works of art of various kinds. Most are in storage, but nearly two thousand works are on display. It is the largest art museum in the entire world.”

  “You are really enjoying this,” Alex said.

  “Por supuesto, I am just getting star—” Vienna looked up as an alarm suddenly rang out.

  “What’s that?” Alex asked.

  “Someone broke a laser alarm,” said the minister, and they all started to run. Alex watched as red lights began to flash, and he heard heavy locks clicking shut on doors as they moved closer to a stairwell.

  As they covered the eighth of a mile or so until they reached the second-floor wing that housed the Bruegel, Alex heard voices. Security guards in black suits emerged from nowhere and pushed past them, and by the time they reached The Triumph of Death, there was a crowd of about twenty.

  The minister called out to a bald man in a black suit, “Tomás, que tal?”

  “That’s your curator,” Sangster said, as Tomás looked them over and then back at the painting.

  The curator said, “No se, pero alguien la toco.”

  “He says someone touched the painting,” Vienna offered. Alex slipped out of her grasp and edged around the crowd to get his first look at The Triumph of Death.

  The painting was five feet wide and four feet tall, in a massive wooden frame, and lit up by aimed track lighting. Alex looked down the wall past a hundred other works to see small red lights, lasers that would sense if someone got within inches of the canvas.

  “Did they damage it?” Alex asked.

  Vienna shook her head. “It does not look like it.”

  Alex looked at Sangster. “Why would someone mess with the same painting we were coming to look at?”

  “Yeah, I’m wondering the exact same thing,” Sangster said.

  Tomás was in a fury, questioning the guards. He called over a custodian, who entered from the far hall, and interrogated him. The custodian, about twenty, handsome and green-eyed, looked profoundly shocked. Alex gathered that he hadn’t seen anything. Tomás turned back to the minister and started speaking rapidly in Spanish.

  “Uh-oh,” Sangster said.

  “What?”

  Vienna whispered huskily, “The curator is worried, and he doesn’t want us to remove it and look at it. It all seems strange now.”

  “Tell him it’s important.”

  Vienna frowned at Alex. Like that was gonna happen. “How would you say it? Papa has got this.”

  Minister Cazorla spoke with ease now, using a soothing but firm tone. Alex got the gist of what he was saying: this is important; these people are here on an assig
nment, and the painting is untouched, and anyway we have a chance to look at it.

  While the minister was explaining the situation, Alex looked back at the painting. As he moved closer, he caught a flicker of light off the painting’s surface. He stepped to the side, looking at it as it hung there. The flicker was odd, not covering the whole painting. “Huh.”

  Sangster heard him. “What?”

  “I don’t know. Something isn’t ri—”

  Alex took a moment to take in the whole room. The custodian caught his eye again, moving around the corner with his mop and broom. Among the cleaning fluids and utilitarian white canisters in his bucket Alex saw a shiny brown can. It caught his eye because it didn’t fit; it looked—grocery-store-bought, not like something a custodian would clean a museum with.

  He began moving toward the custodian slowly to get a better look.

  For a moment he saw the image on the spray can. It was a picture of a man with a model head of thick brown hair. It was hair spray. Spraying that on a painting would leave a shiny film.

  They were just at the corner and Alex called, “Excuse me.”

  The custodian looked back. “Que? Lo siento, no…”

  “Is that hair spray?” Alex made a motion of spraying his head as he walked closer to the man.

  Without another word, the custodian slung the bucket at Alex and it clattered toward him, barely missing him.

  The custodian turned and ran, his hat flying off as he really started to move. He was still carrying the mop. It was clearly meant to be used as a weapon. Who are you? Alex thought. You’re not a vampire and you’re not one of us, so who are you?

  The blond custodian reached an exit door to a stairwell and slid to a stop next to it. He looked back at Alex as he slipped something out of his pocket. Alex felt adrenaline flood through his chest.

  Don’t let it take you. What’s going on?

  He’s got something in his hand. It’s a—

  It looked like a deck of cards. The custodian took less than a second to swipe it across the magnetic sensor next to the door and the door opened. Of course. Because the door had been locked by the alarm, and this guy was prepared to unlock it. But if he wasn’t stealing, what was he doing?