by Minda Webber
The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing
Minda Webber
Having lived long amongst London's ton, Ethel Jane Van Helsing was an astute female who well knew her faults. Her skin was marred with freckles, her nose was too snub and her hair of a brown that reflected neither gold nor red highlights. She had a face unremarkable in its plainness. And yet...at a masquerade ball, anything could happen. There, until the stroke of midnight, even an ugly duckling could become a swan. But tonight was not for fowl play. You see, plain or not, Jane came from distinguished stock. Van Helsings. And Van Helsings didn't worry about soiling their pelisses; they were slayers. Where other young ladies were told no monsters lurked under their beds, Jane's parents had explained the often-handsome creatures lay in beds, crypts, and at balls like these. Her father, the Major, had shown her very early how to use the sharp end of a stick, where and when the sun didn't shine. Tonight, everything was at stake. Something was going to get driven very deep into a heart, or she wasn't the Reluctant Miss Van Helsing.
Minda Webber
The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing
To my father, George Webber,
who always believed that I could reach the stars,
and to my mother, Maxine Webber, who picked me back up
when I didn't quite reach them. I miss you, Dad, but I know
you are smiling down on me from Heaven.
Acknowledgments
To my sister, Marilyn Webber, for being the best sister a gal can have, and to my son, Jake Bohannon, for being the best son in the world, with no prejudice attached; Christopher K., my humorous editor, and Helen B., my agent, with great taste in humor; Ryan Faltisek for being the great guy that he is; Karla, Mary Alice, Tony and Esther for their help and comments; Yolanda, Marilyn and Karla for their always enthusiastic help and being the world's best bosses—or at least San Antonio's; Terry for being the computer whiz she is and helping me, the computer dummy that I am; the corner gang—Ron, Diann, Bill, Angie and Israel; Dan for being a great guy in spite of his stuffed-cat-abusing dog, Waggs; Mary, Christine and Missy—the cover girls; Louise and Dale, for going beyond the call of friendship, along with Shirley, for the car thing, and Alice. Debbie Lorz, my old high school chum, who drove over a hundred miles in the blistering heat of summer to pick up six copies of my book—what a friend. And for T.J.—I miss you very much, too. No one brings me police line-up tapes or stuffed animals anymore.
Author's Note
No good vampires were actually staked, no good werewolves were shot with silver bullets, and no good or bad ostriches were plucked of their feathers during the writing of this book, although I'm not sure about the soiled doves. However, many enormous liberties were taken with historical dates, events and people, making this book a hardcore fiction of the quirky, fun kind. Forgive me and I'll do it again for the third book in the series.
The Mask
The trouble with being a Van Helsing was that one was expected to be a vampire hunter whether male or female, and whether or not one was up to the job. This message was drummed into all little Van Helsings from the cradle. When other children were out playing marbles and hopscotch, Van Helsings were playing hide-and-seek in crypts, pin the stake into the vampire, and "Tag, you're bit." Where other young children were frightened of monsters under the bed, in the wardrobe or in the cellars, the Van Helsing progeny were told that not only were there monsters under the bed, but behind doors, in crypts and in the shadows of the night. And it was the Van Helsing family duty to stake those blood-sipping fiends known in the ancient language as the Nosferatu.
"At least tonight I won't get blood on my gown," Jane muttered to herself, her mood dark.
It didn't matter that she, Ethel Jane Van Helsing, daughter of Major Edward Van Helsing, got nauseated at the sight of blood. It didn't matter that a life of digging up graves and dodging drops of gore was forever ruining her gowns. It didn't matter that she had heart palpitations over hairy-legged, beady-eyed spiders—most especially those tricky web-spinning little monsters that crawled all over her while she was out hunting the undead in the dead of night, and in the cold black hearts of various crypts and mausoleums. No, none of her feelings mattered in the day-is-night world of the Van Helsing clan; Jane was expected to do her duty in the most splendid and spectacular manner that befitted her grand heritage.
Worse, no one in the Van Helsing clan besides Jane's brother, Brandon, could understand her reluctance at hunting vampires and then driving a Van Helsing-brand stake through their cold-blooded hearts. Unfortunately, Brandon was away right now in the Carpathian Mountains. She could use her brother's help right now in putting an end to an amoral immortal vampire.
Instead Jane was left to do the despised deed alone, which was why she was standing here with her grandfather at the top of the stairs at the Stewart Masquerade Ball, her stomach in knots.
In the foyer below Jane and her grandfather lay a magical, sparkling kingdom, with large marble columns decorated by large gold masks and brightly colored ribbons. Candles in Venetian chandeliers illuminated the alabaster columns, their light reflected from large gilt-framed mirrors hanging on cream pin-striped walls. Servants dressed in blue livery scurried back and forth between the jewel-bedecked and costumed guests in the ballroom.
"Why wasn't I born a Smith or Doe?" Jane sighed quietly as she observed flirtatious young ladies and gentlemen of the ton dancing their mating dance, jewels glittering brightly from costumes re-created from days of old. She clearly understood that tonight many a young lady was setting her cap for a member of the aristocracy, marriage her only goal. Jane herself was not so fortunate. She was doffing her cap and taking up her holy water. While others were enjoying the night and its promise of young love, Jane was dreading it.
"Heh? What was that about a doe? This isn't a hunting party, Jane—is it?" Colonel Ebenezer Van Helsing asked. "I thought we were in London and not the country, girl."
"Nothing, Grandfather, just wishful thinking," Jane replied, patting the man's arm and staring up at him. Her grandfather was a tall, thin specimen with a long face. It was not a handsome face, for Van Helsings were rarely attractive people. Yet it was a kind face, filled with the wrinkles and lines of a long and well-lived life.
"Fishing, who's fishing? I thought we were going to a ball!"
Jane couldn't help but smile. Her crusty old grandfather was seventy-two and a little hard of hearing. What he heard was oftentimes erroneous, and sometimes rather funny.
"We are at a masquerade ball." Normally Jane loved balls, routs and musicals—any kind of social gathering. She loved London's massive residences, with their glittering decors, and the exquisite clothes worn by the Peers of the realm. Jane even enjoyed the insipid conversations about the weather and about who was seeing whom (or what). Although the ton's gossip could be malicious or trivial, it was still a nice change from her usual family conversation, which was generally about saving the world from the undead.
"Of all social events, I think masquerades are my favorite," she related to her grandfather. In such a glittering world of make-believe, the green could pretend experience beyond their years; the more mature could regain a portion of their lost youth for a few precious hours, and the less fortunate in looks could cater to their lovers' fondest wishes.
For Jane, whose face was remarkable in its unremarkability, masquerading as someone else was a dream come true. She was an astute and intelligent female, and thus well knew her faults. Her skin was marred with freckles, her nose was too snub and her hair was a shade of brown that reflected neither gold nor red highlights. But at a masquerade ball, anything could happen. Even an ugly ducking could be a swan until the stroke of midnight.
&nbs
p; "And yet, tonight I wish we were anywhere else in the world—even a dusty old mausoleum," she told her grandfather. For she had been reluctantly recruited—a dainty, bird-loving lady made to masquerade as a vampire hunter, as a temptress.
"Duty is duty, my child," her grandfather commented gruffly. "You have your marching orders from your father. Remember Operation Petticoat. It's a grand scheme. I never would have thought to use your mother's last name as a disguise, as well as this masked costume. Of course, you've been in the country so long that I doubt anyone besides your friends the Frankensteins would recognize you."
Jane frowned, her brow creased with worry. "I hope so. Father will be quite displeased if anything goes wrong." At his command, she was attending this ball as Miss Paine. The subterfuge was to help her stalk the Earl of Wolverton, a surprising powerful member of the nefarious Nosferatu. With all her previous failed attempts at vampire-slaying, she knew she needed all the help she could get, for the earl was an intelligent predator and the kind of man capable of silencing a room full of people by simply walking through the door.
"You'll do fine, Jane. You are a Van Helsing," her grandfather reminded her proudly, patting her arm. "Just don't forget the holy water," he added.
She nodded, going over her father's grand scheme in her mind. After attracting the Earl of Wolverton's attention, she was to maneuver him into an empty room, where she would attack. She was then to pool her resources: pouring holy water on him and liquidating the earl. Jane shuddered. She would have to remember to step back so that the melting pieces of vampire wouldn't splash her costume. In the murderous schools of nineteenth-century real estate and vampire hunting, Jane had learned that location was everything.
These thoughts churning in her head, Jane grudgingly made her way down the stairs with her grandfather. On the last few steps, Ebenezer Van Helsing finally noticed where they were, the ladies and gentlemen swaying and whirling before them, adorned in everything from Louis XV costumes to demon garb.
"Why are all these people dressed so queerly?" he asked, perplexed.
"It's a masquerade ball, Grandfather. Remember? That's why I'm dressed like Cleopatra and you're the Grim Reaper," Jane reminded him calmly. She knew how he hated a fuss when he forgot things, or when he went off into one of his many flights of fancy. And despite the embarrassing things her grandfather did and said at times, Jane loved the crusty old man. Sometimes she adored him more for his imperfections. To her, the slightly off-center septuagenarian was a breath of fresh air in the live-and-let-vampires-die atmosphere of her home.
"Yes, I am the Grim Reaper. Quite appropriate for me. If I were one of those sneaky vampires, I would be running scared right now," Ebenezer bragged. "Yes, quite appropriate."
"Quite," Jane agreed, patting his arm again. He had been quite the vampire hunter in his day, slaying the infamous Nosferatu, Lugosi, Lee and Langella. However, age had taken its toll, and the sun had set on his glorious nighttime heroics. Which was another reminder that Jane was on her own tonight. She could not count on her grandfather for help, for she did not want to endanger him; and her brother was in Austria, and her father was at home with a raging case of gout.
Her grandfather, monocle in hand, surveyed the guests, as he pointed out a colorful costume here and there. Many of the outfits looked authentic, with a few demonic exceptions.
Ebenezer shook his head. "Humbug!" he said.
Jane, curious as to what had made him use his favorite epithet, glanced over at her grandfather. He was looking at two young bucks dressed as devils.
"Ignorance is never pretty, even if it is not their fault," he said.
Jane knew only too well that in the real-life world of vampires and shape-shifters, there was an unwritten law that the less said by those in the know to the rest of the world, the better. What mortal person in his right mind would want to learn the truth of many otherworldly creatures? Who wanted to know that the big bad werewolf really had eaten Little Red Riding Hood's grandma, and that Sleeping Beauty's prince was a vampire? Run-of-the-mill mortals were just too insecure to react with any sanity about the supernatural world. And thus you saw problems like the one capturing her grandfather's attention now. Obviously these two young men attired like demons, with their scruffy-looking tails and red pitchforks, knew nothing about Lucifer's strict rules.
"Hell might be sulphurous, and it might be unbearably hot, but a dress code is still a dress code," Jane agreed with her grandfather's unspoken criticism. "King Lucifer can't abide disheveled subjects. And these young bucks know nothing about Hell. Where are the ink stains on their devilish little fingers? Devils always have an ink stain or two on their index fingers from drawing up all those contracts!"
Her grandfather nodded wisely. "And I'll be deuced. Demons never carry pitchforks anymore. Lucifer certainly wouldn't call these the Devil's own. He would burn them to a crisp if he saw them dressed as such pitiful little beggars."
"I know. Lucifer would never accept such an… agricultural mode of dress. And no self-respecting devil would ever have a tail so unattended-looking." Jane shook her head. "Alas, they're tails we can never tell."
Ebenezer sighed. Then, spotting one of his old vampire-hunting cronies entering the card room, he said, "There's Gellar Buffyton!" And with those words he was off, hurrying to catch up with his old friend and leaving Jane alone to review her options.
After careful consideration, she recognized that she had none. Not with recent developments. Two days ago, her father had found out that the diabolical Dracul, who had used an alias since his infamy spread across the world, was none other than the celebrated rake Neil Asher, the very stylish Earl of Wolverton—the man Jane was now after. It was amazing that he'd hidden in London for as many years as he had, especially with the Van Helsings, the scourge of vampire-kind living there as well.
Gleefully, her father's network of spies had told the major of their astounding discovery. They had been so excited by their sleuthing, Jane was surprised they hadn't shouted their discovery from the rooftops of London. The celebrating spies had even written a poem for the occasion, which Jane could recite by heart now, since her father had made her memorize each and every word. She whispered it, prepping herself for her mission like a good officer prepping his troops before war:
"Oh, you better watch out. You better not die. You better not doubt, I'm telling you why. Dracul is coming to Town! He's making a list, and who knows who'll be first? He's going to find out whose blood will slake his thirst. Dracul is coming to Town: He bites you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. So hang the garlic in your bedchamber, get a cross for goodness' sake. Dracul is coming to Town!"
She sighed. "It's not Shakespeare," she admitted. But she would give credit where credit was due. Finding Dracul was the most sought-after honor her father's employees could hope to achieve. Besides dispatching the monster, of course.
Yes, everyone who was anyone in the field of vampire-slaying wanted to be the one to put an end to this most heinous and debauched undead of all time. He was a creature so perverted and deranged, he'd let his three brides feed on children while he himself feasted on young virgins, terrorizing them before he took their life's blood and their maidenheads. He was evil to the core, a vampire who had never run tame, and who knew nothing of the quality of mercy.
And Jane was to dissolve the dissolute Dracul tonight, or so her father had ordered. It would be a major achievement, and would place Jane in the gloriously elite ranks of all the other Van Helsings. This was what her father sought: his daughter's destruction of the Prince of Supreme Evil. But Jane only wanted a cup of hot chocolate, a good novel to read and her trusted dog, Spot, by her side.
Sighing softly, she regretted again that life was never quite what one expected. But then, death probably wasn't either, she decided as she watched a guest stroll by in a black robe and with a sickle in his hand.
Taking a deep breath, she forced her chin up and straightened her back, pushing her gloomy thoughts
away. She was about to put her father's strategy, Operation Petticoat, into effect.
Actually, she thought as she glanced down at herself, it was a bad name for the operation, as she had no petticoats at all. In fact, she felt almost naked as she inspected her Cleopatra costume, tailored by Miss Elizabeth Burton. The gown's material was a shimmering green that clung to Jane's body while baring her right shoulder and arm. The left side of the garment had a rich golden wrap attached, hiding the deep pocket where Jane had stashed her flask of holy water. It was a costume designed to entice, yet to hide what needed to be hidden. The outfit had been specified by the major, her father, after he'd reviewed military tactics and decided to use holy water as the instrument of destruction for the Prince of Darkness. That decision had been reached after the major had painstakingly discussed in vivid detail with Jane the misstakes of her last two vampire slayings, and how this time everything would go just right.
To complete the outfit, Jane wore on her upper arm two golden serpentine bracelets. A dark golden mask covered most of her face and, to her relief, her freckles. A long black wig hung silkily down her back. In truth she looked like another woman, which gave her confidence. But, she reminded herself, "Though a daffodil may want to be a rose, it will be a daffodil even if it can somehow change its petals."
Still, she was in fine looks tonight. Earlier, when she had inspected her reflection like a general inspects his troops, she had decided she did look rather enticing. She felt almost mysterious, and attractive enough to be a seducer of Anthonys and Caesars. She hoped the subterfuge would work, and that she would be able to lure the lusty Earl of Wolverton into a secluded room. Once there, she would then do her duty, hoping not to actually have her virtue or life compromised by the earl's legendary appetites.
