The Van Helsing Resurgence
By Evelyn Chartres
(Nom de plume)
Copyright 2019
Ottawa, Ontario
SYNOPSIS
Clara Grey is a hunter and part of a secret organisation known only as the Tower. During the Roaring Twenties, she sacrifices herself to destroy a powerful vampire. As a reward, she joins the ranks of Heaven’s army, and for ninety years, Clara yearns to take an active role in the mortal realm.
In an attempt to alter the course of history, scientists trigger an experiment with devastating results. The effects are felt not only on Earth, but in other realms as well.
Clara and an echo from her past are sent to Earth to investigate the case of a corrupted soul. For this transgression, Heaven could go to war, but they choose to send Clara—and Edith. They fall to Earth, intent on their mission.
Both have been isolated from the mortal realm. In their lives, monsters were on the decline, but they soon learn just how much the modern world has changed. While navigating this alien world, will they adapt to their surroundings to fulfil their mission? Or be swallowed up by the evil that lurks beneath?
Before reading on, be sure to remember: while the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.
Contents
SYNOPSIS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
PREVIOUSLY, ON THE VAN HELSING PARADOX
OMEGA
CAUSE AND EFFECT
BLEED THROUGH
MORPHEUS’ EMBRACE
LEATHER AND LIPSTICK
SHADOWS AND ECHOES
FRIENDS AND FOREPLAY
TRIPLE, VENTI, SOY, NO FOAM LATTE
AFTERGLOW
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
SHELL SHOCKED
LUCK OF THE IRISH
COLLISION COURSE
ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND
ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR
THE VAN HELSING RESURGENCE
DINNER WITH AN ANGEL
LEXICON
ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES
ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES
LICENCE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank everyone who helped make this novel a reality, namely, those who played a part in the process.
I would like to mention R.E. Moran for the key role she played in designing the cover. The Van Helsing Resurgence is her fourth cover design for me. Thank you once more for lending your creativity and flair to make this one really stand out.
Thank you, Heather Ann MacDonald, for your insight on the human mind. It is one thing to guess how a mental health professional would react; it is another matter entirely to gain some valuable insight straight from the source.
Thank you, Pamela Belyea, for your diligence in scouring my manuscript for all matter of faults. She is proof that no amount of self-revision can hope to purge all flaws. While there will always be something, I can be certain that the most glaring offenders have been caught.
Lastly, I wish to thank Cheryl Lawson, Kayla Ray Tidwell, and those who indulged in my Saturday Scenes submissions. These are the brave souls who read through my work during its early incarnations. They are beacons in the night, proof that I am not navigating these dark seas alone.
Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)
[email protected]
http://evelynchartres.com
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
The Van Helsing Resurgence, is my second book of the Clara Grey Adventures. The first book for this series, The Van Helsing Paradox, is available for free on most markets. I urge all readers to enjoy that book, before taking on this sequel.
For those of you who prefer to read a condensed version of The Van Helsing Paradox, or just want a quick refresher, please read “Previously, on The Van Helsing Paradox.” Otherwise, start off with “Omega” and enjoy the ride!
Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)
[email protected]
http://evelynchartres.com
PREVIOUSLY, ON THE VAN HELSING PARADOX
1929
People often said that revenge was a dish best served cold. Although the originator of that turn of phrase probably never came across those who possessed the chill touch of the grave.
Either way, Clara was not sold on the idea, considering that the memory of a corpse bursting into flames was so near and dear to her heart. It was the heat from those flames that permitted her to keep going until the sun claimed its dominion over the land.
“Revenge for whom or for what?” Clara wondered.
Clara wondered why she considered her vocation a form of revenge. Her father died working the coal mines while her mother followed suit years later; there was no desire to avenge their deaths.
The hunter was also not sure which of their deaths had been the most traumatic. Was it watching one’s father grow weaker until he could barely get up from bed? She remembered how he would cough up black blood. They eventually found him in the outhouse stiff and blue. Somehow, he managed to make it there during the night but never made it back.
Or was it her mother’s death which had been more traumatic? A slower and more prolonged death, which brought about skin lesions, rashes and the eventual collapse of the mind. Even though she had gone blind near the end and appeared leprous, Clara remembered how men would still come around looking for her services. She had silently hoped that whatever her mother died of, turned out to be catching.
After her death, Clara and her three sisters were sent off to different orphanages. That had been her first time on a train and the last time she ever saw them again.
She ended up at some orphanage run by sisters from a local convent. Her arrival marked her first exposure to both schooling and religious studies. These had been luxuries that her family could ill afford since it was difficult to justify higher learning when one had to give up a meal or lose the roof over their heads to provide it.
Clara readily embraced her new way of life, giving in to her thirst for knowledge. She further utilised what she learned to make life difficult for the Sisters.
There were other children who enjoyed pushing the boundaries as well, but Clara quickly learned how to avoid the nuns’ wrath. She noted that judgements were only rendered to those unlucky enough to get caught.
Not only did this push Clara to conceal her movements, but it made her escapades much more elaborate. There was nothing more rewarding than seeing Sister Agnes’ eyes dart from child-to-child in another failed attempt to root out the culprit.
On occasion, Clara would get caught in the act, although that was normally part of the plan. She would take her lashings and, pray or fast as required. All the while, she would plot her next bout of defiance. Getting caught only made them underestimate her capability for mischief.
During her second year at the orphanage, Clara noticed how often Father Michael, the school’s resident priest, was called away. The man would disappear for days or even weeks at a time without raising suspicion. For a mischievous little girl, the concept of being able to avoid consequences had some allure.
Motivated to discover his secrets, Clara shadowed the man. It seemed to be easy enough since he probably never considered that someone would follow him. Such thoughts must have been a foreign concept for those who lived under the watchful eye of their God, especially for those who had given their vow of obedience to him.
In anticipation of his destination, Clara went ahead and hid in his quarters. She was reminded that
the devout were notorious for remaining covered at all times. Clara once caught a sister flaying herself as she bathed, all in an effort to keep impure thoughts from her mind. She later learne
d that was the reason they adopted the habit. They did it to keep aspects of themselves which might elicit any impure thoughts hidden. Some orders were more strict, such as the nuns who taught at this school. They would go so far as to bathe clothed to avoid being seduced by their own bodies.
Clara caught no more than a glimpse of his scar-riddled back. It had been long enough for her to know that these scars had not been left by a whip, paddle or any other form of corporal punishment. There was an animalistic quality to the scarring, but what kind of animal was capable of inflicting those?
While most assumed they were alone once in their quarters, this priest surprised her. So much so that it blew her earlier theories out of the water.
“It is not wise to enter the house of God with impure thoughts,” Father Michael said calmly using the voice he reserved for his sleep-inducing sermons.
Clara did not say a word; she even held her breath in an effort to remain undetected. He never turned back to look, nor did Clara see any reflective surfaces in the room. Her presence should have remained undetected.
“You have been following me all morning, child,” Father Michael added.
Clara knew that she had been discovered which made it futile to continue on with this game. It was obvious that he knew; the question was, how?
“Curious,” Clara replied while she mulled over her initial response. She then thought it best to add for good measure, “Father.”
“Curious, child?” Father Michael asked while continuing to change.
Clara noted how these new clothes were not a priest’s garbs. The more Clara questioned this situation, the more curiosity swelled within.
“Why a man of the cloth disappears for days on end,” Clara replied. “The origin of your scars and your more recent wounds,” she added despite that being a wild guess.
So why not turn the tables and evade his attempts at an inquisition? That tactic was much easier to handle than constant evasion.
Once again, she threw in, “Father,” as a belated mark of respect.
“The sisters often mention how bright you are,” Father Michael said.
Clara wondered why he dropped the formality of calling her child. Father Michael turned around then knelt to get a better view of her. It was the first time she had looked into his eyes, steel-grey and full of life, just like hers.
“Clever enough to stay out of sight,” the priest said, which was quickly followed by a warm smile. “Quick enough to ask questions that would provide you with valuable insight.”
Before she could reply, he raised his hand to interrupt. This confused Clara because the room was silent. There were no sounds to be heard, inside or out. Was this a veiled attempt at making fun of her? Perhaps this was an attempt to teach her a lesson?
That answer came once the door was torn from its hinges. After the dust settled, Clara saw a woman of intense beauty. Clara had no words to describe her, only that she was as beautiful as Clara imagined angels to be.
Father Michael, seemed bewitched, unable to think nor focus. At first, she wanted to say something, to help him snap out of it. Yet she sensed there were forces at play that went beyond her comprehension.
Clara remained concealed and once more held her breath while she observed. If that woman was aware of Clara’s presence, she showed no obvious signs.
The creature continued her slow deliberate approach towards the priest. Once she was a foot away from Father Michael, he broke out of his trance and pulled out a rosary from his pocket. This particular item had been fitted with a thin metal blade attached to the base of the crucifix.
With one quick motion, he attacked but missed. This woman moved like a blur, reappearing just behind Father Michael and in one vicious strike, gouged out a chunk of his neck.
Clara watched as blood shot out in spurts. The initial jet of blood covered the wall to his left and the second narrowly missed Clara. The third spurt never materialised because this creature had latched onto his neck to feed.
Terror should have taken hold of this girl, culminating in a blood-curdling scream. Such a response would have made her the second victim that night. Fortunately, she remained even-keeled, her mind clear and focused.
Clara snuck out of her hiding place then crept quietly towards the rosary. She picked it up prior to focusing on the scene. Given the nasty wound, it would take no more than a moment for that creature to finish her feast. Even now, Father Michael was white as a sheet, a sign that he was too far gone to be helped.
Regardless, Clara realised how this would be her only chance; she closed her eyes and recited a prayer. Relying on faith alone, she plunged the crucifix’s blade into the woman’s back and was greeted by silence.
In the time it took for her to blink, the other had turned around to glare. Pure hatred was painted on the creature’s face, a clear indication of what she had in mind for Clara. Meanwhile, Father Michael’s body slumped to the ground with nothing more than a few drops of blood trickling from his wound.
“How dare you!” the woman shrieked.
Again, this confrontation should have left her shaking like a leaf. Instead, Clara stood tall, with her blade in hand. Blood from that creature covered the bare metal and Clara wondered why it appeared to be thicker than her own.
The girl then looked out to the doorway, noticing how it had splintered. Were these Titans? Who could be capable of such strength and speed?
When shadows appeared in the hallway followed by the sound of footsteps, a smile fell upon Clara’s lips. The creature’s face flickered for a moment followed by a hint of worry; it seemed that she had arrived at the same conclusion. In a blink of an eye, the creature was gone; her escape left nothing more than a breeze from an open window.
* * * *
Clara snapped back to reality, momentarily confused about where she was.
“Was Father Michael’s death the catalyst that drove my thirst for revenge?” Clara wondered.
That reason did not jive. He dedicated his life to purging the world of their kind. He knew the risks and died doing God’s work.
“Not a bad way to go,” Clara said absentmindedly.
As the somniferous clickety-clack of the railcars took hold of her mind, Clara realised the sandman would soon claim his prize. It was midday and the train would not get there until a few hours before sunset.
She reached for a picture at her side, a recent shot taken a week or so ago. It featured a woman who walked hand in hand with an unidentified man who was later found dead. Despite a different hairstyle and clothes, Clara knew this woman, the one who had been responsible for countless deaths and atrocities. Unfortunately, before Clara could deliver her verdict, she was fast asleep.
* * * *
“Check out the rock of ages,” a lobby boy said loud enough that Lewis’ ears perked up.
The concierge looked up to see how a woman in her thirties would deserve that kind of reaction. Sure enough, Lewis’ question was answered the moment he set eyes on the gal making her way towards the lobby desk. Her baggage followed suit along with the love-struck valet who hauled it.
Odd how he seemed unaffected by the crushing weight of her bags. Might have something to do with the fact that his eyes were glued to her ass!
She had the chassis of a Greek goddess, toned and shapely. Despite her obviously active lifestyle, she retained that distinctive feminine sway, which entranced every male in the room.
Of course, the lobby boy would need to be reprimanded, even if his call to arms had been spot on. The day shift’s concierge eyed every movement she made, finding the entire affair sensual despite the lack of visible skin. The lady had chosen to wear a knee-duster that was both longer and of a heavier fabric than fashion dictated. A shame, because he would have enjoyed seeing more of her.
“Good day,” Clara said after giving Lewis the once-over.
Experience shone through her steel-grey eyes and Lewis could tell she had been around the block. All the better for him. He rather liked the id
ea of learning new tricks.
“I cabled ahead for a room,” Clara said with a soul-crushing tone that reinforced her desire to keep things strictly business. “Under the name of Grey,” she added nonchalantly.
Left with a deflated ego, Lewis wondered how she so easily rejected his masculine charm. The concierge looked over the register and found the entry. First name Clara, he noted and thought it was a pretty name which fit her to a tee.
“Ah, yes,” Lewis said playing the game. “Clara Grey, right here. May I call you Clara?” he asked with the backing of his warmest smile.
Clara smirked, then shook her head before replying, “No. Miss Grey will do.”
In the background, Lewis imagined his ego being shanked in some dark alley and left to bleed out. Unfortunately, she was not done with him yet, choosing to show no mercy by delivering the coup de grâce.
The Van Helsing Resurgence Page 1
