He pressed the accelerator into the carpet, the V8 engine rumbling as he dispatched a lesser car in his wake. God, the A30 seemed to go on forever; Cornwall wasn’t the largest of England’s counties – that title belonged to Yorkshire – but it was long, seeming to stretch out like a gangly appendix into the sea, the A30 being the one long, meandering road that traversed its entire length. Streetlights flashed by, one after the other after the other, till Brian felt his eyes begin to tire. Was he really supposed to be going clubbing tonight? He could do with some of Neil’s crazy purple pills. Suddenly, the green sign flashed up declaring Newquay but five miles distant. He turned off at the junction, slowing down now, the roads narrowing and getting winding, as they were wont to do in this part of the world, the tall hedges and blind curves almost designed to send unwary tourists squealing into the ditch. After long minutes, the roads opened up to reveal the sea, glistening beneath the frosty moon. Newquay sat on the coast, squat and sprawled, all gaudily-painted houses, palm trees and bustling bars. Along the sea-front road he drove till he reached the B&B he’d booked for the weekend, pulling the Camaro into the driveway. A short, round man with glasses was waiting for him in the porch, smoking a cigarette and eyeing the muscle car with interest.
“Evenin’,” the man greeted him, looking up then further up as Brian uncoiled himself from the car. “You must be Brian. I’m Stu.”
“Hi Stu, thanks for letting me book at such short-notice.”
“No bother, lad. Usually quiet this time of year. Not many tourists in the winter. I see you’re here for the competition.” He looked to the back of the Camaro, to the half a surfboard poking out from the bungeed boot. “I’d recommend a roof rack in future, though; you’re going to ruin your board carrying it round like that.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Can I help you with your bags?”
“Sure.”
Brian reached into the rear seats, pulled out a large leather bag containing all the various odds and ends from his boot; the sword, the bola-launcher, his Helsing outfit, various potions and ointments, none of which the surfboard had left room for. He handed it casually with one hand to the B&B owner, who stumbled, face turning red as he strained with both arms to keep the bag from crashing to the floor.
“Christ, you’ve been eating your Weetabix. What you got in there? Bricks?”
Brian laughed, declining to answer, too tired to make up any lies.
“I’m off out clubbing tonight. Where’s a happening place round ‘ere?”
“Well, anywhere on the main drag. But if you want a proper club, then try Leeroy’s; they don’t kick out till gone four in the morning. I’ll give you some keys in a minute so you can let yourself in when you come stumbling back. Don’t expect me to be up. And try not to wake my mrs – interrupt her beauty sleep at your peril.”
“Duly noted. I’ll just freshen up first, then I’m off out.” He watched the man taking laboured steps towards the house, before taking pity on him. “Tell you what, let me grab that, I’m going upstairs anyway. Which room am I in?”
“Room two, straight up the stairs,” the man replied, sighing with obvious relief and shaking his hands out as he handed the bag back to Brian, followed by a pair of keys. “Can’t miss it. If I don’t see you beforehand, breakfast is eight till nine.”
“Cheers mate.”
Brian made his way into the house, up the stairs, unlocking the first door he came to and flicking on the lights, before placing the bag on the floor and closing the door behind him. The room was typical of B&Bs in this part of the world; all white-painted and nautical-themed for the tourists, with paintings of boats on the walls, a model lighthouse on the windowsill, carved from Cornish serpentine. A double-bed filled the majority of the room, calling to him. It was all he could do to not lie down, switch on the TV and settle for the night, but he knew he had a job to do. If he could catch these Nymphs on land, he knew he’d have an easier time of it than facing them in the sea tomorrow.
Picking up the bag once more, he threw it onto the bed and unzipped it. His leather trenchcoat and wide-brimmed hat stared at him from within. He was going to look a berk in that get-up, he thought, especially in a club. Hardly the right clobber for going out on the pull. But then, what did one wear when they were trying to pull a Water Nymph? What did one wear when going out to pull at all? Brian was pretty clueless about things like that, fashion sense never having been one of his strong points, not going out on the prowl in hopes of getting laid. Being six foot seven and skinny as a rake most clothes made him look like one of those snakes wearing Christmas jumpers one saw on the internet. Besides, the trenchcoat was the only thing long enough to hide his sword in its scabbard on his back.
And somehow he doubted bouncers turned a blind eye to three foot long swords being carried into their establishment.
He dressed himself in his Helsing attire, strapping the sword to his back beneath his coat and pulling the wide-brimmed hat down low, before turning to look at himself in the wardrobe mirror. Strange, he thought; his face looked older, more grizzled and lined, than usual. It was only when the reflection spoke that he realised it wasn’t his own face at all.
“Take care out there tonight,” it warned him. “Water Nymphs are slippery buggers, even on dry land.”
“Jesus, man, you scared the shit out of me,” Brian exclaimed. “And what’s with all the appearances of late? You’re dead. Shouldn’t you be taking a well-earned break, rather than following me round like a bad smell?”
XII laughed from within the mirror.
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean I can’t dish out some words of wisdom from time to time.”
“Alright, Obi-Wan. Let’s hear it.”
“Water Nymphs are absolute party animals, a by-product of their energy-rich diet.” Brian shivered in disgust, knowing precisely what kind of diet the man implied, before the ghost continued. “They will dance and drink until the cows come home. Use this to your advantage if you can. Challenge one to a drinking contest, get her drunk; if she’s pissed, then you’ll stand a better chance against her incredible speed. I found vodka to work particularly well.”
“A drinking contest?” Brian pondered the shade’s words. “Now that’s something I can do.”
“I know, I’ve seen you drink. I fear for your insides. But don’t underestimate them,” XII warned, before grinning. “A Water Nymph can drink like a fish.”
Brian sighed.
“And with that, I’m off.”
“As am I,” XII nodded. “Got business to attend to myself.”
Brian stared, perplexed.
“Like what?”
XII shrugged.
“Ghost stuff.”
And with that, the apparition faded, leaving Brian staring at his own reflection in the mirror. If that was all death as a Helsing entailed, popping up in unexpected places to make awful puns to their successor, well, he resolved to hold off on such a fate as long as possible. And if drinking a Nymph under the table was the way to go about it, then he’d best be on his way.
He turned, leaving his room, making his way down the stairs, out the front door, past Bertha and onto the pavement. The air was cold, the sky clear. Newquay was on his right, bright lights, loud music calling him. Somewhere out there, a Nymph or maybe more than one, would be dancing amongst the unsuspecting herd, sizing them up as potential prey.
And so he set off at a loping stroll, knowing that whether he died or emerged triumphant this night, at least he would be doing it pissed.
Chapter Ten:
On The Pull
“You’re not coming in ‘ere like that.”
The bouncer’s face was almost disbelieving, just as Brian had guessed it would be earlier. He had to concede, he didn’t quite look the clubber part, what with his trenchcoat and hat looking pure steam-punk cosplayer and ridiculously out of place amidst the sea of bright shirts and short skirts.
“What will it take for me to get in?” he
asked.
“It will take you going home and getting changed.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Dunno. Didn’t think that far ahead.” Brian wracked his brain, before nodding. “How about if I introduce you to a friend of mine? You might know her; lives in London? Big shiny hat?”
He withdrew his wallet from his pocket, opening it and thumbing a twenty the bouncer’s way. The man, head round and bald as an egg, suit looking like a burst sausage from the strain of the muscles within, simply stared at it, face impassive. Brian thumbed another twenty to join the first. Still no reaction. With a sigh, he continued to thumb notes from his wallet, till finally the man’s face cracked as the total ticked somewhere far north of a hundred. The beaming man took the cash, standing to one side and sweeping his arm for Brian to pass. A bored looking woman, sat in a side-booth, now awaited him.
“That’ll be a fiver,” she droned, not even looking up from her phone.
“For fuck’s sake, this is one expensive club.”
“Best club in Newquay,” she explained, taking his money.
“You say that as though it’s something to be proud of.”
As he moved past and into the club proper, glad that the Order had seen fit to furnish his bank account so lavishly, he gazed about the interior. The club was the same as all clubs; noisy, smelly, tables and chairs surrounding a busy dancefloor, which itself surrounded a rectangular bar in the centre. Bright laser lights cut through the haze puffed out by the smoke machine. His boots all but stuck to the floor as he made his way towards the bar. What did they mop up the spilt beer with, he always wondered to himself? Staler, sticker beer?
“Jager-bomb,” Brian told the barman.
As the barman busied himself making Brian’s drink, he cast his gaze about the crowd. How was he supposed to pick out a Water Nymph amongst this lot, he wondered? Was one even nearby at all, or was he simply wasting his time? He glanced down to the ring on his finger; it remained curiously inert, though whether he was to be glad of that or not, he wasn’t sure.
“Three quid, mate.”
He went to pay the barman, noticing that his once-stuffed wallet now contained nothing but receipts and, quite possibly, the odd moth.
“Sod it, if I’m paying by card then you might as well rack ‘em up. Four more please mate.”
The barman nodded and went to work. Brian downed his first shot, grimacing at the cough-medicine tang as it went down, before straining through the gloom once more at the crowd. A couple of girls dancing over there, young slim and dolled up to the nines as they tottered on high-heels that must have added at least half a foot to their height. Were either of them Nymphs? How the hell could he tell? Heimlich had told him that he would have to do some detective work, but right now he was feeling less Clouseau and more Clueless. How could he discern ordinary party-going girls from bloodthirsty sea-bitches? Well, Nymphs lived in the water, for one thing; surely they wouldn’t be all made-up and precariously perched atop stilettos? Where would they keep their makeup, for one? He doubted sea-water and mascara mixed too well.
He had to look for someone a touch more natural.
The barman came back, lining up a row of drinks, before proffering the card machine his way. Brian tapped his card against it, before downing his second shot. He felt uncomfortable in clubs such as this at the best of times, let alone wearing his current garb, and never mind with the possibility of a shark in girl’s clothing on the prowl nearby. Another brace of girls walked past, short skirts, long hair, tight tops and loose morals. The sweet scent of their perfume combined with the stale reek of the floor to turn his stomach, though that might have been the two shots downed in such quick succession, it was hard to be sure. He watched them pass, then shook his head; not them either. Too much effort in their appearance, in the sway of their hips as they meandered past a gaggle of gawking men. A Nymph was a wild creature, a thing of instinct. And full of energy. They’d be dancing, not flirting. He turned his attention back to the dance floor.
And as if by some providence of fate, the dancing crowd parted like the sea before Moses, to reveal her.
She danced, as if struck by a fever, eyes closed, head swaying back and forth, long brown hair that shone almost green like seaweed in the club’s lights rolling like waves as she rocked side to side. Her face, lit bright by rapture and strobe-lights both, was unpainted but flawless, like a pebble worn smooth by the passage of aeons of babbling water. Her body moved almost spasmodically, as though she were a marionette dangling from the strings of some epileptic puppeteer. And yet there was a certain grace to her movements nonetheless; a strange, hypnotic rhythm, like that of surf crashing against the rocks.
The ring didn’t tingle on his finger, but he’d been warned that maybe it wouldn’t. And to be honest, he didn’t think he needed it to; there was something about her, a sureness in her motions, a tautness to the muscles of her slim yet curvaceous body that spoke of a predator, albeit one enjoying a moment of joyous abandon. She must be a Nymph. Must be. Yet what did he do now? He couldn’t walk up to her and demand her secret, as he had Beth in the pub. No, he thought, recalling XII’s words in the mirror earlier; this would require a different approach. He downed his third drink for a shot of Dutch courage, before grabbing the final two and making his way through the throng towards the dancing girl. She saw him approach, her eyes dark, unreadable, but a smile on her face. Could he see the tips of sharp teeth from behind those lips? It was hard to tell in the flickering strobe lights of the club.
“Hi,” he said, as he drew near.
“What?” she shouted, cupping her ear and leaning in closer.
“Hi!” he shouted in reply.
“Hi yourself!” she laughed, continuing to dance.
Brian froze, unsure what to say now. Chatting up beautiful women in noisy clubs was Neil’s domain, not his. Thankfully, he didn’t need to say anything at all, the girl breaking the awkward silence with a pointing finger.
“That for me?” He’d barely even begun to nod when the girl snatched the drink from his hand, downing the Jager-bomb in a single gulp, before casually throwing the glass behind her to smash on the dance floor and laughing. “Dance with me, tall man,” she shouted.
She continued to dance, drawing near to him now, wriggling her body sensually in time to the music. Once more Brian froze, a deer in the headlights. Dance? Him? Neil had a nick-name for him, bestowed the first time they’d ventured to the club together. The Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man. A title well-earned, for Brian’s dancing limbs had often been compared to lengths of rope, knotted at the end and beset by hurricane force winds. But if he was to lure this creature – if creature she was, that was yet to be proved – then he would have to form a rapport. He downed his drink, making to throw it behind him as she had, before thinking better of it and placing it carefully on the ground, much to her amusement. He began to dance, trying his damndest to match the flailing movements of his arms and feet to the rhythm of the pounding bass. It was harder even than usual, clad in a nigh floor-length leather trenchcoat. Several onlookers glanced at him, as though pondering whether to dial 999 as he fitted and started in his best approximation of throwing shapes. The girl before him, however, merely smiled, turning her back to him and drawing closer, rubbing up and down as she jiggled and jived.
“Oh my,” he murmured, somewhat taken aback.
Long and awkward moments of this passed, the girl moving with grace and energy, her face alight with joy, Brian dancing like the Tin Man after a year standing out in the rain, his own face a mask of uncertainty, as his mind jumbled with confusing feelings of fear and unbelievable attraction both. He knew that this girl before him was a lethal creature of the sea, an apex predator, who viewed him as nothing more than a potential meal. And yet she looked for all the world like nothing more than a beautiful young woman, enjoying the dubious pleasure of his company. Yet even that should have been enough to set his nerves a-jingle
with unease.
For what beautiful woman would want to dance with a gangly fool such as he?
Finally, the dance track stopped, a brief pause, a respite for the ears between the last song and the next. He should ask her to drink with him now, he knew. But even such a simple sentence as that eluded his lips, as she turned to him, wide eyes a-glitter with the bright lights, a smile on her face that froze the breath in his throat.
“Let’s get a drink,” she told him, stealing the words from his mouth.
Struck dumb, he could only let himself be led away from the dance floor and towards the bar, drifting along in the wake of this mysterious, lethal and frustratingly gorgeous creature. As they stepped up to the bar, she stared up at him, a challenging smile on her face.
“What’s your poison?” she asked, her voice coming out as a fast, babbling torrent of syllables. “I fancy getting pissed and I wouldn’t mind some company. And you, my tall, handsome friend, look like a man who can handle his liquor.”
Brian blinked. She was making this almost too easy. Wait… did she just call him handsome?
“Erm… vodka?”
“Let’s make it doubles,” she laughed. “You’re paying, after all.”
Brian stared at her for an instant, before summoning the barman.
“Vodka,” he told the man. “And leave the bottle.”
“What?”
“Erm, leave the bottle?”
“I can’t do that, mate.”
“They do in the movies.”
“It’s in an optic, hanging on the wall. What do you want me to do, pull it down?”
“Oh. Okay, well. Two doubles then. And keep them coming.”
The exasperated barman did as he was asked, returning in short order with two shot glasses, filled to the brim with clear, potent fermented potato juice. The girl by his side raised her glass.
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