Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3

by Brian Ference

  The rocks ashore erupted and dirt spewed into the air as the cannonballs struck home. The men cheered as the Chinese artillery fell silent.

  “Well done, lad! Can you make the distance of the iron chain on the west bank?”

  Dorian turned to appraise the gap between their ship and the much smaller chain still partially submerged in the water below. He held his fingers up and measured the digits to the chain. He turned to compare the measurement to the rocks they had just fired upon. He knew that distance, so if he could just compare the measurements correctly, he should be able to estimate the distance to the chain. The French and English troops had fallen back to the edge of the water, now fighting back-to-back against the Chinese forces. They were holding their ground despite being outnumbered roughly three-to-one. With reinforcements unable to land, it was only a matter of time until they were all killed.

  Some quick mental calculations later, Dorian called out the distance and mumbled a silent prayer that his math had been correct. All of the cannons fired, but only one of the balls clipped the chain. Without a direct hit, it remained unbroken. The Gunners began to reload, making corrections furiously as the French line broke.

  The Chinese Cavalry poured through the gap, but suddenly the French began to rally. The seamen from one of their ships had beached their vessel on land, the sailors streaming out onto the riverbank to flank the Chinese Cavalry. They attacked the mounted soldiers by throwing nets and rope at the feet of the horses and hauling the animals to the ground. The tactic worked until the Cavalry formed up and charged. The French seamen died in scores but their lives gave the French line the time it needed to reform.

  The H.M.S. Victory’s guns boomed with thunderous retorts. This time the chain cracked as two balls struck it. The iron links shattered and several ships surged forward as the broken chain fell to the bottom of the river.

  On the riverbank, the French and English troops joined their lines together into a wedge and began pushing forward. Bayonet-wielding soldiers streamed into the hole made by the French seamen. In moments, three more platoons of Royal Marines were ashore and the Chinese soldiers broke, retreating to the safety of the city’s farthest gatehouse. For now, they were beyond the range of the fleet’s guns.

  Admiral Seymour surveyed his battle deployment aboard the deck of his flagship, the H.M.S. Calcutta. They now owned the riverbank. He nodded his head in satisfaction and contemplated his next move. The Admiral was a tall man in his late fifties with a sharp hooknose. His bright eyes were framed with the lines of many years of command. Such eyes sat below dark eyebrows providing a sharp contrast to his grey hair and sideburns.

  The Admiral had calmly directed the successful destruction of the Qing fleet. The outgunned but beautiful vessels had struck majestic figures on the water—before they were set ablaze and sunk to the bottom of the harbor.

  His ships made short work of the forts guarding the entrance to the Shiziyang channel. Surprisingly, the river forts along the Zhujiang River had been harder to crack and required several days of shelling before their occupants abandoned the ruined walls and retreated to the large city of Canton.

  This initial incursion on the riverbank had nearly ended in disaster. He had already written a letter of thanks to Captain Elgin, commending him for his quick thinking and excellent marksmanship. Without it, his forces would have suffered a major setback and the loss of many French and English troops.

  The Chinese resistance had proved much more costly than anticipated. The Admiral’s scouts reported an endless supply of defenders to protect the walls and continuous movement of cavalry along the tree line. The Admiral had earned his reputation as a shrewd commander through many successful engagements in the Crimean War. But it was his reputation for ruthlessness in the Baltic campaigns that had earned him the rank of Admiral. He would not allow the Chinese time to regroup. He ordered the fleet seamen to join the other ground troops, bolstering the ranks of the remaining Marines.

  The English artillery painstakingly rolled into position. The seamen would serve to guard it. Once in place, the large-scale bombardment of the city would begin on two fronts. His ships on the river continued to pound the river-facing wall, and the field batteries would focus on the southern gate and surrounding defenses.

  Dorian, Sub-lieutenant Purcell, and six other seamen were among those assigned to protect the four-man gun teams as they fired the rear seventy-five pounders. Lord Crawley was given command of the unexpected conscription, which left them all longing for the familiar sway of the deck and wondering if they would survive the night.

  CHAPTER 17.

  T

  HE HUNTER’S MOON

  Van Helsing knew a hostile welcome when he saw one. Upon landing in England, he had immediately traveled to the address on the letter that had brought him to this dreary and damp country. He was made to wait for Lady Helena by a scowling Scotsman. It took so long that he began to amuse himself by slowly unwinding the demon’s curse. He sent it in the direction of a fat tomcat slowly stalking a songbird in the garden. The unfortunate feline mistimed its pounce, ending up very wet in a small pond as the bird flew to safety.

  His next victim was a muscular-looking Scottish Deerhound which accidentally smashed a particularly expensive-looking vase to pieces.

  “Wolv, ye Knobdobber,” Lucious roared and threw a fist in the direction of the Deerhound who deftly dodged away and sprinted from the room. The Scotsman finally admitted him to the drawing room.

  A silvery voice beckoned Van Helsing. “Come in, Mr. Van Helsing.”

  He bowed. “Doctor Nicolai Van Helsing, at your service.”

  Lady Helena paused and cleared her throat. “Yes. Doctor Van Helsing. Thank you so much for coming so…promptly. I am afraid it was a bit hasty of me to write to you before I had all the facts. It seems I was mistaken about my suspicions as to the cause of the murders I mentioned in my letter—imagine a giant beast wandering the city.” She laughed and blushed in embarrassment.

  Van Helsing stared at the elderly woman in front of him, keenly aware of her still attractive shape and the delicate structure of her face. She must have been very beautiful in her youth. “Not just a beast. You said it was a giant wolf.”

  Lady Helena looked down at her hands. “You must forgive an old woman with a fanciful imagination. My wits were not what they once were.”

  Van Helsing regarded her with a doubtful expression. He had noticed the subtle way in which she had sought to manipulate him. She had slumped slightly forward in her chair and replaced her initially sharp expression with a dull and confused look. He could almost see the brightness in Lady Helena’s eyes fading as if she willed her words to be true.

  He looked carefully around the room. “I was skeptical at first when I received your letter, but I have since made several inquiries and found the reputation of Lady Helena to be beyond reproach; well known as a careful and shrewd businesswoman—not prone to mistakes or fancy.”

  “You flatter me, Doctor. But the murders have stopped completely. If there was something here, it has since gone. Let me compensate you for wasting your time.”

  Van Helsing felt a sharp pulse through the demon eye at the wrongness in the woman’s words. She was lying to him. “That will not be necessary. If you do not mind, I will stay and discover the truth of things for myself.”

  A brief look of fear crossed Lady Helena’s face. “Are you sure? I am terribly embarrassed to have you come all this way for nothing. At least let me pay the costs of your passage.”

  Van Helsing refused with a shake of his head. “If you wish to compensate me, then I would know the name of this Inspector you mentioned. He will have important details on the murders and might be of some help to me.”

  Lady Helena covered her displeasure with an inviting smile. “Of course. His name is Detective Inspector Gerald Clarke. However, I am afraid he will tell you that these type of murders are far from unusual in a city as violent as London. Could I interest you in a stag hunt
that an associate of mine is planning? I hear the pursuit can be quite exhilarating for a man of your talents.”

  Van Helsing removed his wide-brimmed felt hat and gave another low bow. “Another time perhaps. I thank you for your…hospitality, but I must take my leave. I will show myself out, as your man seems preoccupied with piecing back together that exquisite vase. Seventeenth-century Maiolica is it?”

  “What?” Lady Helena looked through the doorway as Lucious hopelessly tried to reassemble the shattered vase. “Er...yes. Sixteenth-century, actually.” By the time she looked back towards the towering huntsman, he was already striding briskly towards the door. She called after him halfheartedly, “Do let me know if you find anything.”

  Van Helsing left her home and immediately hired a hansom to take him into the city. A little Russian silver quickly led him to a small French café where Inspector Clarke was having his lunch. Van Helsing approached the table where a man fitting the Inspector’s description was seated facing the door. On his right sat an impatient looking constable. The table itself was crowded, with food enough for four men and piled high with enough paper to keep a small army of clerks busy for a week.

  Van Helsing approached slowly under the watchful glare of the constable. “Pardon my intrusion, Inspector Clarke. I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”

  The Inspector looked up with a flaky pastry in one hand and a well-worn pen in the other. “Yes. Of course, my good man. I notice by the salt clinging to your wool sash that you have just arrived from a long sea voyage…Transylvania was it?”

  Van Helsing’s eye’s narrowed, taken aback by the directness and accuracy of the man’s guess. “I traveled from Macedonia, but my homeland is Romania.”

  The Inspector quickly consumed the pastry in his hand and wiped the sugar off on the tablecloth. “Ah, indeed. I should have guessed from the feather you wear. Is that from a Romanian pheasant?”

  Van Helsing reached up to his hat and fingered the long feather. “How astute of you. My name is Doctor Nicolai Van Helsing. I came here hoping to study the strange murders happening in increasing frequency.”

  The Inspector’s eyes flitted to the pastries on the table. “What interest do they hold for you?”

  Van Helsing smiled. “I must confess I have a somewhat morbid fascination with the human body, particularly in studying how it reacts at the moment of death.”

  The Inspector had picked up another pastry but now lowered it slowly, suddenly distracted from the delicate treat. “You don’t say.”

  Van Helsing dropped his hands to his side and eyed the other man at the table. “I have seen many medical accounts of strange deaths and observed a few for myself. A Lady Helena informed me that you have had some quite peculiar murders in the city recently. I was wondering if you would be willing to share with me any details of the wounds inflicted? Perhaps I could even assist you in your investigations by providing some medical insight.”

  The Inspector beckoned Van Helsing to join him at the table. “Constable McDonaugh, please make room for the Doctor to join us.” The constable moved several stacks of paper into a large wooden crate on the floor as the Inspector continued speaking. “What sort of strange deaths have you made a medical examination of?”

  Van Helsing pulled up the open chair and sat down. “Large animal attacks—mostly.”

  The Inspector licked his finger and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “Fascinating. What sort of animals?”

  “Lion attacks, panther kills, a man who was eaten by a bear, and several wolf attacks.”

  The Inspector began making notes. “How did you know they were animal attacks and not the result of one man killing another? I once had a case involving a serial killer who disfigured his victims with animal claws and even placed imprints in the mud using the stuffed foot of a beast.”

  Van Helsing closed his eyes as he remembered the scene of his father’s death. “The important part is in the small details. Any maniac could mimic the ferocity of a beast, but the wounds he inflicts would be different. In the case of an animal attack, there might be bite marks at the neck aimed at crushing the carotid artery. An animal might leave partially eaten intestines. The fingernails of the victim could be used to identify their attacker by what type of material lies beneath them.”

  The Inspector reached down into the large wooden crate and removed something. “You do seem quite knowledgeable, Doctor. Tell me, what do you make of this hair sample?”

  The Inspector handed Van Helsing a folded piece of wax paper. Inside were two clumps of matted, dark gray hair. His one eye grew large, first with fear and then hate. He spoke only one word in a hushed tone. “Vârcolac.”

  The Inspector leaned in closer. “You are familiar with this type of hair? I collected it from two different crime scenes. Each was a display of more destruction and ferocity than I have ever seen before. In your expert opinion, is the hair human or animal?”

  Van Helsing returned the sample and sat back solemnly in his chair. As soon as he had touched the hair, his demon eye had begun to gently burn beneath the patch. The sensation subsided slightly as he broke contact with the sample. “Neither.”

  The Inspector looked doubtful. “What do you mean?”

  Van Helsing stared at the man with his good eye. “I suppose it is closest to the hair of a large wolf. But few have ever seen a wolf like this.”

  Constable McDonaugh rolled his eyes and sighed. The Inspector’s reproachful look returned him to silence. “But you have?”

  Van Helsing scowled. “Once. If you allow me to assist you, I would like to see these crime scenes you speak of. With your help, I would like to conduct a search of the surrounding woods. I do have some experience in tracking large animals.”

  The two lawmen exchanged meaningful glances. The Inspector cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can help each other. Your arrival might be the stroke of good luck we need to finally track down the killer—be it animal or human.”

  Van Helsing smiled with the toothy grin of a predator. “More like bad luck for the killer.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, Ella was astride a Corinthian trader in a third-rate hotel near Bethnal Green Road. She had spread her petticoat over their writhing forms on a thin feather bed, partially unhooking her corset in the front to expose her perky breasts. She moaned distractedly in response to the drunken thrusts of the clumsy wool merchant beneath her.

  Harold Black had made his fortune by selling some of his family’s ancestral farmlands in order to purchase a minor wool mill in Leeds. As the son of a sheep farmer, he knew the trade well. He married the daughter of the richest sheep farmer he could find and now had more supply than he could sell. His business had increasingly taken him away from his plain-looking wife and into the waiting arms of dollymops in the various cities he visited. Harold had taken one look at the comely shape and inviting smile of the young whore and taken her immediately to the nearest room for hire.

  As the Hunter’s Moon rose in the sky, her moans became louder and more urgent. Harold mistook this to mean he had brought the strumpet to new heights of passion through his manly prowess. He closed his eyes while gripping her hips and rocking his body all the harder. He congratulated himself as her moaning turned to screams and neglected to notice as Ella started to writhe in agony, her bones cracking and remaking themselves.

  Her corset ripped in two as her breasts sprouted hair and doubled in size. Her skin turned black and tore at the joints only to heal itself under enlarged muscles and limbs. The wool merchant shuddered and reached his climax as blood dripped from her mouth and eyes, revealing her now elongated jaw sprouting vicious teeth.

  He blinked away the spattered blood and moved one hand to wipe his eyes. He paused as the fingers of his other hand registered the coarse hair attached to what was once Ella’s hip. “Wot da ‘ell?”

  The she-wolf’s muzzle descended and tore into the wool merchant’s neck. His yell quickly cut off as her teeth ripped out the
soft throat. Her hairy arms easily held down the thrashing man as she began feeding on her first kill—still alive.

  Ernie Crow was annoyed to be on duty as the pay collector at the hotel that night. It was supposed to be his night off and he had planned to spend it warm in bed with his wife Nonie and two-year-old son Otho. Hershel should have been working that night but had disappeared. He was likely drunk in a Pub somewhere. This was not the first time that the lazy son of the hotel owner had missed work. Ernie resented being summoned in once again on his night off. Someday he would do his family right by moving on from this seedy job. It was embarrassing to have to interrupt the lecherous men and women using the hotel for their debauchery. Most paid by the hour and only for one hour. It was his job to carefully monitor the clock and once the hour was up, either throw them both out or collect another two shillings.

  The strange noises coming from room two barely registered as he pounded on the door. “Time’s up!” he cried. “The cost is two shillings for another hour or four shillings for the rest of the night.”

  Silence from the room inside. He pounded on the door louder. “Do you hear me? Which is it, the coin or the cobblestones?” Ernie could hear a muffled scraping coming from inside. Fumbling with his keys to unlock the door, he shouted, “Oy! You’d best not ‘ave damaged anything or I’ll call a constable straight away.”

  He swung open the door and took a step inside. The lamp lay on the floor smashed. The room was dark, save the moonlight coming in from the window. “Ah, now you’ve gone and done it,” he paused as he saw the partially devoured body on the bed. “Blessed Saint George. What have you done?”

  The dark figure crouching by the bed stood to its full height. An image of Ernie’s wife and son still warm in their bed flashed before his eyes as he slowly backed away. “No, please. It should not be me. Hershel was meant to be collector tonight.”