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

by Brian Ference

  Lucious’s eyes widened in reaction to the sudden violence and he took a half step backwards. “A'm sorry, ah didnae mean it. If ainlie ye hud some relative that cuid hulp.”

  Lady Helena clapped her hands together and laughed. “That’s it! You do have the most marvelously simplistic mind, my friend. Spread word at once that my cousin will be arriving in a few weeks to set my affairs in order.”

  Lucious released the breath he had been holding. “Yer cousin?”

  She turned back to examine her splintered reflection in the glass. “Why, my younger cousin will be taking up residence in the Woodford manor, of course. Make sure everyone knows she’s always looked more like a sister.”

  A clever sneer appeared on Lucious’s face as he bowed. “Aye, mah Lady.”

  She began applying a thin eyeliner made from mercuric sulphide. “And Lucious?”

  He paused warily. “Aye?”

  She frowned. “Bring me a new mirror.”

  “Tae richt.” Lucious nodded smartly and hurried off to carry out her orders.

  It was so annoying not to have all the comforts of home. Even if she could return to her estate, most of her things were destroyed, consumed in the fire. Lucious had done his best to bring her what she needed while they hid like peasants in the small flat. It was all so dreadfully inconvenient.

  The flat was quaint enough; she sometimes used it to entertain visiting gentlemen. Everything was richly appointed enough, but somewhat of a hodgepodge of different styles. The goose down feather mattress was almost comfortable. If only she had thought to store something other than just her second-rate dresses here. She could not even buy a proper one due to her confinement. Right now it was the low ceilings and narrow rooms that were the most stifling.

  She had felt that way ever since waking, strangely restored from her wounds. The bite on the back of her neck had healed completely and she felt revitalized. Looking down at the bank transfers lying on her ivory French vanity, she felt the bizarre restlessness stirring within her again. The need to be free from the confines of walls welled up within her; she needed to run out in the open, and had a gnawing craving for meat.

  Soon. She would go to her Woodford manor. For now, she had to focus on funneling her assets through her various businesses. She would have to act quickly to prevent some man from trying to seize control of what was hers. The days of her endlessly flattering her male business partners were over. No longer would she bear their condescending remarks that a woman’s place ought to be limited to the raising of children. She would take what she wanted and no man would stop her.

  To think, all of this came from a little saliva. She finally had what she wanted. She was young and beautiful again. And strong—terribly strong. How she had changed. But would she change again on the night of the full moon?

  CHAPTER 2.

  VRCOLAC

  Van Helsing chased the black werewolf up the stairs and into the stone tunnel above. Without time to retrieve his repeating crossbow that was loaded with the exploding Demon Fire bolts, he would have to rely on his Damascus-steel longsword to slay the creature. He gripped the leather-wrapped hilt and angled the blade forward as he pursued the Vârcolac.

  The demon claw tied around his neck pulsed in the linen sack that held it. He remembered taking the macabre trophy in payment after its owner put out his eye. The final words of the creature reverberated in his skull.

  “My death will seal your fate and my blood will bind this curse to you forever. Misfortune and misery will plague you wherever you go. Whatever you seek shall be hidden from you, your mind will be paralyzed with terror, and failure and pain will impede your every move.”

  The demon’s curse remained even after he had slain the demon, dooming his every step before he even took it. Then he had learned to harness the curse to his own purpose. The shriveled claw had been the first part of controlling the curse. The second part was the demon eye that had regrown in Van Helsing’s ruined eye socket, sprouting from some of the demon’s blood that had splashed there.

  Van Helsing now used the two in harmony to move the curse from a circle of protection around him and focus it on the fleeing form of the black werewolf. The creature had nearly reached the iron gate at the end of the tunnel. The curse took effect and the werewolf slowed, suddenly confused. Van Helsing closed the distance quickly. The tunnel was narrow, wide enough for only three men to walk abreast, which meant close fighting.

  The black werewolf shook its head and then threw itself against the solid iron bars. The gate groaned under the onslaught, but held firm. Lady Helena had spared no expense in protecting her secret deliveries. Frustrated, the creature whirled around to face its pursuer, the panic of a cornered animal visible in its eyes as its hackles rose.

  Van Helsing waved his sword with a hint of menace. “I will end your kind, Vârcolac.”

  The creature looked strangely thoughtful—then spoke. “Nooottt Varrrcooolaaa…wooolfff. Yooou diiie mannn.” With that it attacked, muzzle spread wide to expose its deadly fangs.

  Van Helsing shook off his surprise and flowed like water, ducking under the werewolf’s claws and opening its side with an upward cut. The creature snarled, holding its hide closed as the flesh knit back together and healed. Van Helsing smiled. “I have killed your kind before. It will take more than a little healing to best me.”

  The werewolf only gave a louder snarl and approached slowly, swinging its claws like a farmer cutting wheat with his scythe. But the curse changed the nature of the attack, rendering the blows clumsy and easily parried.

  Van Helsing deflected them expertly with his sword then slid to his knees, slicing into the werewolf’s thigh and down towards the bone. He rose immediately and sent a backhanded cut to the creature’s face, opening its cheek in a spray of blood. The werewolf fell back and howled in fury, still shaking its head in an attempt to clear the cloud that lay over its mind.

  It paused again to heal and observe Van Helsing’s glowing red eye. “Whhhattt arrre yooou?”

  Van Helsing shook the foul blood from his blade. “A son, sworn to vengeance for the senseless killing your kind relishes in. A Wolver who hunts werewolves. I am Lupări.”

  The creature cocked its head to the side and sniffed the air. “Nooo, yooou arrre mooorrre. I sssmeeell evvviiil.”

  Strange enough that the Vârcolac could talk. Stranger still that it denied what it was. Now it seemed almost as if it were trying to distract him from…the werewolf suddenly leapt to the side, using the stone wall to push off of as it changed direction and came at the hunter from the side.

  “Lă năibă!” Van Helsing cursed in Romanian at the creature’s agility. Jumping backward, he tried to evade the deadly attack. Unable to move the curse fast enough, the sharp claws opened up his charcoal waistcoat at the chest. His sword plunged into the werewolf’s shoulder, sticking to the hilt as he danced backward. He was cut and bleeding, but had moved quickly enough to avoid a deeper wound.

  With his sword handle protruding from the werewolf’s shoulder, the beast growled in triumph. The almost-human smile on its face disappeared as two sets of throwing knives appeared in Van Helsing’s hands. He threw the first pair of knives as the werewolf charged. They sank down to the handle in the creature’s chest, but did little to slow its forward motion. The next pair sang as they sought the werewolf’s left eye and one of them found its home there.

  Van Helsing dashed forward as a blood-curdling scream erupted from the werewolf. Wrenching his sword free of the creature’s shoulder, he prepared a downward stroke at his foe’s neck—then saw the sack holding the demon claw on the ground at the creature’s feet. The werewolf’s claws had severed the rope holding it around his neck. That meant…he swung his sword as swiftly as possible—only to have the werewolf duck under the blow.

  The werewolf’s claws struck back, raking pain like fire across Van Helsing’s face. He fell to the ground and the creature slowly pulled the knife from its eye. The werewolf took a step forward,
then paused as the red glow of Demon Fire filled the tunnel. Free of the curse, the creature growled once and then turned back to the iron gate. It studied the bars as its left eye healed. Focusing on a rusted looking crosspiece, it smashed its shoulder repeatedly until the iron separated from the stone. Then the creature grasped the metal and bent the bars back in an incredible feat of strength. It pulled until it created a hole large enough for it to escape. Still snarling at the man and the fire-filled tunnel, the creature pressed its body flat against the wall as it exited the tunnel. With fresh air in its nostrils, the werewolf fell to four legs and ran off towards the forest.

  Van Helsing tore off a piece of his shirt and held it to his bleeding face as the werewolf ran out into the night. The claw marks had luckily missed both of his eyes, but would leave disfiguring scars from forehead to chin. Smoke was already choking his lungs; the heat at his back was nearly unbearable. He grabbed the sack from the ground and stumbled after the black werewolf as the Demon Fire consumed the tunnel.

  CHAPTER 3.

  I

  NSPECTOR CLARKE

  Detective Inspector Gerald Clark grimaced as if in physical pain. Never before had he omitted anything from an official report. He wrote the words just to see how they would look on paper:

  The chief suspect involved in the confirmed death of Lord Commander Robert Crawley and the disappearance/suspected murder of Lady Helena Wotton (husband deceased) is an unknown male, approximately nine feet tall, weighing over three-hundred-and-ninety pounds, and covered with coarse black hair.

  He sighed and crumpled up the paper. Filing such a report would make him the laughing stock of Scotland Yard. No one would ever believe that a werewolf was responsible for the deaths of a war hero and one of the most prominent women in London. It was simply something he could not afford following the increased scrutiny the scandals had brought to inspectors. With several of his superiors sentenced to hard labor for accepting bribes, his name was being considered for a promotion within the newly formed Criminal Investigation Department.

  The newspapers had become more critical than ever, demanding answers for the recent slew of murders. This case only served to heap further fuel on the fire. The Inspector was following up on several leads, including tracking down the whereabouts of the woman’s gardener, Lucious. After some digging, it was no surprise to learn that the man was a hardened criminal. The Scotsman had been spotted skulking around several disreputable pubs the last few nights. He rightly knew he was also a suspect in the slayings and had proven disturbingly capable of avoiding the constables sent after him.

  Leaving his cramped office piled high with papers, the Inspector set off down the darkened alley heading towards the Spitalfields market. A street vendor named Rufus sold the most delicious pickled whelks served with parsley and garlic butter. Maybe he would purchase a beef and stout pie as well—he stopped, suddenly aware that someone was following him.

  The Inspector took out his bronze pocket watch, making a show of checking the time. He continued walking for several paces before quickly turning right down a narrow cobblestone passageway. He pulled a .577 caliber, short barrel percussion carbine from under his waistcoat. The same weapon Constable McDonaugh used when they had hunted the female werewolf. The image of his friend’s lifeless body bleeding out on the white snow flashed through the Inspector’s mind. Useless against a werewolf, the weapon would prove deadly to anyone else who meant him harm.

  He heard footsteps rapidly approaching the corner and raised his revolver. Seeing the scarred face of his pursuer first, the Inspector nearly fired, but something about the short mustache and beard caused him to pause. The dark trousers and waistcoat could have belonged to anyone, but only one man wore a cape and wide-brimmed hat like that.

  The Inspector lowered his weapon. “Van Helsing! Where the devil have you been?”

  Van Helsing raised his head further, showing the patch over his right eye and exposing the slashes across his face.

  “My god, man,” gasped the Inspector, “what has happened to your face?”

  The hunter grimaced. “I think you know.”

  The Inspector holstered his gun. “I can warrant a guess. You shouldn’t have gone after the werewolf alone. I have gathered some of my most trusted constables. Scotland Yard has put their full arsenal at our disposal. If we join together, we can bring this creature down.”

  Van Helsing tried not to scratch the tender skin on his face. “Perhaps you are right. I will need your help now that there are two males.”

  The Inspector lifted the brim of his black bowler in disbelief. “Two? But we killed one of them.”

  Van Helsing laughed bitterly. “That was only a young female; these are more experienced predators.”

  The Inspector’s face turned two shades whiter. “She nearly ended us all. How can we fight two at the same time?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the Hunter’s left eye sparkled as he continued, “The males are fiercely territorial. We can either destroy them individually, or lure them together and let one kill the other.”

  “A clever plan,” said the policeman with a nod. “If it works. But I would rather prepare for the worst. My men and I will flush the werewolf out of hiding and end it by any means necessary.”

  Van Helsing nodded. “I am with you.” Then he turned and walked off into the night.

  Watching the man disappear, the Inspector jumped when he heard a sudden low growl—from his stomach. He smiled in embarrassment. “Better go feed the beast.”

  CHAPTER 4.

  D

  ORIAN GRAY

  Dorian watched the throng of people warily as he moved through the market. There were so many different smells and sounds. He had not been among so many people in a long time. It overwhelmed his heightened senses, leaving a pounding migraine. He took a deep breath and tried to focus his mind on a small area around him. After a few minutes, the assault of information faded.

  Betrayed or abandoned by every friend, he was alone in this world. Even the scent of Shuvani Ingraham had mysteriously disappeared. He could still sense the psychic link to the black werewolf and now used it to hunt the creature while avoiding the constables. He had stolen some clothes from a mill worker, leaving the man what few shillings he had left. A coarse muffler wrapped around his throat and dirty bowler served to hide his face.

  The policemen were out in force, obviously searching for him as they moved along the edges of the crowd. He kept moving, not staying in one spot long enough to draw suspicion. He kept the weapons he carried carefully concealed under his coat. The late Lord Crawley would not mind the raid on his personal armory.

  The constables weren’t the only ones looking for him. Dorian remembered the fear he felt in the sights of the werewolf hunter’s crossbow. Van Helsing. He had learned the man’s name easily enough with a few carefully placed inquiries. The man was famous for relentlessly hunting down all sorts of prey. There was no way to tell if Van Helsing knew his human identity or that he only transformed into the grey werewolf during the full moon. One thing was for sure: the Romanian would not stop pursuing him. Could he kill him if he had to? Dorian had killed so many people in his violent past. He was determined not to begin the habit again.

  Dorian’s thoughts were interrupted by the smell of fresh blood and a pulse of excitement that he felt through his connection to the black werewolf. The creature had killed again. He took off running through the crowd, risking the attention of the constables.

  Pushing men and women out of his way, Dorian barreled down a deserted alley and vaulted a discarded peddler cart. He leapt up the side of the wall like a gibbon, finding handholds where he could, and using his Herculean strength to propel himself up and onto the rooftops of a building. Running between the soot-covered chimney stacks, he jumped between houses, following the tasty perfume of blood.

  Dropping back down to the street in a crouch, he spotted the werewolf’s kill immediately. It was a young woman, a scullery maid of some
sort. Stuffed under a dustcart, her half-eaten body sat in a spreading pool of blood.

  Dorian choked down the disgusting hunger that rose in his gut. He searched for signs of the killer. The area reeked of the distinct tang of the werewolf’s musk. He approached the body cautiously. The woman still held a fist full of black hair in her hand. She had fought back against the creature to the last. He put a hand to the woman’s cheek. Still warm. The werewolf must be nearby. His fingers moved of their own accord to the blood seeping from her lip. He raised his red-soaked fingers to his mouth. Maybe just a taste.

  “Oy! What’re you doin’ there?” A constable peered down the alleyway.

  Cursing his weakness and distraction, he stood and sprinted directly toward the man. Taken aback, the constable put up little resistance, striking out once with his billy club as Dorian shoved the man aside and into a pile of rubbish before running out onto the street.

  “Ya Hornswoggler! Come back here at once!” Constable Cunningham extricated himself from a gooey mix of horse manure and rotting cabbage.

  He wiped off his black uniform and straightened his officer’s helmet. His assailant had vanished into the crowd. Looking back into the alley, he spotted the dead girl. He cursed and moved closer, taking out a pad of paper to begin a report. Half of the poor maid’s face had been eaten away. The constable dropped his pad and lost his breakfast on the ground. “What has that monster done to her?”

  A sudden crash of falling clay tiles and blur of movement made the constable look up to the roof. A large dark-haired creature stared back at him. Cunningham drew his .442 Webley Bull Dog revolver and fired, striking the creature in the leg. It snarled and then took off running on four legs across the roof, making a flying leap across the gap to the next building. A moment later, it vanished completely. “Bloomin’ hell! Wait ‘till the Inspector hears ‘bout this.”