Good. That was quicker than I’d hoped. So let’s take it to the next level.
His apprehension of before suddenly kicked in, but no questing stubbled lips came his way. Instead, images began to resolve in his mind’s eye, fuzzy at first but growing crisper by the second. Was… was that a house? It was! A long, gravel driveway, a privet hedge. A door beneath a porch, lit by a soft wall-lamp.
That’s my house, Helsing. I’m allowing you access to my recent memories, keeping them in the forefront of my mind.
Brian nodded and watched as the images continued to play. The doorway opened and he found himself in the hallway. A staircase on the left led upstairs, a door on the right leading to the living room, a further door along the hallway up ahead leading to the kitchen.
“It’s like I’m there,” Brian whispered.
In a way, you are. You’re seeing everything exactly as I remember it. As long as the connection is maintained and your subject doesn’t struggle, you’ll be able to go anywhere in their memory.
Brian nodded, feeling feet that weren’t feet moving as he made his way down the hallway and to the door on the right. At a thought, the door swung open to reveal the living room; expensive leather couches abounded. A large TV in front of the bay window. A fireplace with a marble surround. Above it, a mirror. Below the mirror on the mantelpiece, various figurines.
Wait, that’s enough. You can come out now.
Brian squinted through ethereal eyes; the figurines were horse-shaped, brightly coloured, each in a different hue of the rainbow with markings on them. He leant closer, struggling to contain his disbelief. Were they really…? The image suddenly froze, then broke up, as if he’d been on a Skype call and had suddenly lost internet connection. Suddenly the memory faded from his mind’s eye and it was only him and Heimlich in the room, sat on their chairs in the light of the fire.
“Right, that’s enough mind-reading training today.”
“Am I right in thinking they were…?”
“You did well. Better than I’d expected. You’ll root out Nymphs easily, and no mistake.”
“Those were My Little Ponies.”
Heimlich looked flustered, an unusual look for such a stoic and unflappable individual as he.
“I… what? Erm, yes. They’re my niece’s. I mean, she gave them to me.”
Brian sniggered.
“They were expensive-looking figurines. She must have had a well-paying lemonade stand.”
“I, well…”
“You’re a Bronie, aren’t you? Come on, admit it. I won’t judge.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Helsing. First you’re talking to empty air in the Snug, now you’re on about brownies. I honestly don’t know what’s got into you of late.”
“Really? So that wasn’t a collector’s edition of Twilight Sprinkle I saw on your mantelpiece?”
“Sparkle,” Heimlich corrected, before swiftly adding, “shit.”
“Hah. All this time you Masters keep deriding me for being a geek, yet you’re all just as bad!”
Heimlich cleared his throat.
“What we do in our own time is up to us, Helsing. I don’t question what you do in your time off.”
“Yes you do! All the fucking time!”
“Well, be that as it may, I’m your boss. It’s my prerogative. And if we’re going to start bringing in extracurriculars, I could ask about an unusual expense Wendy brought to my attention. I hear you bought your friend Neil a personalised and rather expensive watch. Care to explain that?”
“What can I say?” Brian shrugged, fixing him with a shit-eating grin. “Friendship is magic.”
Heimlich shuddered.
“Fine. But keep such extravagances to a minimum in future. Your wealth is not to be squandered. It’s for business expenses. Now off with you, to Friedrick; no doubt you’ll want to get acquainted with your new surfboard.” Brian nodded, still smiling, before rising and starting to make for the door. Heimlich stopped him with a gesture. “And Helsing, before you think about telling anyone about my collection, just remember; I know spells that can turn people inside out.”
Brian’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Chapter Seven: Board To Death
Brian strolled into the Armoury, mug of tea to hand, taking a sip as he gazed about. As ever, he was bewildered by the constant mess. How anyone could build anything in that place without tripping over and impaling themselves on a soldering iron, he didn’t know. Then again, it would be hard for Friedrick to trip over anything at all; he assumed that perhaps his chair had some kind of counter-weight buried deep within to stop it tipping over as it rolled through the clutter. Maybe a four-wheel drive system, like on Neil’s Subaru. As he walked into the vast warehouse-like chamber, threading his way past work benches and crates bursting with gears, cogs, electronics and goodness-knows what else, Brian noticed a familiar hulking figure hammering away interminably at the forge.
“Morning Frank.” The smith, easily Brian’s height yet built like a brick shithouse, glanced up, grunted, then went back to work. “Talkative as ever, I see.”
“Ah, Helsing, glad you’re here.” Friedrick came steaming over, eye bright with enthusiasm. “Follow me, I’ll show you to your latest tool in the fight against the darkness.”
Brian followed, sipping on his tea and all-but choking on the cloud of oily vapour left in the man’s wake. Further into the Armoury they went, across the firing range, to an area Brian hadn’t ventured to before for fear of never finding his way back. A workshop; a workbench in the middle, pegboards of tools along the wall, everything all at waist height, for glaringly obvious reasons. Friedrick gestured to the bench and the object upon it, face beaming with pride.
“Your board.”
“Believe me, in this place there’s never time to be bored.”
“Be serious, Helsing. This surfboard is the product of long hours of toil and testing.”
Brian blinked.
“Testing? Did you…? Can you…?”
“Not me, obviously. Frank.”
A grunt from behind Brian and he started, spinning to see the smith only inches behind him, nodding at the Master’s words.
“Shit the bed, man. You’re stealthy for a big fella.” Frank grinned, revealing several missing teeth. Even the few that remained were black, as though in mourning for their long-departed brethren. Brian shuddered, before turning back to the Master of Ordinance. “Well, at least if it can bear his weight, it should be okay with me on it.”
“It could bear the weight of an elephant, Helsing. The board is virtually indestructible.”
“Let me guess? Knacker tears and unicorn piss?”
“Of course.”
“How much unicorn piss could you possibly have?” he asked, taking a slurp of his tea.
“Barrels of the stuff. Ever seen how much a unicorn pisses? I use it on everything I can. Most things in this Sanctum are indestructible thanks to its magical properties. Even that mug you’re holding.”
Out of reflex, Brian spat tea and hurled the mug away, grimacing in disgust. The mug bounced on the stone floor, the remnants of the drink splashing everywhere but the ceramic vessel remaining wholly unharmed.
“See? If it weren’t coated in my special serum, we’d be out fifty pence right now.”
“That’s got to be unhygienic.”
Friedrick shrugged.
“Not for me, I drink from a bottle.” With that, he took a swig from his whisky, before turning back to the board with a puff of steam. “Anyway, back to your new steed. As I said, indestructible, but that’s not her only trick. Gyroscopic stabilizers keep her upright at all times. Even the most cack-handed of surfers,” he eyed Brian pointedly, “won’t capsize her. Suction foot pads on the surface will hold your feet tight, so you won’t fall off, either. There’s really no excuse not to be able to surf on this baby.”
“That’s great. But what if there’s no waves? What if a Nymph swims towar
ds me and I’m stuck there, bobbing like a buoy? A tasty, tasty buoy?”
“Waves? Who needs waves when you have jets?”
He pressed a button on a remote suddenly in his hand. From the rear of the board, a keening high pitched whine began, the board beginning to slide along the bench, building up speed faster and faster, before soaring through the air towards Brian, who ducked, the board whistling inches over his head. A thud behind him, and he turned to spy Frank, holding the board nonchalantly in one outstretched hand, his swollen muscles contesting with the whistling jets and easily coming up trumps.
“Sorry about that,” Friedrick sheepishly apologised, thumbing the button once more, the noise of the jets dying away.
“Impressive,” Brian drawled. “That’s all very well if they’re behind me. What if one jumps out in front? Am I supposed to ram them head on at fifty knots?”
“Sixty. And no, I’ve got you covered.”
He gestured to Frank, who nodded and turned the board till it faced the practice targets down the range. Another button press from Friedrick’s remote. This time, small flaps opened in the leading edge of the board, revealing tiny dart-like shapes. A manic grin on Friedrick’s face as he thumbed yet another button. A pop, a whizz, as one of those little shapes launched out like a firework at blistering pace, soaring on a thin trail of smoke, one of the targets exploding in a hail of splinters, leaving nothing but a burnt wooden stand.
“Micro-torpedoes!” Friedrick exclaimed, clapping to himself in glee. “Heat-seeking, each packing the equivalent of a pound of TNT. Now tell me… how’s that for a surfboard?”
“Insane,” Brian replied.
“Insanely awesome,” Friedrick nodded.
“I stand by my former statement. I’m supposed to enter a surfing competition – a sport I’ve never had any interest in nor talent for – on a jet-powered, rocket-launching death board? I’ll be disqualified in the first five minutes!”
“Use the enhancements sparingly.”
“Sparingly? How do you use guided-fucking-missiles sparingly? By their very nature they’re all or nothing! You either blow something up or you don’t. There’s no half measures when it comes to weapons of mass destruction.”
“Well, hopefully you’ll only need them if worst comes to the worst.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just get up to Newquay a day or so early and try to catch the Nymphs while they’re on land, before the competition’s even underway.”
“But if you do that, you won’t even be able to test the board!”
“Exactly. If you insist I be there at the seaside to rescue these Darwin Award contenders, why not just outfit Bertha so she can drive underwater? You know, like in James Bond. At least that way I could have listened to the radio while keeping an eye out through the windscreen. Then when they appeared, boom; open up the Punisher, hail of fifty calibre lead, and no more Nymphs. Sorted.”
Friedrick opened his mouth as if to tear down his suggestion, then stopped himself, glancing at Frank, who shrugged.
“Didn’t think of that. Might have been easier, thinking about it.”
“Yes, it might have been. But death board you went with and death board it’s gonna have to be. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Newquay; I’ve had enough of this place for one day. I’ve been mind-raped, smashed in the face with a wooden sword and nearly decapitated by a rocket-propelled surfboard. Nymphs are starting to look less and less like the real threat.”
“Good,” Friedrick nodded. “Then we’ve done our job well.”
Brian paused, staring at the man for long moments, before deciding the lunatic was actually serious. He sighed.
“Please tell me you’ve at least installed a roof rack on Bertha?”
“Well, no. Why?”
“Well how am I supposed to get the surfboard up to Newquay? It’s about eight feet long!”
“I, err… didn’t think that bit through.”
“You thought to install missiles, but not a roof rack for the car? Christ on a blue bike. What the hell goes on in that head of yours?”
“I’ve got bungee cords, y’know; to hold the boot closed?”
Brian rolled his eyes.
Chapter Eight: Talk Of Spirits
The Camaro felt strangely empty with no Neil in it. Perhaps his friend would have been of use in this task, Brian thought, what with clubs, their sticky floors and blaring dance music, being his natural habitat. And yet two things had stopped Brian from asking for his help on this mission. Firstly, it was a Friday night and Neil worked at the weekends. Brian might be rich now, but Neil still had a day job selling used cars, and his current and Brian’s former boss, Gordon, wouldn’t have been happy should he have sacked it off to go Nymph-hunting. But secondly, and more importantly, Brian still felt guilty at how close Neil had come to being killed during his last mission.
The Bodmin Banshee, a haunted soul of a spurned girl, cursed to wallow in her misery and howl out in despair for all of time, had been a tricky customer. Fast and lethal, with a terrifying hatred for men, she’d have taken Neil’s head off had Brian not used his newfound powers to shove him out of harm’s way, earning himself a back full of razor scratches in the process. Only his exasperated tirade, filled with the brutal honesty of a man pushed to – and beyond – the edge had driven some sense into her ghostly head and caused her to finally pass over to the hereafter.
In fact, come to think of it, bar that first fateful encounter with the seductive Cassandra, Neil had been there at each of Brian’s supernatural confrontations. And it just didn’t feel right. Once upon a time, Brian would have felt himself definitely the less capable of the two. In fact, in many ways, he still did. But this was his world now; he was Helsing, with all the strength, the powers, the gizmos and gadgets that came with such a title. And Neil, strong, brave and frustratingly good-looking as he was, was just a man. A man so very easily killed. A man who had taken it upon himself to be Brian’s friend when God knows Brian’s lack of social skills made that hard. And there was no way that Brian was going to let his friend get killed. If these Nymphs were as lethal as the Masters were making out, then this was going to have to be a mission he’d tackle alone.
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.”
“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.
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3 Page 19