The Thirteenth Curse

by Curtis Jobling

  “Old school?” asked Syd.

  “That means he killed anything with even a sniff of the monstrous about it,” replied Max. “Am I right?”

  Jed nodded. “You ain’t the first of your profession to seek out alternatives to slaying, Max. Your father had a compassionate side, too, though not to the degree that you’ve shown. But Archie? He loved the kill as much as the hunt, and never spared the life of a single beast when our paths crossed. His smile chilled me. It never slipped, even when he was up to his waist in slaughter.”

  Max blanched. “He sounds like a big-game hunter, not a paranormal investigator.”

  Jed snorted. “He was a stone-cold killer. And you think this Abel’s the same?”

  “Seems like he’s his father’s son.” Max’s chin rested on his chest as he averted his eyes from Jed’s gaze. “He said I’d seek out his apprenticeship one day.”

  A harsh laugh from Jed. “Worried you’ve missed your opportunity?”

  “I’m sure I’ll get another chance to turn him down again. How did you come to team up with his dad?”

  “Only when we faced a greater foe. For the most part the Archers kept to their own stomping grounds.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “England mainly, and the rest of Europe. The last time we collaborated with Archie was in the Middle East, and that would’ve been thirty years ago. The appearance of an Archer is never a good tiding. Trouble’s usually hot on their heels.”

  “Europe sounds cool,” said Syd, looking up from the crossbow with interest.

  “You think?” said Jed. “It’s home to some of the oldest necromantic family trees imaginable, Syd. The vampiric roots alone stretch back to pre-Christian clans that dominated Eastern Europe. The undead abominations we face pale compared to some of their European counterparts. Cool ain’t the word I’d choose.”

  “So why has all this happened today?” asked Max. “On my thirteenth birthday?”

  “What did the fire phantasm say to you again?” asked Jed, turning stiffly at the bench. “He described you as being marked?”

  “Yeah, whatever that means. What are we going to do, Jed?”

  Jed mumbled something to Syd, pointing at a component of the crossbow, suddenly terribly interested in her work. Max hopped off the sofa, well versed in Jed’s crummy attempts at answer-dodging. The boy placed a hand on his mentor’s forearm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Jed . . .”

  The old man turned to his young charge. If he was a doctor charged with delivering bad news, the patient would’ve been weeping from twenty yards.

  “Max, I’m at a loss. Your father never experienced anything like this, nor did your grandfather, as far as I know.”

  “So if you don’t have the answers, who does?”

  Jed scratched his chin like he might conjure an answer from his stubble.

  Max suggested, “Maybe someone in the Undercity . . .”

  “Are you insane?” shouted Jed, slamming his hand onto the workbench and causing the crossbow, tools, and Syd to jump. “You’re a wanted man; that much is clear after this morning’s chaos. And you propose going downstairs? Why don’t you serve yourself on a silver platter with an apple in your mouth?”

  “I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas, old man!”

  Syd stepped quickly between them before they came to blows. “What about Odious Crumb?” she said.

  “What about him?” said Jed warily.

  “Yeah,” agreed Max. “He might be able to help us. He’s super well connected with the Undercity.”

  “No,” said Jed. “You can’t go near Crumb. It’s too dangerous—”

  “But it’s just Odious we’re talking about. He’s harmless!”

  “Ordinarily, yes. But something convinced a passive forest guardian, a harmless ghoul, and friendly little Eightball to attack you. Until we know more about what’s going on, you’ve got to steer clear of anything remotely monstrous, Max. That includes the neighbors in Helsing House: Mr. Holloman in 2A—hell, even the Fairweathers at the front door. They’re all potentially dangerous. And so is Odious. I’ll go and see Crumb in the morning. If anyone visits the Undercity, it’ll be me, not you. For the time being, you stay right here, in the garage.”

  Max looked about the dusty workshop. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “How many hours have you spent in here, training for situations like this?”

  “I don’t think anyone predicted a situation like this,” muttered Syd as Jed continued.

  “Any monster comes for you, we’ll be ready.”

  “We?” said Max.

  “Yes, you and me,” said the old man. “You don’t think I’d leave you in here alone, do you?”

  Max smiled, comforted to hear that Jed wasn’t making him go solo just yet. He was a monster hunter, but still had plenty to learn, and he hoped there were many more years ahead of him with the grumpy ex-boxer as his mentor.

  “As long as Eightball stays out of my bedroom,” grumbled Max.

  “Your bedroom’s off-limits to both of them.”

  “Both of them?” said Syd. “Who else is up there?”

  “Wing Liu, of course.”

  “You left Wing in the apartment?” said Max. “Have you been taking crazy pills? I love the kid, but what if he’s snooping around up there?”

  Jed smiled reassuringly. “All the good stuff is out of reach on top of the cupboards and bookcases. Nothing incriminating has been left out. Believe me, he’s just thrilled to have the puppy to play with.”

  “Remember me when I was his age?” said Max. “I was forever climbing on chairs to get to things I shouldn’t . . .”

  Jed’s smile slipped. “I’m sure he’s fine, but I’ll go check on them.” Unlocking the garage door, he turned back to the teenagers. “I’ll bring some supper back down for you.”

  The old man reached for the door handle, but Max wasn’t finished.

  “Archer knew too much about me, Jed. Him and the monster attacks; it’s all connected somehow. I’m sure of it.”

  Jed opened the door and was about to depart when a high-pitched scream cut through the night. The cry came from the mansion roof, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.

  “Wing!” cried Max, already moving. Jed staggered aside as his young charge barged past him, the blinds rattling in his wake as he sprinted through the rain toward Helsing House.

  THIRTEEN

  xxx

  SMASH AND GRAB

  The front door rebounded on its hinges as Max ran full tilt up the stairs, skidding around the second-floor landing. All around, apartment doors were opening as he dashed past the tenants of Helsing House. They shouted after him, but the youth had no time to stop and chat. Max’s usual banter was in short supply as he bounded up the final flight and up toward the cramped attic landing.

  His keys were out on their long chain, whipped into his palm, fingers flicking through them as he sought the one he needed. The door opened an inch before hitting an obstruction. The teenager pushed hard, putting his back into it, and the door shifted a touch farther. Bracing himself against the wall opposite, he lifted one booted foot and placed it against the door. Straining with all his might, Max cried out, straightening his leg as the door slowly opened. A crowd was gathering on the floor below, peering up the dark staircase toward the teenager.

  “What’s happened?” asked Mrs. Connolly, her youngest child in her arms, one of the older ones squeezing past her mother and taking two steps up the stairs.

  “Keep back!” shouted Max, his face now purple as he gave the barricaded entrance a final push. The door finally gave way, the heavy obstruction grating across the floor inside the apartment. Max slipped through the gap.

  A bookcase lay behind the door, its contents spilled across the carpet and littering Max’s pa
th. He stumbled over crumpled scrolls, ancient tomes, and Jed’s extensive vinyl collection.

  “Wing!” he cried.

  There was no sign of the boy or Eightball. The family room area had been turned upside down, the La-Z-Boy tipped over, pictures ripped from the wall. The lamp that had stood over Jed’s chair now lay across it, bulb flickering and threatening to blink out. Through the disorder Max could see shards of glass and broken struts of wood peppering the ground. He looked up to the dormer skylight above the breakfast counter: the entire unit was busted in, its remains hanging from the ceiling. Rain steadily came in through the broken aperture, pattering directly onto Max’s upturned face.

  With a sickening dread Max found his thoughts returning to Eightball that morning, and the menacing mood the dog was in. The hellhound had meant to do serious harm to him earlier. Puppy or not, what damage could a hellhound inflict upon a helpless boy like Wing?

  Syd was the next into the apartment, as the onlookers on the landing rubbernecked.

  “I heard a scream, I swear!” The unmistakable Bostonian twang of Mrs. Connolly.

  “It sounded like a child.” Madame Rochelle, the tarot reader. “One of yours?”

  “Mine are all here,” replied the matriarch. “They’re never out and about when it’s time for supper.”

  Max had already clambered onto the kitchenette counter. Perhaps the hellhound had dragged the boy out to the roof? Syd stood below, watching with concern.

  “No sign of either of them?”

  Max shook his head as he examined the ruined window. Portions of the frame were torn from the joists, insulation exposed and hanging down into the apartment. He looked back toward the ground, seeing the wide spread of broken glass and timber, even a number of shattered slates lying among the rubble. Max removed Eightball from his list of suspects.

  “It came in through the window. It came in and it grabbed them.”

  “It? What’s it?”

  Then they both heard the voice they’d dreaded hearing.

  “Has anyone seen my boy?” Mr. Liu’s words were almost lost beneath the hubbub.

  Max leaped directly upward, snatching hold of the broken window frame and hauling himself out of the opening. Tiles shifted as he dragged himself onto the treacherous roof, the slates slick with rainwater. Max fought a bout of nausea as he caught sight of treetops. He’d seen those trees from ground level plenty. They were tall. A noise below drew his attention back to the apartment, where Syd was preparing to climb onto a stool.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Coming with you,” she replied as the stool wobbled precariously.

  He admired her moxie. Syd’s impulsiveness could often get her into trouble, but wherever possible, Max preferred to keep her out of danger.

  “No way. You’re staying put.”

  “But aren’t you scared of heights?” Syd called after him.

  He gritted his teeth as he blinked through the drizzle. “Yes.”

  “Be careful up there, then.”

  “I’ll try not to die.”

  Max rose carefully beside the smashed skylight, arms out on either side like an acrobat. A distant peel of thunder rolled across the sky, reminding Max that he wasn’t best placed should lightning come knocking. Glancing around the rooftop, he gathered his bearings. The dark gray tiles sloped steeply toward a rickety gutter below, beyond which was a drop of some forty-odd feet to the graveled drive. Decorative wrought-iron spikes ran along every peak, ending in finials that rose like black spears into the night. Max checked his footing again, spying moss and lichen on the slates, in addition to the fast-flowing rainwater.

  “Great,” he muttered. “We have lightning, vertigo, slime, rain, spikes, and an enormous drop. And whatever grabbed Wing and Eightball. It’s ways-to-die Bingo.”

  Max hunkered low, spying a series of tracks scrawled across the grimy tiles. Paw prints and claw marks crisscrossed the slates, leading directly across the rooftop toward the front of the house. Max followed the trail, sneakers slipping, fingers gripping wherever they could find purchase. He reached a chimney stack, grabbing hold of the brickwork before clambering around it. The roof was an uneven hodgepodge of peaks and dips, turns and turrets. There were no footholds to speak of, only strips of lead flashing and flooded gutters zigzagging their way around him.

  The twilight gloom had long since departed, replaced by the grim black of night. Moving hand over hand, Max followed the iron rails toward the front of Helsing House, sneakers sliding as he went.

  “Wing!” he shouted, praying the kid might call back.

  Max straddled the rails, careful to keep his undercarriage clear of the rusty spikes, before arriving at the roof’s front elevation. Immediately, he began a slow descent, sliding down the roof over a sea of shifting grime, tiles, and rainwater. Directly ahead of him, at the base of the slope, Max could make out the distinct, dark outline of Eightball. The hellhound was alone, his back turned, facing out into the night. The pup whimpered and whined, his lament only ceasing when he heard the boy’s scraping passage along the tiles toward him. The dog turned his head.

  “Eightball?” whispered Max as he skidded ever closer.

  The puppy’s eyes glowed white. He snarled as Max approached, stubby teeth bared. Eightball’s wobbling torso shuddered as the growl reverberated in his throat. Three bright red stripes were cut through the flesh of his face, running from his brow, straight over his right eye, and down into his jowl. The wounds still oozed. His stubby paws clattered the tiles, muscles trembling as his hackles rippled.

  “Hey now, little guy,” said Max, unable to slow his descent. “You can quit that hollerin’ right away.”

  Eightball snarled.

  “I mean it!” shouted Max, the slide bringing him inexorably closer to his puppy. “I’ve had the worst day ever, and if you think for one minute I’m going to let you drool, slobber, or fart me to death, or whatever it is you hellhounds are supposed to do, I am not in the mood.”

  The dog’s growling quieted slightly. Did he understand him?

  “You’re smarter than you look, fella. So here’s how it’s going to be. You want a fight? Gimme your worst. But if I take a fall, you’re coming with me. You may be the same shape as a basketball, but I don’t reckon you bounce.”

  He readied himself, prepared for the puppy to pounce at any moment. Five feet, four, three and closing . . .

  “So what’ll it be, Eightball? Friends or enemies?”

  Max slid to a halt in front of the hellhound, his feet braced against the groaning gutter on either side of his pet. Eightball’s eyes narrowed, as if considering whether Max was really worth the effort. Then there was a deep rumbling from the pit of the puppy’s guts, rising through the back of his throat as something hideous emerged from the depths. Max winced, ready for whatever horror was coming. A great glob of phlegm erupted. Eightball hocked it squarely into the youth’s chest, spattering his face in the process. Then the hellhound turned away, gazing back into the night.

  Max retched, trying to shake the hideous coating of gloop loose. Eightball stared into the storm, his growls turning to whimpers. “Wing, Eightball,” said Max, spitting the foul drool from his lips. “Where’s Wing?”

  More whines from the dog, his stumpy tail thumping pathetically. Max wondered what the poor pup had witnessed, what manner of monster had seized their friend. He was scraping more goo from his chest when he found something hard and solid within the slobber. Max picked it up, wiping the slime away with his fingers. He raised it up in the rain, the moonlight catching its curved edge. It was around two inches long, with a broken base and a sharp, pointed tip. He ran his thumb over the broad end, testing its brittleness, the material crumbling beneath the pressure.

  It was a stone claw. A stone claw that Eightball had bitten off and swallowed. Max patted the dog, who snarled at him before returning
his gaze to the night.

  “Good boy,” said Max, an idea slowly forming as Jed’s words about Eightball rang in his head: He’s a remarkable wee beast. Max squeezed the severed digit in his fist. “Good fetch.”

  FOURTEEN

  xxx

  THE WRONG WRETCH

  The man stood upon the balcony and looked out over the skyline of Gallows Hill. The place bore little resemblance to the town he’d known and lived in. It was little more than a village back then, a settlement for those who had crossed an ocean and claimed the land as their own. Since he had first set foot on the shores of those Americas, much had changed, not least the skin he now wore. Removing the dagger from his belt, he raised and angled it, catching his reflection across its silver blade. He pinched the flesh of his face, doughy, loose, and slack. His green eyes narrowed disapprovingly, never losing their ghastly glow. No doubt there were healthier, better bodies he could have taken, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and neither could the warlock.

  He glanced at the brass name badge on his breast pocket: “Cunningham.” Judging by the uniform he wore, the man had been some kind of officer of the peace. A soldier, perhaps. It seemed the militia of Gallows Hill were none too fussy about the men they enlisted, if Cunningham was any example. In a pudgy hand he twirled the long knife, a deadly memento purloined from the museum. The rippling blade was about a foot in length, its crosspiece fashioned into the spread wings of a scarab beetle. The script had informed him it was ceremonial, used for animal sacrifice by the ancient Egyptians. The warlock wondered how it might fare on a human target. Judging by its wicked edge, quite well. He smiled at the possibilities. A peal of thunder coaxed his gaze back to the stormy world beyond the balcony.

  Giant towers of stone rose across the horizon, a man-made mountain range pockmarked with myriad twinkling lights. He wondered what kind of people could build such edifices, what manner of god they worshipped that they should rise into the heavens, reaching for the stars. Perhaps this was a world he could get used to, once he found an adequate vessel to inhabit. Unnatural lights soared by overhead, roaring through the night. Were these their gods? Had mankind turned its back on its pathetic invisible deities at long last and embraced darkness, as the warlock had always desired?