The Thirteenth Curse

by Curtis Jobling

  Gallows Hill might have been unrecognizable, but the balcony he stood on wasn’t. He turned his back on the city’s streetlamps and disappeared into the dark tower, fingers trailing over the rain-slicked stone. The walls spoke to him, whispering of wickedness centuries old. He grinned, casting his mind back. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the screams, the baying of the mob, the cries of the children. This ancient building, perhaps the oldest in the town, had been the setting for his finest work. And it would be again. He was returned, and his greatest task was at hand.

  The sound of powerful wings beating caused his smile to grow further. He turned as a hulking figure approached through the sky, its enormous bat-wings causing updrafts of rain to spatter the warlock as it alighted on the balcony. The floor trembled when the creature landed. It looked up, horns rising from either side of its heavy head, eyes hidden beneath a slab of overhanging brow. A lantern jaw jutted from its chest, its underbite revealing a row of symmetrical teeth. Muscles rippled across the monster’s torso, its over-enlarged arms bound tight around its prize. Stepping forward on powerful stone legs, it deposited its trophy before its master.

  “Excellent,” said the warlock gleefully, slapping the flat of the dagger blade into his open palm.

  It was the boy.

  A burlap sack had been thrown over his head, a trailing length of rope binding his wrists behind his back. In the warlock’s experience, it was better to take no chances. Underestimating his foe so close to the end would be disastrous. He looked the boy up and down where he teetered unsteadily; a little shorter than expected. The Van Helsing he had crossed wits and swords with back in the day had been a warrior. Clearly the bloodline had been diluted down the years. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to quibble.

  “Fine work, my robust friend,” he said, clapping the hulking monster on a solid shoulder. “If I had known that your errand was to be so pedestrian, I might have undertaken it myself. No matter,” the warlock went on, readying his grip on the sacrificial dagger as he tugged the rough bag off the child’s head. “The Mark is delivered.”

  It wasn’t the right boy.

  The warlock lashed out at the monster angrily, sparks flying as the silver dagger scored its stony skin. The creature might have dwarfed the man, but it staggered back, cowering as its master shouted.

  “You cumbersome cretin! I ask you to do one thing, one simple task, and you foul it up!”

  “Not boy?” growled the gargoyle, its rumbling voice causing the warlock’s ribs to rattle.

  “It was a Van Helsing I sent you to retrieve! At the very least I expected you to know roughly who you were looking for, you gravel-brained imbecile. This child . . .” he said, struggling for words, wagging a pale finger at the boy who stood blinking around at the tower’s interior. “He isn’t even Caucasian. He’s an Oriental!”

  “Whoa there,” said the boy. “Asian American, thank you very much.” He looked back at the monster that had brought him to the warlock. “What is that, some kind of black-ops flight suit? It’s Kevlar, right?”

  The warlock shook his head. He pointed the dagger at him.

  “Stay your wagging tongue, jabbering infant, lest I separate it from your gullet.”

  “Okay, so first, I have a name, not that you cared to ask; it’s Wing Liu, but you can call me Wing. Second, don’t point that thing at me, you nutjob. And lastly, what’s with the cheesy, old-timey talk? Are you a LARPer? Did you take a wrong turn on your way to the Renaissance Fair?”

  The warlock seized Wing roughly about the throat. He raised the knife before the boy’s eyes. They blinked fearfully. He gave Wing a shake, cocking his ear the boy’s way. “What’s that? You’re done blathering? Good. You and I will get along better if you speak only when spoken to. Do you think you can manage that, little whelp?”

  Wing nodded. The warlock released his grip, Wing’s knees sagging as he almost fell onto his face. The man slid the dagger back into his belt.

  “I am showing you trust, child, trust that I hope you can reciprocate. Know this, though; should you attempt any transgression, my friend remains at my beck and call.”

  The boy glanced at the frightening figure behind him. Gradually the winged giant retreated into the shadows as the sorcerer began untying the rope from around Wing’s wrists.

  “Let us remove your bonds. So uncivilized, boy, especially as you are my guest. My name is Udo Vendemeier, and we appear to be in . . . a predicament. As you may have surmised from my tirade, there has been a case of mistaken identity. My friend has made a blunder. This is what happens when one hires a construct to do a monster’s work. No matter—we make do, eh?”

  The long rope fell onto the floor in a coiled heap. Vendemeier smiled, trying to diffuse the situation with a friendly wink. It didn’t work: the dead flesh twitched, the lid below his right eye sagging open to reveal more of the sickly green cornea than he’d desired. He placed his palm over the socket, trying to massage the skin back into place. Wing winced.

  “The boy we were looking for goes by the name of Van Helsing. You know of whom I speak?” The child remained mute and wide-eyed. “Please, young Wing, speak. You have my permission.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Come, come, of course you do. Master Van Helsing. Close to your age, no doubt, and clearly you were in his residence at the time of your abduction; otherwise my friend would not have made such a spectacular mistake.”

  Wing shook his head. “Nope. Never heard of him.”

  Vendemeier’s ugly smile slipped. The boy was lying, it was plain to see. Everything about him reeked of the warlock’s nemesis. Vendemeier sighed and held a cold hand to Wing’s perspiring cheek. The child flinched.

  “You could have cooperated, Master Wing. That would have ensured a swift punishment for fraternizing with this odious family. As it is, you have instead guaranteed yourself a lingering, agonizing period of suffering. You have no idea who stands before you. I am Udo Vendemeier, Keeper of the Unspeakable Oath, Brother of the Endless Night, High Priest of Hastur, and most humble servant to the King in Yellow. I have condemned countless innocents to the darkness, sacrificing those purest souls to my Master, defying death itself, commanding—”

  “Love the sound of your own voice much?” broke in the boy as his knee shot up, connecting hard and fast with the warlock’s groin.

  The body the warlock possessed may have been a bag of bones and slowly putrefying flesh, but some human reflexes remained. He went down in a heap as Wing turned, sprinting for the balcony. It was a four-story drop to the earth below. Perhaps Wing preferred a swift, sudden death as opposed to what the sorcerer now planned for him. Vendemeier’s monstrous servant bounded from the shadows and snatched the boy before he reached the stone banister. The giant raised Wing above its head, as if it might dash him against the rain-slicked flags of the balcony.

  “Wait!” gasped Vendemeier, clutching the ceremonial knife as he struggled clumsily to his feet. “He’s more valuable alive, for now.”

  He brought his drooping face level with the boy’s and glared at him with his emerald eyes.

  “Know this, child; your friend will come for you. He’s a Van Helsing. Noble fools, the lot of them, when it comes to you pathetic humans. And when he does, you’ll do exactly as I say or suffer the consequences. Live bait is always better,” he said, pressing the dagger against the boy’s ribs, “but I’ll stick a hook through a worm if it gets the job done.”

  FIFTEEN

  xxx

  THE SCENT

  Max pedaled hard through the drizzle, struggling to keep up with Syd’s BMX. The Chopper had been bent out of shape mere hours earlier, in his encounter with the forest guardian. It had taken all of the girl’s smarts to get it back into a roadworthy condition in such a short space of time. Every inch of the boy’s battered body hummed like a hive of bad-tempered bees. Not only that, but the smaller bike was st
ate-of-the-art, able to climb uphill with far greater ease than Max’s vintage velocipede. And Syd was kind of cheating. It wasn’t just her legs that propelled the BMX up the road. She had a little monstrous help.

  “Seek,” said the girl, urging Eightball on.

  The puppy’s stubby legs were a scrambling blur as he dragged Syd’s bicycle up the sidewalk. The long chain leash was wrapped about the crossbar, its other end looped around the hellhound’s straining throat. His already goggling eyes bulged further as he pushed on, sniffing at the air, ignoring the choking noose. The familiar railings of Gallows Hill Burying Ground flickered by. Max followed behind, catching a face full of spray in Syd’s wake.

  “You sure he knows where he’s going?” Syd called over her shoulder.

  “I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life,” Max replied, “but something’s got him agitated. I’ll be ticked off if this is all for a fire hydrant, though!”

  Max had a hunch this wasn’t all about a place for the puppy to pee. Back at Helsing House, Eightball had been transformed from a cute bundle of blubber into something that resembled the hellhound moniker. The dog had fought their foe, even biting off one of its claws in the process. If a bloodhound could follow a scent, then what could a hellhound do? Chase down its quarry to the gates of hell, Max hoped.

  They were reaching the top corner of the burying ground now, on the route they took to school. Max glanced through the railings, half expecting the remaining members of the slain ghoul’s pack to come spilling over the spikes, snatching at him. They were like rats; find one, find a nest. But the only beasts he spied were crows, squawking at the trio as they raced past.

  “Any sign of Jed?” called Syd.

  Max looked back down the road in the direction of home. The streets were empty, thanks to the thunderstorm, with no sign of the beat-up station wagon.

  “Negatory. We’re on our own.”

  Perhaps Jed was still back at the house, dealing with Mrs. Liu. No doubt she was asking all the pertinent questions. What was the commotion? Had there been a robbery? Where was her boy? The more time passed by, the tougher it would be to convince Mrs. Liu that her son wasn’t in danger. And Max was under no illusions: the boy was in terrible danger.

  Suddenly, the dog came juddering to a halt beside a flaking white picket fence, the girl and her bicycle speeding straight past. Syd jammed on her brakes too late, and they squealed as the wheels were pulled from under her. Eightball barely flinched as the chain leash clanked taut, the girl flying from her saddle and splashing into the sidewalk puddles. Max’s Chopper came to a halt alongside the dog, and the boy peered over his handlebars at his prone friend on the ground.

  “Nice landing.”

  “You can take Eightball next time,” said Syd, rising, soaking wet.

  The puppy was panting, tongue lolling from between his stubby teeth, steam rising from his pitch-black coat as if he might combust at any moment. His eyes were fixed beyond the wooden fence.

  “Why can’t it ever be a pillow factory or candy store?” Max muttered, following Eightball’s gaze.

  One of the oldest buildings in town, All Saints Church was a reminder of New England’s darker past. Gallows Hill Burying Ground had once been the church’s cemetery, until the place of worship had fallen into ruin. There had been numerous attempts by well-meaning community groups to restore the ramshackle structure to its former glory, but red tape and last-minute legislation had always scuttled those schemes. With its grim architecture and crumbling stone bell tower, it was as if the powers that be had willingly allowed it to fall into irreparable ruin.

  “Fallen Saints,” said Max.

  “Why do you always call it that?”

  That was the nickname the Van Helsings had for the building.

  “It was from this church that men and women were dragged sobbing, pleading, or cursing to the gallows,” said Max, pulling his phone from his pocket and punching keys. “Ever since then lots of other terrible tales have begun or ended here: dead bodies discovered, specters sighted, killers chased here by cops to a final furious shoot-out. If the walls of Fallen Saints could talk, they’d wail and run red with blood.”

  “You’re all about the drama, huh?” said Syd, unraveling Eightball’s chain from around her bike’s handlebars. “Who are you texting?”

  “First rule of monster hunting: let Jed know where we are and where we’re going.” Max pocketed the phone and tried the gate in vain: padlocked. Shifting the strap of his messenger bag, he hurdled the fence with ease. Syd struggled with Eightball, hoisting his blubbery mass over the gate. The puppy growled as Max received him, his eyes flashing white and demonic. The boy couldn’t drop him quick enough, and the dog landed with a thump as Syd followed only slightly more gracefully.

  “The leash!” cried Syd as Eightball set off at a mad dash toward the church, the chain zipping after him. Max dived to the ground, the leather loop flashing between his fingers. He grasped too late, puppy and leash disappearing toward the church.

  “Nice,” said Syd, stepping over Max to follow Eightball toward the derelict building.

  The building was obscured by a choking curtain of creepers. The remains of windows were barely visible, twisted struts of lead jutting from the foliage like broken fingers, glass panes long gone. The odd patch of stonework that had avoided the ivy was daubed in graffiti, bright and garish against the sooty black bricks. The arched and open double doors were green with moss, a shadowy chasm yawning open between them.

  “Eightball?” hissed Syd, hopefully. She flicked on her flashlight, aiming it directly at the gloom.

  Max looked up, his eyes scouring the building’s familiar exterior and the ancient bell tower. Something wasn’t quite right, but what? It was bugging the heck out of him. He turned back to the doors as Syd slipped through the gap, and he swiftly followed.

  Inside, the church looked more like a flophouse, pews toppled over and detritus abounding. The building had clearly been used as a shelter by countless squatters and homeless folk. Soiled sheets and blankets were bundled and strewn among the refuse, buzzing flies the only sign of life. Syd’s flashlight beam drifted over the uneven terrain. The light caught an archway, illuminating wooden steps that led up to the belfry.

  “Wing!” called Max. His voice echoed back through the cavernous hall.

  “Eightball!” hissed Syd, trying her luck where Max had failed.

  Instantly, the hellhound replied, his bark bouncing down the bell tower stairwell before cutting off with a sharp yelp. The girl was off and running, following the puppy’s cry and dashing through the archway in the wall.

  “Wait!” cried Max, cursing his friend’s impulsiveness.

  He heard her feet pounding up the ramshackle staircase, and quick as a flash, he was after her. The steps groaned beneath each footfall, threatening to splinter under Max’s weight. Dust and dirt showered down over him from Syd on the flight above. It was a miracle she hadn’t crashed through the rotten stairs in her urgency to reach the summit.

  This was why Max tried to keep Syd away from the “pointy end” of his business. She had a tendency to charge into dangerous situations without thinking them through. Max’s own battle plans could be pretty haphazard at times, but at least he attempted to form them in the first place.

  Eightball had followed Wing’s scent, which meant Wing was up there, in the bell tower.

  Unless Eightball was tracking the monster. Which would mean . . .

  “Syd!”

  Max bounded up the remaining flight and burst into the bell tower.

  The little dog was suspended from the rafters by his chain, the links bound tightly around a beam. His face contorted, eyes bulging as the metal cut into his jowly throat, stumpy legs kicking at thin air. Wing lay on the flagged floor in a crumpled heap beside a long coil of rope, unconscious. Syd’s flashlight rolled across the flags
, coming to a bumping halt beside Wing’s prone form. And there stood Syd, on the bell tower balcony, beside an odd-looking man.

  He was disheveled, out of shape, and, judging by his uniform, some kind of security guard. One hand gripped Syd’s shoulder; the other was hidden behind her back. His eyes glowed with a sickly green hue, lighting up further at the sight of Max.

  “If you’re the security guard of Fallen Saints, you’re doing a pretty crappy job,” said Max, his eyes flitting between Syd, Wing, and Eightball.

  “Sweet, joyous delight,” said the guard, shaking Syd excitedly. “And I had wondered, nay, questioned, whether this moment might ever come to pass. The last son of the Van Helsings, come hither finally. I cannot find the words to express my sheer unmitigated delight at what your presence here means to me!”

  “Really? Sounds to me like you’re giving it the old college try.”

  “How I’ve missed that Van Helsing arrogance,” said the man. “You dare to mock me?”

  “What’s with the goofy accent?” Max edged toward Eightball, making little effort to disguise his movements, and awfully aware that time was running out for the choking hellhound.

  “Not another step, Van Helsing.”

  The man shifted, turning Syd to one side and revealing a long, wavy-bladed knife held against her back. Max looked back at Eightball in desperation. The puppy’s kicks had grown weaker, and the eyes were rolling in their sockets. He hadn’t exactly bonded with the little guy, but he sure as heck couldn’t bear to see him die.

  “Heavy metal,” said Max.

  “What?” asked the man, baffled by the statement. In his defense, though, anyone would have been confused. Anyone except Syd. Her head rocketed back, smashing the security guard square in the face with a sickening crunch. Cartilage crumpled, flesh tore, and dark blood erupted with the impact. He staggered backward, hit the stone parapet, and disappeared over the side.