The Thirteenth Curse

by Curtis Jobling

  Syd didn’t wait to see or hear him land, dashing to join Max as he hoisted Eightball up. The chain went slack as Syd’s fingers unhitched the chain and strap above. It came free with a jangle, and the three of them fell to the ground in a heap. Max smiled as Syd rubbed the back of her head.

  “Heavy metal,” she said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “Headbanging,” said Max, patting the flabby flank of a wheezing Eightball. “Accept no substitutes.” He looked past her to where Wing lay on the floor. Even by the poor light he could see the younger boy’s chest rising and falling softly.

  “Better see how our little buddy’s doing,” he said, rising from their tangle of limbs as Syd cradled the weary puppy. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Why the dumb grin?”

  “Wing is safe, my dog hasn’t kicked it, and you dispatched the bad guy in spectacularly badass fashion. Who’d have thought you could kick butt like that?”

  “Don’t push it, Helsing.”

  “Come on, this is the first thing that’s gone right for me today. Looks like I’ve shaken loose the curse. We could pick up a celebratory pizza on the—”

  “Slow your roll,” said Syd, interrupting Max. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Gimme a break,” sighed Max. “Let me have this one moment of triumph on what’s been—let’s face it—a truly lousy birthday.”

  “Fine, don’t listen to me,” she grumbled. “I’m just saying.”

  “Saying what?” asked Max, looking down at the unconscious boy. His clothes were covered in a fine layer of powder. He dabbed it with his finger and lifted it for closer inspection. It appeared to be masonry dust.

  “Whatever brought Wing here had wings of its own. If the maniac who just swan-dived off the balcony had wings, he was doing a great job of hiding them.”

  Max looked up into the recesses of the bell tower, with its great alcoves swathed in shadow. A cold dread washed over him as he reached out, fishing around for the flashlight, never taking his eyes off the black nothingness. He found it at last, picking it up and turning it upon the darkness.

  “Just saying,” repeated Syd at his back, “the security guy wasn’t your monster.”

  The flashlight beam cut into the shadows just as the creature hidden within turned toward the young monster hunter. It stepped into the light, massive stone foot striking the flags mere feet from the unconscious Wing. Max scrambled back, dragging his small friend with him.

  The beast seemed hewn from the walls of the bell tower, its body matching the stone around it, even mottled and discolored by the same mildew and bird droppings. Cracks were visible across its enormous, boulderlike torso, fissures running through the flesh like jagged fault lines. Gray dust billowed from these cavities, fluttering into the air with each movement. Wings rose with a creaking, cracking snap, their colossal span blotting out the moon and stars. Its growl was rocks in a tumble dryer, its clawed hands fistfuls of daggers. And there it was, one great talon missing, broken in its melee with the hellhound.

  Eightball whimpered and Max gulped. When Syd next spoke, her words were a threadbare whisper.

  “Now that’s your monster.”

  SIXTEEN

  xxx

  THE BEAST IN THE BELFRY

  Throughout his fledgling monster hunting career, Max had prided himself on quick, witty retorts in the face of fiendish foes, but with so many loved ones in danger around him, those quips had deserted him now.

  “Run!” shouted Max.

  He practically threw Wing to Syd to get him clear of the creature before tumbling to the ground himself. Its fist flew down to smash him where he lay. Max rolled, the flags cracking beneath him with the force of the blow. He came up into a crouch, the monster’s attention fixed upon him. The teenager had managed to turn the creature, positioning himself on the balcony with the giant between him and his friends. Whatever “mark” was upon Max clearly remained firmly in place, no doubt blazing like a beacon above his head.

  “Get them out of here!”

  Syd dragged Wing and shoved Eightball toward the staircase that circuited the interior tower wall. Max aimed the flashlight directly into the winged giant’s eyes, hoping to dazzle it and spring a surprise attack. The light passed over those granite pupils, now refocusing their attention on Max. They were lifeless, unblinking holes carved into the stone.

  “Gargoyle,” whispered Max.

  Only now did he realize what had been amiss outside the church: that hideous face was usually staring out over Gallows Hill. The Monstrosi Bestiarum had numerous pages on these creatures and their various incarnations, but Max hardly had those fact files on speed dial. He knew only one thing for sure: they were animated beings, not living, breathing beasties like most of the monsters he faced. They could be brought to life by powerful, arcane magic but weren’t necessarily servants of evil. There were plenty of tales from European folklore that celebrated gargoyles as guardians, warding the wicked away from churches. Sadly, it seemed this particular stone scaremonger hadn’t received that memo. Furthermore, there was nothing in his messenger bag that could help save his hide in this instance. Whatever its weaknesses were, he was going to have to discover them the old-fashioned way.

  “Okay,” said Max as the monster dipped its broad head and snorted. “Let’s see what you’re made of, besides stone.”

  It charged like a bull, the tower shaking as it came. Max dived aside at the last moment, and the gargoyle crashed through the stone parapet and followed its master over the edge into the dark night. But Max’s triumphant whoop was short-lived, as the magical construct reappeared, rising through the air on those impossible stone wings.

  The teenager retreated into the tower, glancing back for a glimpse of Syd, Wing, and Eightball; no sign. Good. He had come to terms, long ago, with the inherent dangers in his profession: secretarial work could bring paper cuts, garden maintenance backache, and monster hunting swift and brutal life termination. But he couldn’t bear to imagine anything happening to his friends. If they were safe, he could relax and do what he did best: taking down monsters.

  Max stumbled over a coil of rope on the floor, sending him toppling backward as the gargoyle landed on the balcony. Max spun, letting loose a very un-macho shriek as he careened toward the great iron bell that hung from its beamed mooring within the tower top. His momentum ensured he wouldn’t stop in time, and if he continued staggering he would plummet over the rickety wooden balcony to his doom. Clean out of options, he leaped high.

  Max almost straddled the huge metal bell as he collided with its curved body, hands clutching, his life depending upon maintaining his grip. He heard the rotten timbers groaning as the bell shifted but didn’t clang, splinters showering down on him. Max’s knees compressed into his chest, his body recoiling like a spring as the gargoyle thundered toward him, wings folded against its back. Then Max was leaping, propelling himself over the charging stone sentinel. He landed even higher on another beam, with the grace and dexterity of the finest circus acrobat. Okay, figured Max, a drunken monkey might be closer to the truth. His long hours in the home gym had been well spent.

  The gargoyle went through the spindly banister and crashed into the bell, causing it to peal loudly. Max felt every timber in the rooftop tremble, including the beam he was perched on, the bell threatening to break free. The monster’s wings saved it once more, flapping out, propelling it back onto the top floor and away from the drop. It turned, heavy solid feet finding the flags as it searched the tower top for Max. The boy held his breath, wishing he could conjure up a chameleonlike power of concealment. The Mark. The monster turned its head up toward his beam and fixed its gaze upon him.

  Max leaped, springing from the wooden strut as a stone fist smashed through it. He landed on the next beam, which suffered the same fate as the former, stone claws snatching for the boy on high. Max dropped to the floor, landing wi
thin that treacherous coil of rope as his perch disintegrated beneath the savage blow. Again, the entire tower shook. Hundreds of tiles fell through the holes that pockmarked the roof, shattering across the flags around him. He snatched up the hemp as shrapnel flew, backing into a wall in the hope of protection.

  “Get out of there!”

  Max heard Syd’s cry. She must have gotten Wing and Eightball to safety, out of Fallen Saints. His hands were already working the rope, fashioning a noose from one end. He wondered if a jump from the balcony would be his best means of escape. No doubt the crazy security guard had painted the ground a lurid shade of red. He doubted he’d fare any better. But with the rope attached to the balcony? Maybe, just maybe . . .

  Max looked back as the gargoyle covered the distance in swift strides, a fist flying toward the teenager. Max ducked, the bricks crumbling at his back where enormous knuckles hit the wall. The youth darted forward, skidding between the creature’s legs and scrambling out behind it, rope trailing. Then came the lightbulb moment. He switched his plan of action to one that didn’t involve vertigo. Instead, he gathered the hemp coils into his hands, slackening the noose until he could’ve fit a train through it. Or a giant, enchanted church ornament, at the very least.

  “Yo, Rocky! Over here!”

  Max ran and leaped high again, praying the bell would hold out for one more collision. He landed upon the pitted iron shell, the fingers of his free hand gripping the rusted bolts that fixed it to its bracket. Bell, boy, and beam seemed to drop. It was only perhaps an inch, but it felt like a foot to the nauseous Max. He didn’t look down, instead readying the rope as the statue lunged one last time, wings flush to its back. As the granite gargoyle charged at the bell, Max leaped back the other way, high, channeling his inner capuchin once more. Only this time, he let loose the noose, dropping the rope over and around the oncoming monster’s body as it thundered by beneath him. He kept hold of the other end, feeling it go tight as the creature struck the bell again with another deafening clang. It tried to beat its wings and carry itself back out of the tower’s void, but found them caught fast by the rope, pinned to its torso. Instead, it continued on, careening into the open stairwell and plummeting toward the ground. Max let go of the rope, nearly deafened by the booming bell that no doubt woke every resident of Gallows Hill. He peeked down the stairwell just as the gargoyle landed far below with an apocalyptic crash and accompanying dust cloud. Max dashed down the shaking staircase after the fallen statue.

  The dust was settling when he reached the bottom, the gargoyle still twitching where it lay. The rope had come loose during its descent, but too late. One wing had snapped off, and its left leg lay shattered, reduced to rubble. Half of its head was sheared away, a great portion missing, revealing speckled granite within. Spasmodic shivers sent new cracks zigzagging across its broken body. Max wondered how best to put the monstrosity out of its misery. It had been trying to kill him moments earlier, but now he felt only pity for his stone adversary.

  “Are you suffering? Do you feel the pain?”

  Max was still musing about how best to dispatch it when a clawed hand shot up, catching his chest. He felt the fingers dig into his flesh. The pain was instantaneous, only his bomber jacket slowing the progress of the claws toward his heart. He cried out as the hand burrowed in, coat and hoodie tearing as the talons scored his flesh. To his relief, it was at that moment the bell above finally came away from its mooring, bringing the beam down with it in the process. With a clanging descent, it reached the ground in three heartbeats, landing square on the gargoyle’s chest. The torso exploded, its remaining limbs going their separate ways. Max’s world went dark as the walls came tumbling down.

  • • •

  VENDEMEIER STOOD IN THE BUSHES OF ALL SAINTS churchyard, a broken hand gripping a bare tree trunk.

  “What in my Master’s unholy name happened?” he asked himself, his voice gurgling in his throat.

  He glanced back the way he had crawled, to where he’d landed after his fall from the bell tower. By the light of the moon he could see the dark smear on the flags where his borrowed body had impacted with the earth. It had taken all of the warlock’s powers to stir the body back into action, forcing it back to life as he slithered, stumbled, and then staggered into the undergrowth, leaving the church behind him. He inspected his form.

  Everything about his body was wrong. He was broken, held together by will alone. His limbs seemed twisted, one elbow turned back at an impossible, hideous angle. His collarbone jutted out from his chest, a compound open fracture revealing a snapped white branch that poked through the material of his shirt. His right foot was turned out, the leg broken at the kneecap. Vendemeier felt no discomfort, just a dull ache, as if a surgeon had plied him with a powerful medication to numb the pain.

  “Useless fat oaf,” he gurgled as he glared at his bloodstained chest. Cunningham’s corpse was already outliving its usefulness. As he moved forward with his plans, he would need another body to possess, a fresh puppet to manipulate. For the time being, however, this shell would have to suffice.

  The sound of fighting within the church continued at his back as he weaved through the trees and shrubs toward a faded white picket fence. No doubt his gargoyle was busy with the Van Helsing boy. Good; all had not been in vain. The boy stood little chance of surviving against Vendemeier’s stone-born servant. The warlock would now stand clear and wait for the beast to emerge, the boy limp in its mighty grasp.

  He chuckled, a glob of gore catching in his throat. That wretched girl had assisted the boy, along with Wing. A kick to his nether region and a head butt all within the hour; who could have imagined that the children of this strange future world would all be such despicable, sneaky rapscallions? He would take great pleasure tormenting them both when the time came and their friend, the Van Helsing boy, had fallen. Vendemeier might have hung around to witness the gargoyle’s victory, but Cunningham’s pathetic body needed strapping and splinting back together. No point in leaving himself exposed to any further dangers after the night he’d endured.

  Reaching the picket fence, he lurched over it, his clumsy body catching on the jagged edges. The warlock landed with a wet thump on the street beyond, just as one of those strange, horseless carriages came to a halt nearby. Vendemeier pulled himself upright, remaining in the shadows, as he heard the growls from within the carriage splutter to a halt.

  An old black man emerged from within, limping toward the rear of the carriage. This new world baffled the warlock; this wasn’t the first slave he’d seen wandering about freely. The newcomer looked in each direction, straightening his flat cap before flicking some kind of lever at the back of the carriage. Hinges creaked as a door shot up and open, quivering in the air. As with the other peculiar vehicles, it appeared to be forged from metal. How it moved, Vendemeier had no clue. The magic that the people of this modern world used was baffling to the sorcerer, like nothing he’d witnessed in his life from long ago. The warlock stepped a little closer, concealed within the shadows of the overhanging foliage. He might have dismissed the fellow and headed on his way, until he spied the clutter of articles that the man had stored within the rear of his carriage.

  It concealed an arsenal. There were stakes, a great many of them, recognizable instantly as the weapon of choice for a Van Helsing. Vendemeier heard the clinking of bottles of liquid, very possibly holy water. He even caught a whiff of garlic on the air, unmistakable. The warlock chuckled; fools, to think they were dealing with a vampire. They weren’t, not yet, but would be soon enough.

  The old man turned suddenly as if he’d heard Vendemeier. Had he made an involuntary sound? Curse this useless corpse! The stranger slammed the door shut in the back of the carriage, looking back into the shadows to where the walking corpse was hidden. A scream from the church made both of them look that way, the cry unmistakably that of the girl.

  “Get out of there!”


  The old slave smiled at Vendemeier, who remained partially concealed in the darkness. His hand reached for the strange metallic lantern on his belt that he’d discovered beside the corpse in the museum. The warlock pressed a button and a beam of magical, wondrous light shot out from one end, straight into the eyes of the stranger.

  “Just kids messing around, I reckon, officer,” said the old man, squinting in the light as he limped out of the road and onto the flagged pavement. “They won’t be the first kids to play around in this old ruin, or the last either.”

  He gave Vendemeier the briefest sideways look before fixing his gaze upon the wrecked church. Perhaps he expected the warlock to do the same. Instead, the corpse kept staring at him, wreathed in shadows.

  “Well,” smiled the old man, doffing his cap. “Guess there’s nothing to see here. High spirits is all. You have a good evening.”

  He turned, clearly dismissing Vendemeier as harmless; perhaps hoping the man might move on, mind his own business. His young charges were no doubt depending upon him, after all. The warlock flung the strange lantern, hitting the friend of Van Helsing savagely from behind. The old man’s head snapped to one side, his legs going from under him as his body went slack. The blood that trickled from his temple began pooling in the corner of his eye as he looked up at his assailant.

  Vendemeier turned his head as he regarded the battered and bewildered man with fascination, the peaked hat tumbling from the warlock’s head to reveal his deeply dented skull. The old fool’s horror at the sight of Vendemeir’s demonic green eyes was writ large upon his transfixed face. The warlock laughed, and when he spoke, his broken jaw grated, splintered teeth catching as they struck one another clumsily.

  “High spirits indeed.”