Max found himself in the middle of a cobbled road in downtown Boston. The avenue was empty but for the confused-looking street cleaner who stood over him, scratching his head and gawping at the boy. The man’s vehicle idled beside the open subway shaft, its little orange light twirling merrily atop its cab, the driver oblivious to the chaos that had occurred belowground. Max stared at his socked feet, twiddling the toes to check they were all there. Not even a scratch. Rubber wading boots were definitely a good thing.
The service worker glanced down the maintenance shaft as the train finished passing by below. Max saw the manhole cover, and gave it a quick, firm shove with both hands to slide it across the cobbles and back over the hatch. It dropped into place with a clang, as an exhausted, foul-smelling, feculence-coated Max looked up at his bewildered rescuer.
“Any chance I could get a ride home?” he asked, flicking a glob of grossness from the back of his hand. “It’s way past my bedtime.”
TWENTY-TWO
xxx
THE MENTOR AND THE MONSTER
Udo Vendemeier stood over the sarcophagus and rubbed his hands together. It was a clumsy action, twisted and broken fingers catching against one another, but he was in a giddy, delighted mood. A great slab of crumbling brickwork straddled the ornate coffin’s lid, torn from the wall of the tiny room. Beside it a wrought-iron candelabra stood, its candles dripping hot wax onto the ancient wood. A leather wallet lay open beneath it, its contents spilled out across its surface. There were paper notes and shiny coins that bore the faces of a host of noblemen, so-called presidents of these United States of America. Dead and gone, just like the warlock’s mortal form. There were the strangest portraits of the Van Helsing boy on tiny rectangles of starched paper. It was as if his face had been captured in painted form, so real one could imagine his soul was trapped within them. And there was a hard yet pliable card with another portrait upon it, this of the old man, surrounded by barely intelligible text that suggested it was some kind of license. Jed Coolidge was the fellow’s name, and he was Vendemeier’s to toy with. He rapped his knuckles on the sarcophagus lid.
“Are you awake in there, Mr. Coolidge? You sleep like the dead. Wake up!”
He struck the Egyptian coffin with a fist, causing the occupant within to clatter about in a startled panic. Vendemeier couldn’t help but laugh. It was good to have company, even if his guest happened to be an ally of his sworn enemies. The warlock wasn’t alone in his lair, of course. He had another in his service, just like the gargoyle before the Van Helsing boy had reduced it to dust. However, conversations were understandably in short supply, considering his new henchman’s unusual condition. In Coolidge, he now had an intelligent mind to spar with, to explore, to torment.
“I’m going to remove your lid, old man. Are you prepared to play nice?”
Coolidge didn’t reply.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Vendemeier.
The warlock gingerly lifted the candelabra and placed it on the ground beside his feet. Then he put his weight behind the huge piece of broken masonry and shoved, sending it off the sarcophagus and crashing to the floor. Brushing the wallet and its contents to one side, he placed the palms of his cold hands against the lid’s edge. He shoved hard, sliding it to one side, where it followed the rubble to the ground with an almighty clatter. No sooner was it open than Coolidge was springing bolt upright, heading straight for his captor. In his hand he held a wooden stake, torn from the inside of the sarcophagus lid, which he plunged deep into the warlock’s chest, hitting the sweet spot for any vampire hunter. He drove it home with all the might a beat-up, aged monstrologist could muster.
Did Coolidge truly believe he could defeat a warlock so ancient and powerful with a wedge of wood? Vendemeier was schooled in the dark arts, a necromancer without equal, Keeper of the Unspeakable Oath and Brother of the Endless Night. What mortal could stop him? Perhaps the old man had expected him to burst into flames or a cloud of smoking ash; did he think him a vampire? Too droll, mused Vendemeier. The warlock stood there, looking at the butt end of the stake where it protruded from his breast pocket, Cunningham’s brass name badge now spattered in dark blood. Coolidge flopped out of the coffin, weary and disoriented, landing in an ungainly heap at Vendemeier’s feet.
The warlock clapped. “I have to say, if it were possible to kill with irony, you might have just slain me, Mr. Coolidge. Leaping out of a coffin? With a stake?”
The old man wiped the blood from his eye, looking up at the stake. Vendemeier could see the questions flitting across his confused face.
“You’re quiet, Mr. Coolidge. Come, talk to me. I am sure we have much in common.” More sickly chuckles as he took an unsteady, heavy step closer to the man on the floor. “Our fields of work have many parallels, albeit from different perspectives, one would imagine.”
Coolidge gritted his teeth as he tried to straighten his gimpy leg, shuffling backward until he hit a brick wall. He picked up the candelabra, holding it out so he could better see the musty room they were in. The light played over dust-sheet-covered objects of all shapes and sizes. He looked up at the walking, talking corpse of the security guard.
“What are you?”
“Surely you mean who, Mr. Coolidge?” The warlock tapped the bloody name badge. “I’m Cunningham. See? It says so right here.”
Vendemeier could see a rising panic play across Coolidge’s face, a surging tide of fear.
“What are you?” he repeated more urgently.
Vendemeier removed his peaked hat, running a hand through his hair as if it might in some way improve his appearance. It didn’t. His fingers moved unevenly over his concave skull, just as they had outside the church, where the back of his head had been crushed by a mighty blow. His entire body was now bandaged and bound together with all manner of material, the warlock doing his best to preserve the guard’s corpse since his untimely fall from All Saints church tower.
“My name is . . . Udo Vendemeier.”
He stood there, triumphant, waiting for a response from his prisoner.
“This the part where you expect me to crap my pants or something?”
“The name means nothing to you?”
“Should it?”
Vendemeier scoffed. “I was the greatest warlock humanity has ever seen. When I came to the New World centuries ago, I brought with me a darkness that has since taken root in your Americas. I came ahead of my Master, to spread His word, His glory, prepare your people for His coming.”
“So you ‘was’ the greatest warlock in the world,” said Coolidge. “How did that whole mission work out for you? Not so well, I reckon, considering the mess you’re in and the fact that this country is still ruled by free-thinking people. At least, last time I checked.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Mr. Coolidge,” said Vendemeier, tapping at his splintered collarbone where it protruded through his torn shirt. “You suggest that your world is under mankind’s stewardship? In the brief time since my return, I have glimpsed this world of yours, and it is a broken, sorry place. War, pestilence, death, and famine; the Four Horsemen have been awfully busy. It seems in my absence that humans have been doing my job for me; I couldn’t have wished for a simpler finale to the overture. My Master will be well pleased.”
“And who would your Master be?”
“Does the name Hastur mean anything to you?”
Coolidge didn’t nod, but his face went slack. Vendemeier’s laughter was gleeful.
“Good, good. It seems my Master still casts a long and terrible shadow. I was, and remain, His High Priest. My work shall be done when the King in Yellow returns.”
“And when will that be?”
Vendemeier wagged a broken finger. “Very good, Mr. Coolidge. I am not so foolish as to regale you with my Master’s plans.”
“It was worth a shot,” grumbled the man, spitting on the floor.
/> “All in good time. Such a shame you won’t be around to see His return. If there’s some way by which I may keep you alive, ensure that weary old heart of yours continues ticking so you may bear witness to His coming, then I shall find it. It would be a shame for your life’s work to come to an end without . . . recognition. I am certain my Master would be well pleased to acquaint Himself with you.”
“You seem awfully pleased with yourself, considering you’re—correct me if I’m wrong—undead. Tell me, what killed you?”
The warlock’s sagging flesh twitched. “A Van Helsing.”
Coolidge smiled. “Great at what they do, huh? Who was it that pegged you, then?”
“Her name was Liesbeth. She followed me here from Europe, tracked me down to Gallows Hill.” Vendemeier shrugged. “My mortal flesh was only ever temporary. I shall be gifted with a new vessel when He returns.”
“Of course you will, pal. I bet he promises that to all his thralls.”
Vendemeier stooped, seizing Coolidge by the throat. The stench of decay was overwhelming, a heady cocktail of rot and ruin, sweet and sickly all at once. The guard’s body might have been broken, but his strength was superhuman. The old man brought the candelabra around to strike him, but the warlock snatched him by the wrist. The fact that Vendemeier’s arm was broken at the elbow didn’t hinder him one jot.
“You ought to mind your tongue, boy, or I’ll cut it out.”
Coolidge had no response, though it would’ve been hard to speak with a choked airway. The warlock smiled. His use of the word boy had unsettled the old man. Vendemeier glared deep into his eyes, his own burning like verdant gems in a furnace, until the old man looked away.
“Now, I’ve been quite forgiving of you, all things considered. You have, after all, plunged a stake into my heart. That’s terribly poor form, in any social situation. It seems you colonials have no manners or decorum. You rush headlong into trouble, not waiting for a moment to consider the consequences to your actions. Perhaps we might have gotten along in other circumstances. I would teach you some lessons, but I really don’t have the time or inclination.”
Vendemeier released his grip on Coolidge’s throat and wrist and rose to his full height, letting the old man catch his breath once more. The warlock reached behind his back, withdrawing the long, wavy-bladed knife from his belt.
“You’ve got an awful lot to say, Vendemeier,” the aged hunter managed, massaging his throat.
“Come dusk tomorrow, you will accompany me to Gallows Hill Burying Ground, whereupon you shall be exchanged for the Van Helsing boy. At that point, he shall gladly offer his life to me. A quick cut with the dagger and it shall be done. Your world’s end may then begin.”
“If you think I’ll help you capture Max, you’re crazier than you look. I’ll do no such thing.”
“You may be fortunate; it may not come to that. Considering the Mark he has upon him, he is unlikely to survive until tomorrow’s twilight.”
“This Mark,” said Coolidge. “What does it mean?”
Could it be possible that the monster hunters were unaware of the spell he had placed upon the family at the moment of his own demise? His life’s work had led to that glorious sacrifice, all to pave the way for the arrival of Hastur. Vendemeier smiled. Coolidge was clueless. What hope did the last of the Van Helsings have, if the only teacher he had was this ignorant, crippled old man?
“Your protégé is Marked for death, the Bane of Mon-sters writ large upon him. Every supernatural entity he encounters—and I believe Gallows Hill is blessed with more than its fair share of such beings—shall be driven into a kill frenzy by the sight of the Mark.”
“You sick son of a—”
“Steady, Mr. Coolidge!”
“You wait till Max gets a crack at you. My boy will make your head spin clean off your rotten, stinking zombie shoulders.”
Vendemeier nodded, impressed at how the old man’s anger bubbled to the surface. He was old, far older than the fat idiot Cunningham whose body he had seized, but he had ten times the fight in him. Perhaps when this was all done, Coolidge’s corpse would be a good battle-hardened vessel for the warlock, even with a bad leg.
“You have a high opinion of the boy.”
“You don’t know him like I do.” Coolidge kept his eyes fixed upon Vendemeier. “If you were that powerful a warlock, why didn’t you just cast a spell on Max and draw him to you?”
“If it were only so simple,” said Vendemeier, genuinely irritated. “This boy has some . . . resistance to magic. He seems impervious to suggestion spells.”
Coolidge grinned. “Too tough a nut for you to crack? Your powers ain’t so great after all, then, are they?”
“Do not underestimate my powers, Mr. Coolidge. The Mark was my doing, and it shall end the Van Helsing line. And you will be the bait for my trap.”
Coolidge glared at Vendemeier defiantly.
“You’re not hearing me, you crazy sack of busted bones. I ain’t helping you, and I’ve heard enough of your slack-jawed jibber-jabber. I’ve trained Max well. He’s not some wide-eyed kid who’s discovered some freaky powers like in a comic book. He’s a Van Helsing. He’s a monster hunter. He’s known this since he was in diapers. Max may be just a boy, but he’s got more heart than any other Van Helsing that came before him.”
Vendemeier flinched, nose curling disdainfully at Coolidge’s tirade. The man’s blood was up, and his spirit wasn’t quite so entertaining anymore.
“You may be dead, Vendemeier, but Max will show you what true pain is. And as for me? I’d sooner die than take part in your sick, sorry-ass scheme.”
Vendemeier smiled. “Death is always an option, but I see more poetic justice in having a Van Helsing’s living guardian as my accomplice in his downfall.”
The warlock’s lips suddenly moved fast, the words in a language long dead but not forgotten. Vendemeier could feel the spell taking hold of the man, tiny barbed claws latching on to his flesh and soul, drawing him into the High Priest of Hastur’s grand plan. The old man fought it with all his might, but Vendemeier’s words of magic washed over him, soaking through his mind, meat, and bones. With each passing second and heartbeat, more of Coolidge slipped away, to be replaced by Vendemeier’s will. Soon the faithful old friend of a teenage monster hunter was a dim and distant memory to the old warrior, every fiber of his being devoted to the warlock’s cause. Vendemeier stifled a sickly giggle as he watched the faded fighter fall under his spell. It was all too splendid for words. The end of everything was fast approaching, as was his Master.
TWENTY-THREE
xxx
THE DEVIL IN THE DETAILS
“You should be in bed!” exclaimed Max.
He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. After shambling home in the early hours, Max had fallen into bed at four a.m. When he had finally awoken the next day, the last person he’d expected to find in his apartment was Wing Liu. Syd sat at the breakfast bar with her tool kit out, while the kid was sitting in Jed’s La-Z-Boy, covered in and surrounded by the old man’s monster manuals.
Wing barely looked up from the topmost book on his lap. “You’re the one who needs his sleep.”
Max scratched his head. “What time is it?” he asked Syd.
“Just after three in the afternoon, Sleeping Beauty.”
“You let me sleep that long?” shouted Max.
“Chill out,” said Syd, glowering at her friend from the countertop. “You were sleeping like the dead, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“Yeah, and keep it down, Max!” admonished Wing. “You’ll disturb Mom. She thinks I’m in my bedroom resting.”
“Disturb your mom?” exclaimed Max. “That’s what you’re worried about right now? Wing, I don’t think you realize how close you came to dying last night.”
“Pfft,” said Wing, reaching over the arm of th
e chair to pick up his open laptop, the backlit display lighting his face up blue. “You worry too much. I can take care of myself.”
Max turned to Syd, who appeared equally immersed in her work. Max caught the distinct whiff of hot clam chowder on the stove. His stomach rumbled. When was the last time he’d eaten? Syd had laid a bunch of newspaper sheets and a greasy tarp over the breakfast counter, cluttering it with ratchets, wrenches, blades, hammers. It looked like she’d emptied the contents of her toolbox and armory in one fell swoop. Eightball lay on the linoleum beneath, his stubby tail thumping feebly at Max’s return, their bad blood almost forgotten.
“You’re letting him do this?”
“The kid climbed up the fire escape from his bedroom window and plopped in here at daybreak. Apart from sneaking back to his apartment for a bowl of Mrs. Liu’s noodles for lunch, he’s been here ever since.”
Max looked back at the homeschooled wunderkind. He was wearing a plaid bathrobe and had a bandage tightly bound around his head. Wing’s attention was fixed on his laptop, left hand tapping away on the keys, his right hand scribbling away in a notepad on the chair arm.
Shaking his head, Max slipped past Syd, grabbing a thermos from the shelf and making straight for the reheated pot of clam chowder. He filled the flask, a small mushroom cloud of steam displaced by the hot soup.
“That was a full pot,” Syd said pointedly. She watched him grind a heap of salt and pepper into the flask before spinning the lid shut.
“Man’s gotta eat, even if it’s inedible,” Max said with a grimace.
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