Max didn’t have time to question the arrival of his allies; he had more pressing concerns, specifically the monster mob baying for his blood as they clambered onto the crypt. His bomber jacket absorbed some of their blows, but tooth and claw still found their way to his flesh. He kicked and punched, jabbed and weaved, hurling them off the tomb and back into the throng. Archer and Wing had distracted many of the ghouls from their target, but plenty remained focused upon their initial foe. Max could imagine the Bane of Monsters, a crown of fire, blazing above his head like a beacon. A neon flashing sign with “Come and Get It” in big letters couldn’t have done a better job of directing monsters his way.
With a boot to the chest of one of the ghouls, a gap opened up for him. Max took two strides and leaped, leaving the tomb behind as he launched himself into the air and over the railings. The ghouls watched him sail over their heads, turning to follow him as he landed acrobatically in a tucked roll. He ripped the clip off the repeat-bow and whipped the fresh cartridge out of his satchel. Unfortunately, the fracas atop the crypt had reduced the magazine to broken shards of wood, and his hand reemerged clutching splinters and crossbow bolts. He looked back at the ghouls piling toward him. Max launched the loose bolts like throwing darts. They found their marks, the creatures recoiling as the silver heads hissed into their flesh.
Max was up, sprinting back toward the Hanging Tree. Headstones whipped by, and overhanging branches made him duck and scramble. He looked back at the dozen or so creatures in hot pursuit. But where was Vendemeier? He brought his gaze ahead once more as the Hanging Tree appeared out of the mist.
The punch caught Max in the guts, lifting him off his feet, as his assailant stepped out from behind a tree. The boy landed in the mud, spluttering for breath, his face full of filth. He looked up, his vision blurred, his enemy stepping closer. This foe wasn’t mindless like the ghouls. Max was facing a warrior, he realized, his eyes quickly refocusing upon his towering opponent.
He was facing Jed.
THIRTY
xxx
BROUGHT BEFORE THE HANGING TREE
Max’s head recoiled as Jed’s boot caught him clean across the jaw, lifting Max off the ground and flinging him through the air. He hit the deck, skidding through mud and dead leaves, before coming to a halt beneath the Hanging Tree. For a moment, he could see nothing, hear nothing, eyes blinded by lights and his head consumed by a high-pitched whine. Slowly, the white haze subsided, the world taking shape. The din of battle returned as the blurred figure of Jed limped closer. Max tried to speak, his mouth full of blood, as the man grabbed him by his hair. Jed hauled Max to his feet, his sneakers struggling to find the ground. His mentor brought his other hand back, slapping Max with furious venom. The boy pirouetted, collapsing into the tree and sliding down its trunk.
“You’re beaten, Van Helsing,” said Vendemeier, following Jed’s footsteps as he approached the tree. He paused, looking down disapprovingly at the ghouls that were devouring his mortal remains in his grave. He shook his head, moving on.
“Don’t be so precious about your life, child. You’re just flesh and bone, another insignificant grub that doesn’t know its place. This is not your world, boy. This world belongs to the King in Yellow.”
“So you keep saying,” spat Max, a glob of blood dribbling down his chin. “Still haven’t seen the big guy yet. He shy or something?”
Jed seized Max’s shoulder, shoving him back against the tree. His face was emotionless, eyes wild with that terrible green fire that raged within Vendemeier’s slack-skinned skull.
“Are you in there, Jed?” Max whispered. “Give me a sign. Anything.”
The only sign he received was a grim one, the old boxer drawing a fist back, ready to let fly.
“Steady, Mr. Coolidge,” said Vendemeier, raising a twisted hand, the arrow still stuck through his forearm. “It will be my pleasure to take this one’s life.” He pulled the arrow through the dead flesh, the missile emerging dark and sticky through the other side before he threw it into the mud.
“Do you see me fretting over my corpse down there?” asked Vendemeier, gesturing toward the feasting ghouls in his grave as more gathered at his back. Max could see them forming a defensive cordon around him. Where was that maniac Abel Archer when you needed him?
“I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t . . . altogether yourself,” said Max, looking at the exhumed grave.
Vendemeier giggled. “No, I suppose not. The piece of me that was sworn to my Master, bonded to Him by the Unspeakable Oath, was removed upon the night of my death by my acolyte. It was kept safe from harm. Did you really think you would find my heart here tonight, Van Helsing? Do you think me an imbecile?”
“You have to ask?” Max brought his gaze back to Jed, trying to look deeper than the hellish green glow of his eyes. “Jed, you’ve raised me as your own. You’ve been there for me through thick and thin. Please, snap out of it. Whatever this clown’s done, shake it off.”
Max kicked out at the old boxer, catching him on the kneecap of his bad leg. The man winced, the green flames flickering, faltering momentarily before roaring back to life.
“You don’t want to do this, Jed. I love you. You’re kinda fond of me, too. Don’t let him win!”
“Hold him still,” said the warlock, his jovial humor now vanished as he approached with the dagger. Jed grabbed Max’s bangs, pushing his head back against the rough bark of the Hanging Tree. The murder of crows had gathered in the branches above, all silent now, bearing witness to the end of Max Helsing.
• • •
SYD’S BMX BURST THROUGH THE GATES OF GALLOWS Hill Burying Ground, kicking up gravel as she stood high in the seat. Her legs were a blur, stamping the pedals as she accelerated through the graveyard, down toward Witch River. Shouts and screams drew her in, leaving her with no doubts about where the battle was. Trees and tombs slipped past, silent sentinels that marked her path toward a scene of madness. Eightball was behind her somewhere, struggling to keep up, his brave work done after belching a fireball onto that miserable mummy.
The scared kid inside was telling her to turn back, head home, bury her head beneath her pillow, but the best friend roared louder. She wouldn’t leave Max alone on this night. She had no idea what was in the box, but she knew one thing for sure: she had to deliver it to Max.
She could feel the box’s hard edges pressing against her rib cage, zipped under her jacket. She was terrified of dropping it, of what might happen if she failed to get it to Max in one piece, let alone on time. The access tunnel from Vendemeier’s lair had brought her out into a park, not far from the museum. Doubling back, she and the portly pooch had picked up the bicycle and burned rubber in their desire to reach the cemetery.
A figure lurched from the undergrowth as she neared a bend at the bottom of the hill, scrawny arms reaching, white eyes blind with rage: a ghoul, like the monster she and Max had encountered the other night. Syd couldn’t hold her scream in; Max might have been able to face down any horror, but this monster hunting was all new to her. The Aztec spear was stashed across her back, but reaching for it would have caused her to crash. Indeed, she nearly lost control of the BMX, righting it only when she kicked out with her foot, hoofing the fiend in the chest. The ghoul tumbled back and the bike remained upright, taking the corner and speeding toward the Hanging Tree.
Two more undead monsters crashed toward her through the undergrowth, looking to cut her off. Her muscles burned as she powered downhill, jumping on the pedals to get them spinning.
The front wheel hit a rock. The BMX stopped instantly, and Syd was launched from the saddle like a boulder from a siege engine. Her body spun and the world turned around her. Then she was coming back to earth, screams and snarls in her ears. Her inner engineer told her what was coming: her angle of projection and descent was such that she was going to land on her head with no hope of righting herself. This would be a
broken neck . . . if she were lucky.
The crunch never came. Before she could land, Syd was caught in the embrace of a stranger as safely as a kitten tumbling from a tree. The young man wore scuffed biker leathers, and he cradled Syd in one arm against his broad chest. She glanced up, catching his thick mop of blond hair and Hollywood smile, before he pulled a long-handled ax from a holster on his back. Barely breaking eye contact with her, he sheared the top of the first ghoul’s head off as it closed on them. Then the stranger threw the blade at the second one, catching it square in the chest, black blood spewing down its torso as it collapsed face-first in the dirt.
Wing appeared, stepping out of the shadows to stand beside them, a loaded slingshot in his trembling grasp. Syd was lost for words.
“Do breathe, my dear,” said the young man in a smooth English accent. “There’s a good girl.”
• • •
MAX SQUIRMED IN JED’S GRIP, UNABLE TO FREE HIMSELF from the man’s iron hold on his hair. The sickening sound of the feasting ghouls rose from the Hanging Tree’s exposed roots. The remaining monsters were closing ranks around their master. Were Archer and Wing dead? Max bit down a sob, imagining the poor kid’s fate. The pale-skinned ghouls were silent as they watched Vendemeier, entranced by the warlock’s dagger, green flames licking its length.
“I hadn’t expected an audience for this tonight, but so be it,” said Vendemeier. “It has been so very long since I’ve had a congregation to preach to, I’d almost forgotten the sound of my own voice.”
“I find that hard to believe,” grunted Max, as Jed twisted the hair on his scalp to silence him.
“You have served me well, my friends. When the King in Yellow returns, you shall all find favor beneath His gaze. There is a future for each and every one of you in the Age of Unlight.”
Max ignored the ranting warlock, reaching into his jeans pocket. Out came his bunch of keys from Helsing House, the brass garage key caught between his thumb and finger. He lashed out, the jagged metal cutting through Jed’s vest and slashing a strip across the old man’s chest. Fury flashed in Jed’s eyes, momentarily replacing the green fire as his clenched fist shook. The keys fell on their chain as Max kept his voice low, trained on the old boxer, as he risked everything. He reacted, Max reasoned, to pain, to emotion.
“Your name is Joseph Edward Coolidge, and you were born in Harlem in 1945. Your mother’s name was Roberta, and she worked as a maid at the Hotel Edison in New York City. You never met your father, Joseph Senior, because he was killed on the beaches of Normandy during the D-Day landings. He got a medal for valor, which you keep at our home in a frame above the fireplace. It’s your most treasured possession.”
The green fire flickered further at the mention of Jed’s parents, but his grip remained firm, the fist poised to strike. Vendemeier continued preaching to the ghouls at his back as Max went on, quiet but insistent. Tears were rising in the corners of his eyes, but he was locked in on Jed. His free hand moved inside his jacket, searching for his last lifeline.
“I know all this because you drilled it into me. You told me how important family was. ‘The most powerful magic in the world.’ Those were your words, Jed. You met my grandfather, Algernon, when he used to stay at the Edison. You tended bar and got to chatting. He showed an interest in your boxing career. When that ended prematurely, he offered you a gig working for him. You’ve worked for and with the family ever since. When Algernon died, you took his son, Conrad, under your wing as your own. You two traveled the world side by side, fighting monsters and putting them in the dirt. And then my father died, and you were left with me. Still family. Nothing changed. You raised me right; you raised me as you would the son you never had. You’re all I have, Jed. You are my family. I love you. And that’s why this hurts me more than you can know . . .”
Max launched the contents of the thermos flask at Jed. The old warrior released his grip on the boy, his hands flying up to his face as the scalding soup hissed across his skin. The burning broth went up his nose, down his throat, into his eyes, and across his bloodied vest. The flask fell into the leaves, quickly followed by an exhausted Max as he collapsed at Jed’s feet. The veteran monster hunter loomed above him, doubled over, green eyes hidden behind clenched fists as steam rose from his scorched head and torso.
Vendemeier was in his element now, speaking loud and proud, the ghouls buoyed by his arrogant speech as he moved among them, blessing their flesh with the burning blade. Their dead flesh hissed, the stench unbearable.
“Just as the boy is Marked, so now are you, as soldiers in Hastur’s army. Could there be any greater gift than being the first acolytes of the King in Yellow, on the eve of His return?”
The ghouls clamored, desperate to feel the kiss of the green flames upon their rotten skin. Vendemeier sighed contentedly.
“And so begins the Age of Unlight, Van Helsing,” said the warlock, twirling the blade and turning back to Max. “Time to die.”
Jed’s punch caught the warlock on the bridge of the nose, his already decaying features crumpling in on themselves beneath a sledgehammer of knuckles. He went down into the dirt, face a mask of thick, gooey blood, looking up at a beaten, battered Jed, who towered over him. The aged prizefighter swayed unsteadily, steaming lumps of overcooked clam flopping from his face and shoulders, his eyes human, hard, and full of anger. Max stood beside him, cheeks wet with tears, as the crows in the Hanging Tree screeched in unison.
Jed snorted. “You asked for it,” he said, raising his fists, ready for a fight.
THIRTY-ONE
xxx
THE MURDER OF CROWS
With Jed returned to his former self, Max had a moment to gather his thoughts before the horde of ghouls charged for him. Jed stood in their way, a human barricade. With the spell broken, his rage was doubled, the old fighter letting his fists rip as jawbones, teeth, and rotten flesh flew. If a ghoul slipped by him, he’d change his angle, cutting it off before it could reach his young charge. He had Max’s back, but it wouldn’t stop the monsters from gradually overpowering them.
“Max!”
It was Syd’s voice, from beyond the scrum of bodies. Max dodged as one of the ghouls broke past Jed, wincing as its claws raked his stomach before he shoved it headfirst into the Hanging Tree. The crows squawked as the fiend hit the trunk, but they remained there, watching the fight. A figure barged through, shoving the monsters aside and heading straight for Max, clearing the way for the girl who ran in his wake. It was Abel Archer, with Syd and Wing on his tail.
“The box!” Syd yelled, waving a black cube above her head as she caught sight of Max through the melee.
That wasn’t a great idea.
Vendemeier leaped up from the mud, seizing her by the hair. She lashed out, striking with elbow and foot, trying to headbutt him, but he’d learned from his last encounter with Syd. He avoided her blows, hands working their way along her straining arm, past the elbow, to the box she clutched in her hand.
“Filthy little harpy,” he hissed. “Give that back!”
“Go get it yourself!” cried Syd, tossing it into the throng.
Max saw it land at Jed’s feet, where the bare toes of the ghouls kicked it around. He dived forward, onto his belly. The combatants went down with him, trying to stab him, bite him, kill him, as Vendemeier shrieked in a blind panic. He too threw himself forward, pushing his minions aside as he tried to reach the box.
Max felt teeth bite into the top of his head, and claws rake his throat, but he kept on reaching for that black wooden box. Jed tore monsters off Max’s back, with Abel Archer joining the huddle, his ax ripping lumps out of the rotten bodies. Through the mass of limbs, Max saw Vendemeier’s green eyes shining as he squirmed through the mud toward the box. The boy felt the weight of bodies on him, Jed and Archer unable to reach him, as the undead tried to tear flesh from his bones. He screamed but fought on. It was only a hand
’s breadth away. Vendemeier crawled desperately closer. The warlock mouthed the word no as Max got to it first, slamming his fist down, the cube splintering beneath the blow.
Within the broken box lay the blackened husk of a heart, preserved for all time as if pickled in tar. Max grabbed the withered lump of meat and tossed it, through the crowd, into Vendemeier’s centuries-old grave. The trio of ghouls who had gorged on the warlock’s remains stared briefly at the organ as if it were a hand grenade thrown into their midst. Then they leaped upon it, clawing at one another, hungry to taste this most delicate, delicious morsel. As their teeth tore the heart apart, it was as if a thunderclap had hit the burying ground, knocking everyone who yet stood flat into the blood-soaked mud.
Max rolled over, coming face-to-face with a ghoul. The monster was close enough to bite his nose off. Yet it didn’t. Instead, it stared at him in confusion, big pale eyes blinking as if stirring from slumber. Those tiny pinprick pupils looked Max up and down, and then gazed past him, as the creatures around it rose from the sucking, squelching earth. Max stifled a relieved bark of laughter, realizing with delight that they no longer wanted to attack him. Instead, they turned their attention to the other figure that lay close by, struggling to rise from a peat-stained puddle.
“What . . . what are you doing?” said Vendemeier, slipping in the mud on his twisted, buckled legs. “He’s there, right behind you. Seize him. Do as I command, you foolish fiends!”
Max clicked his fingers. “Don’t you see it, Udo? They’re no longer in your thrall.” He made a halo sign above his own head as Syd, Wing, and Archer gathered around him. “Your Bane of Monsters is gone; the spell was broken when your heart got chowed. You’re done, Vendemeier.”
The Thirteenth Curse Page 20