The Thirteenth Curse

by Curtis Jobling

  The ghouls closed on the warlock, reaching out, claws catching and grabbing him. They no longer saw a powerful necromancer directing them to attack the teenage monster hunter; they saw a corpse. It might have been moving, talking, struggling in their grasp, but it was still a corpse. Max smiled. He knew full well what ghouls’ diets consisted of.

  Vendemeier fought back as the remaining ghouls pulled him back down into the mud. He screamed, enraged by their betrayal, trying in vain to fight them off. Wilbur Cunningham’s filthy, bloodstained uniform was stripped in seconds and tossed aside, exposing the dead flesh beneath. Syd and Wing looked away as the ghouls tore into the security guard’s body like hungry hyenas. The warlock’s cries ceased. Bones broke like branches, the awful sound echoing around the graveyard.

  A swirling green gas rose from the feasting pack, coalescing before Max and his friends. Jed stepped forward, only for the boy to pull him back as a whispering voice filled the air.

  “Do you think that body is the only one that I can occupy, Van Helsing? Foolish mortal. I have survived for centuries, not bound to the earthly confines of flesh and blood like you pathetic humans. Your victory is fleeting. I merely have to find another host, another vessel to—”

  The green mist was cut off as a crow flew directly through it, breaking up its shape. The strange gas gathered back together.

  “I shall simply find—”

  Another crow flew through it, followed by a third, separating the emerald gas into disjointed clouds.

  “What is this?” hissed Vendemeier’s voice, shrill with panic.

  Max smiled as the crows mobbed the green gaseous being, lancing through it and ripping it apart. The warlock’s spirit shrieked with each blow.

  “Twenty-seven,” said Max, as the dark feathered birds swarmed around Vendemeier’s spirit, driving it away from the Hanging Tree and over the marsh. “Twenty-seven innocents you murdered during your reign of terror. Twenty-seven poor souls who have waited centuries for their revenge.”

  The murder of crows pecked, swooped, and slashed at the green mist, striking home as surely as if the warlock were made of flesh. He screamed.

  “Twenty-seven spirits waiting for you, Udo.”

  As the birds drove the vapor over the mist-shrouded reeds of the riverbank, more ghastly, pale lights joined it. They rose up from the marsh like will-o’-the-wisps, attaching themselves to the strange cloud. Still the crows crowded Vendemeier’s spirit, breaking it apart.

  “What are they?” whispered Syd as the warlock wailed.

  “This isn’t the end, Van Helsing!” screamed the spirit, growing thin and strained. “This is just the beginning!”

  The crows dive-bombed the green mist, driving it down into the mire and the dark, brooding river. Each of the birds hit the surface, taking a piece of that evil, pea-soup fog with it, vanishing beneath the brackish waters with the tattered spirit in tow. The warlock’s cries were gone at last.

  The humans returned their attention to the Hanging Tree and the ghouls gathered around Cunningham’s remains. Abel Archer hefted his ax and grinned, but Max reached out to stay his hand.

  “We must let them go, Archer. They’re victims here, too. See them off, scare them away, but don’t harm them.”

  The young Englishman sneered, but joined Max as they hissed, clapped, and jeered at the monsters, seeing them on their way. Those that lingered were shown the crucifix or threatened with Archer’s ax. Soon the fiends had fled, and Max and his friends stood around what was left of Wilbur Cunningham.

  “I don’t know who he was, but he didn’t deserve this,” whispered the boy. He picked up the shovel. “I need to bury him.”

  Jed stepped up, taking the folding spade from his young charge’s grasp.

  “You’ve done enough work today,” said the old man, gently but firmly pushing Max back. He began digging around the roots of the Hanging Tree, Syd, Wing, and Archer gradually joining him as Max watched, exhausted.

  THIRTY-TWO

  xxx

  JIGGITY JIG

  Max pulled his sweatshirt hood up as he stepped out of the front door of Helsing House, feeling the chilly wind. The rain had ceased, but there was still an inclement nip to the air that suggested winter was on its way. Leaves were piled up on the steps, plastering the stone flags and crying out to be removed. That job could wait, Max figured; he was done doing chores for the immediate future. Some kind of vacation seemed in order. He would just have to work his charms on Jed, get the old man to take him away somewhere— preferably a tropical island.

  Eightball bounced past him, down the steps, and onto the gravel drive, finding a suitable spot for a restroom break. It was only nine p.m., but it felt an awful lot later. Max had just popped into the Liu apartment, checking in on Wing, but the kid was fast asleep, exhausted after their exploits. There would be time to talk things through with Wing in the following days. The kid had come through for Max in a remarkable fashion. The boy wasn’t alone, of course. Others had played their part in saving the day. Saving the world, more like.

  “Home again, home again,” said Syd, from her perch on an old bench around the side of the house.

  Max smiled when he heard her, and Eightball released a very contented woof of his own. He skipped down the steps and followed the hellhound toward her.

  “Jiggity jig! What are you doing sitting out here in the cold on your own?”

  “I’m not on my own,” she replied as he drew close.

  To Max’s surprise, Abel Archer sat beside her, his hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket, breath steaming above his head. His weapons lay at his feet, a small arsenal that would get him into trouble the first time a beat cop saw him. How he avoided their attention, Max could only imagine.

  “Abel,” he said, smiling as best he could. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

  Eightball growled, barely audible, but Max didn’t miss it, and neither did Archer. The young Englishman glared back at the hellhound briefly before turning to Max.

  “I suppose I should be tootling off, eh? Been a long night for all, hasn’t it?”

  “Long couple of days actually,” said Max, stretching and flexing his muscles ineffectually beneath his hoodie. “I haven’t really stopped. It’s been one monster after another. Don’t know if you’ve ever experienced anything like that.”

  “Can’t say I have,” said Archer, standing and smiling. Even hidden within the house’s shadows and the night’s black shroud, his grin still dazzled.

  “Yep. All part of the job, I guess,” said Max, Eightball’s growl still rumbling at his feet.

  “You’re not wrong there, Maxwell,” said the other, hefting his pack and buckling his equipment into place. He looked like some postapocalyptic freedom fighter, all black leather, biker boots, bows, and blades.

  “Sayda,” he said, bowing elegantly at Syd and sharing a sly grin with her. She giggled. Since when had Syd been a girl who giggled? “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, my dear. I very much hope this isn’t the last time our paths cross.” The girl didn’t answer, but judging by her smile Max reckoned she felt the same way. Archer stepped up to Max, towering over his rival by a good foot.

  “You know, Maxwell, it can’t possibly work.”

  “What?”

  “This,” said the giant Brit, pointing at Eightball. “Befriending monsters. It’s going to get you killed.”

  Max smiled. “Worked out well this time. If my monster friends hadn’t helped me as much as my human ones did, I’d probably be ghoul chow.”

  Archer grinned. “You’re lucky your little friend Wing called me. Consider this one a freebie, old bean. The next time you’re in over your head, it’s going to cost you. I can’t drop everything and come running every time you get in a fix, can I?”

  Max’s jaws clenched as he smiled at the big idiot. Archer punched him in the s
houlder. He was probably the kind of clown who would try and break a hand when he shook it, thought Max.

  “You have my card,” said Abel Archer, turning and walking down the drive, the gravel crunching underfoot. “And remember, when you’re ready, come work with me. I’ll show you what it means to be a real monster hunter.”

  Then he was gone.

  “That guy is such an A-hole,” said Max.

  “You think?” asked Syd, heading back indoors. “I think he’s a hottie.”

  Max was lost for words as he followed her into Helsing House.

  His mood lifted as he climbed the stairs, though. He had an awful lot to be thankful for. He was alive, and that was one thing. Even better, the world hadn’t ended, swallowed up in the Age of Unlight by Hastur. Max feared he hadn’t heard the last of that name.

  Back at his own apartment, his weary legs carried him over the threshold, the ever-ready Eightball bouncing in after him. Syd picked up her toolbox from the counter and slipped it into her backpack, checking that everything was securely in place. She turned to Max.

  “Welcome to teenhood, dude,” she said, giving him a rare hug. “Trust me when I tell you, it gets better.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. Thanks for everything, Syd.”

  “Hey, it’s what friends do. I have your back, Max. Always.”

  “And I have yours.”

  She straightened her backpack, pausing to pat Eightball, who licked her enthusiastically.

  “Oh, and hey,” said Max as she opened the door. “Archer called you Sayda back there. What’s up with that?”

  “It’s my name.”

  “I thought it was Syd?”

  “Right, because that’s a Hispanic name.”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s short for Sayda, Maxwell,” she said, putting extra emphasis on his own full name.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You never asked.” She smiled, closing the door behind her.

  Max shook his head, still irked by Archer.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Max turned, surprised to see Jed limping out of his bedroom and into the lounge. The old boxer moved slower than ever, looking like he’d aged another decade since his abduction at Vendemeier’s hands. Beneath the paisley bathrobe and old slippers, Max could see he was still wearing the clothes he’d returned home in, no doubt still spattered with blood and gore.

  The boy shrugged. “Keep your change. My head’s pretty vacant at the moment. I’m exhausted, just about ready for bed. What happened to the shower you said you were taking?”

  Jed poured himself a warm mug of coffee from the stove. “Are you my boss now?”

  Max was tempted to say something glib right then, but for once he thought better of it. Jed was hurting, there was no doubt about it, and it wasn’t just from the physical and mental mauling Vendemeier had dealt him. His pride was battered.

  “I’m sorry,” said his mentor, before Max could think of something else to say. He trudged back past him, settling in his reclining chair.

  “For what?” asked Max, sitting down on the rug before it and leaning back against the La-Z-Boy. He’d grown up in that position, crouching at Jed’s feet while the old man read.

  “All that’s happened in the last two days. Every damn minute of it; I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

  “It happened on my watch. I’m supposed to look out for you, protect you.”

  Max swiveled and placed a hand on Jed’s knee. “You can’t always look out for me. There are going to be times when you’re not there—at school, in the street, when I’m with my friends—but that’s just life. It’d be just as true if I was a regular kid and not a monster hunter, Jed. You can’t always be there.”

  “But if I had been there—”

  “I’d be mad as hell!” finished Max. “I need my space, dude. You cramp my style.”

  Jed clipped him with a rolled-up copy of the evening newspaper, provoking a chortle from Max.

  “When you are there, I know you have my back, Jed. That’s all that matters.”

  “I didn’t have your back tonight. I was under that monster’s spell.”

  “For a while, sure, but you snapped out of it when you had to.”

  “It wasn’t me, Max. I wasn’t . . . myself. I remember so little of what happened. But you brought me back . . .”

  “Me and a flask of clam chowder.” Max laughed, patting his leg again. “Seriously, Jed? You don’t need to explain yourself. That was witchcraft. Don’t sweat it. It’s done.”

  “Done?”

  “The Bane of Monsters spell is broken. The fiery crown’s vanished from my head. I’ve got you back. I’m not dead. Vendemeier most assuredly is. And the world hasn’t ended. Everything’s hunky-dory, Jed. Things can return to normal now.”

  Max smiled. Jed didn’t.

  “What?” asked the boy.

  “The Bane of Monsters might have been removed, Max, but this Vendemeier business is far from over. You may not be Marked for death anymore, but the prophecy remains in place. Should you die an unnatural death at the hands of a monster, it will still trigger the Age of Unlight. The world as we know it will crumble, and the vampires will seize it from mankind.”

  Max’s throat was suddenly dry. “Hastur? The father of vampires, right?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Vendemeier spoke of him like he was some kind of god.”

  “To the vampires and their thralls he is a god, albeit a living one. Or an un-living one.” Max nodded. “Udo Vendemeier was one of his priests on earth, but there’ll be others.”

  “Others?”

  “Other humans perverted by Hastur’s dark promises, those who’ve taken the Unspeakable Oath and are sworn to serve him throughout life . . . and death.”

  Max shivered. “He did mention an acolyte having taken his heart for safekeeping.”

  Jed nodded. “Fortunately for us, that acolyte allowed the heart to end up as a museum piece.”

  “But if I don’t die, Hastur can’t return, right?”

  “Oh, I think there’s every possibility Hastur may return. Vampires hibernate, do they not? They feed to a point where they can go into a slumber, sometimes for decades, until they gestate into something else. A metamorphosis, if you will, from Adolescent, via Mature, through to Elder. Hastur’s been gone for centuries. If and when he does rise, who knows what form he will take? One thing we can be sure of; a returned King in Yellow will be like nothing the Van Helsings have ever encountered before.”

  Max sat silent for a moment, brooding.

  “When the chance comes to strike Hastur,” he said finally, “we gotta bring him down. The trick is keeping me alive in the meantime.”

  “Son, you put your life on the line every time you step out that door and go sniffing after monsters.”

  Max shrugged. “It’s what I do, what I was born to do, and what I’ll continue to do. And as long as I have my friends and family around me,” he said, squeezing Jed’s bony knee as he rose, “I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s all well and good, but with Principal Whedon breathing down your neck, it’ll be a miracle if you make it to high school.”

  The boy laughed. Eightball fell in alongside him again as he started toward his bedroom. He paused by the door, fishing something out of the back of his jeans, beneath his hoodie.

  “What you got there?” asked Jed, as Max pulled an ancient leather book out and tossed it to his guardian. He caught it in deft hands.

  “Vendemeier’s bible. The Egyptian dagger should be sent back to the museum, but I reckon we should hang on to this particular artifact.”

  “You’re not wrong,” said Jed, placing it carefully into the bookcase.

  “So listen,” Max went on,
“I was thinking of taking a few days off. Recharge my batteries and all that good stuff.”

  “You can sleep in tomorrow until ten.”

  “Ten in the evening?”

  Jed glowered. “Those steps need sweeping.” His face quirked into a half smile. “But don’t make any plans for the weekend.”

  Max’s face lit up. “Why? You got a surprise up your sleeve?”

  The old man threw the newspaper at him.

  “What’s this?” Max asked.

  “A newspaper. We’re going on a trip.”

  “Cool!”

  Jed’s bushy brow twitched. “You may want to check out page eleven. Two college kids went missing in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. Police report reckons some kind of animal attack. A third student survived. However, he claims they were assaulted by some kind of bat-winged creature with horns, hooves, and a forked tail. His words.”

  “Jersey Devil?”

  Jed shrugged. “Like I said, don’t make any plans.”

  “I can live with that,” said Max as he disappeared into the darkness of his bedroom, Eightball in tow. “It’s the closest I’ll ever get to a vacation.”

  EPILOGUE

  BUZAU MOUNTAINS, ROMANIA

  The helicopter touched down on the snow-covered meadow, deep in the shadow of the mountain. The passenger disembarked with the rotors still spinning, kicking up a blizzard as the man hurried across the crisp white field toward the forest’s edge. His long, finely tailored black coat flapped as he strode, the wind racing off the mountain nearly blowing him off his feet. The foreman, a short fellow in a thick woollen jacket and a battered yellow hard hat, met him at the tree line. He guided the visitor through the woodland and up the crumbling scree of a goat track that led to the site. As they walked, the man in black looked around.

  The Buzau Mountains remained relatively unknown to the outside world, little-explored even by the people of Romania. The man had spent the last week lodging in a guest house in the closest settlement, the village of Nucu, his only link to the outside world a spluttering satellite phone. There had been no road to bring him here this morning—hence the helicopter. The stunning scenery reminded him of where he grew up in France, near Chamonix, at the foot of Mont Blanc. Breathtaking though the area was, the Buzau range was no tourist destination, not yet anyway. For the time being it remained uncharted, forgotten, a region where mystery and myth still ruled over the superstitious locals. No wonder this had been the chosen place so long ago.