Gertie nodded and the two made their way past the lifeless corpse and the shattered remnants of the MP5, heading for the huge warehouse that Craig had stumbled from. Brian shuddered at how hard fought that last battle had been; just one werewolf had taken the pair’s combined and not-insubstantial might to take down. And in that warehouse lay many more of its ilk. He hadn’t been lying before; if Neil, Scylla and, most importantly of all, Bertha didn’t arrive and soon, he didn’t know how much of a chance they’d stand. The warehouse was concrete and steel, no chance of setting it on fire and simply burning the beasts to death, not like they could have done had they’d still been nicely cocooned in the barn. The best course of action would be to close the back door to the warehouse and hope it held till reinforcements arrived. The pair sidled about the edge of the building towards the rear, clinging to the shadows out of instinct, though whether that would aid them against creatures that by their very nature hunted at night, they hadn’t a clue.
“There it is,” Gertie whispered, as they rounded the final corner.
The door hung open, creaking gently in the fitful evening breeze. Within, darkness. And from that darkness, a pungent and unmistakable odour washed out; wet dog, patchouli, weed. The unforgettable scent of werewolves. Brian nodded.
“Let’s close it, then all we need to do is hang back, keep watch, and wait for the others to arrive with the heavy artillery. What we’ll do then, well… we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Sounds good to me,” Gertie replied, making to move towards the short flight of concrete steps that led up to the door. But before she could even make it a few steps, a huge shape slowly emerged from the darkness, a familiar snout poking out into the night air, atop which could be seen blazing yellow eyes that gazed about in search of prey. “Uh-oh.”
The pair froze, unsure as to whether the beast had yet seen them. Any doubts were soon dispelled as the yellow eyes lowered, fixing them with a hungry gaze, and a deep, reverberating growl issued forth from that fanged snout. Brian gulped; he still felt the aches and pains from the last fight and didn’t relish another one quite so soon. The beast began to emerge further from the doorway, then Gertie hissed at him.
“Mind Whip,” she blurted. “Push it back inside, then we can close the door and avoid another scrap.”
“Good call.”
Hastily, Brian began to call upon the power of the ring, ready to hurl the beast back into the darkness through sheer force of his mind, but before he could unleash the spell, a sudden incredible pressure scrunched up the back of his hoody and he was hoisted helplessly high into the air. Caught off guard, he could only gurgle in surprise, glancing to his side to see Gertie similarly held in the air upon the end of a slim arm. A familiar, voice chuckled from below them, sultry and mocking.
“My, my, now this will be quite the fitting revenge. Do to others as they do unto you, that’s how the saying goes, isn’t it?”
And with those words ringing in their ears, the pair, Helsing and Master alike, were hurled forwards towards the door by inhuman force. The werewolf stood with a comical look of confusion upon its canine face, a look that changed to one of pain as a combined twenty stone slammed into its furry form at thirty miles per hour. As one, the trio, humans and lycan alike, tumbled into the darkness. In a daze, clutching his aching head and blinking the blurriness from his eyes, Brian glanced up to the doorway behind him. There, silhouetted in the pale moonlight, the infuriatingly sexy and seemingly ever-present shape of Cassandra. Her dark eyes twinkled with glee as she held one hand on the door.
“Have fun, Helsing,” she chuckled. “Let’s hope you and your lady friend last as long as I did. Somehow, I doubt it.”
And with that, she slammed the door shut and locked it from the outside, leaving the pair lit by only the weak green light of the emergency exit sign. The pair glanced at each other, unsure what to say or do, before realising that they were slowly moving up and down, up and down, with slow, metronomic rhythm. Floors didn’t move up and down, did they? They also weren’t furry. Slowly, they lowered their gaze, to spy the werewolf lying beneath them, staring at them with eyes, yellow, confused and very much filled with rage.
“Oh,” Brian began. “Shit.”
A tangle of fur, limbs, teeth and blades. Somehow, Brian found himself pinning the monster down by its wrists, though even his gangly arms were stretched to their limits by the distance between them.
“Hold it still!” Gertie cried.
“I’m trying,” Brian hissed through gritted teeth. “And for God’s sake, be quiet; there’s a fuckton more of these things in here somewhere.”
The werewolf snapped with huge fangs, Brian having to dodge his head left to right to avoid it being bitten off entirely. Finally, and mercifully, Gertie buried one of her daggers to the hilt in its forehead. The creature paused and stared for an instant, as its mind slowly worked, before finally coming to the decision that yes, it was indeed dead, and lolling back to the concrete floor. Gertie retrieved her dagger, spraying foul ichor all over Brian’s face, who rose and rolled his eyes, before wiping his face clean on the sleeve of his hoody and swearing as he saw the thick, black stain.
“For pity’s sake… you know this is gonna have to go to the dry cleaners.”
“Get over it, you’re rich. I’m the one who’s not being paid handsomely enough for being here.”
“No-one asked you to come. Though, I’m grateful you did.”
“Wow, was that another thank you? Best watch yourself; that’s starting to become a habit.”
Brian grinned.
“No time for getting sentimental. We need to find somewhere to hide. But first,” he continued, staring into the pitch darkness ahead, “we need to see where we’re going.” He reached out a hand, the sword flying to meet it from the floor, then thumbed the runes and whispered the words. Flames erupted, bathing the pair with their orange glow. And illuminating the half a dozen lycans staring at them five yards ahead. “Oh.”
The pair stared at the slowly approaching monsters.
“Any ideas?” Gertie gulped.
“Just one,” Brian admitted. “RUN!”
Chapter Seventeen:
Carnage
The two continued their frantic climb up the ladder that led to the rafters overhead, Gertie above and climbing with manic pace, Brian below and swishing beneath him with his flaming sword to keep the pursuing monsters at bay. Thankfully, the monsters could only climb single-file, which made things slightly easier at least. Unfortunately, the hideous weight of the swollen creatures was causing the ladder to rock perilously on its mountings. Brian swore as he slipped and dropped a rung, managing to halt his fall by mere finger tips.
“Christ on a blue bike, Gertie, will you climb faster?”
“I’m climbing as fast as I bloody well can!”
The two ascended, rung by rung, nearing the gantry overhead. A muscled arm shot from the darkness below, catching Brian about his ankle and squeezing with supernatural strength, but a swish from his sword singed the fur on its forearm and it retreated once more down below. Finally, Gertie managed to scrabble onto the steel gantry, reaching down to help hoist Brian up the last few rungs. Thankfully, his lanky form weighed about as much as an empty crisp packet, and she hauled him with an ease that belied her tiny stature. Just as Brian rolled onto the platform, a vicious head, all dribbling jaws and baleful eyes, appeared over the edge after them. A boot to the face, then another, and the creature fell to the depths below. Yelps of pain spoke of its brethren unwittingly cushioning its fall.
“The ladder,” Gertie hastily told him. “Cut it down with your sword!”
Brian nodded, shuffling to the edge of the platform and looking down; yet another werewolf was attempting the difficult climb, its heavily muscled form and hooked talons making hard work of the shaking ladder. Brian reached down with the sword, taking a swipe at the metal. The blade rebounded from the steel, sending shockwaves up his arm and jarring his sh
oulder.
“Retard. Use the heat, obviously.”
“Calm your tits, woman. Surprisingly enough, I’ve never done this before.”
This time Brian simply held the flaming edge against the ladder’s upright. The sorcerous heat of the blade caused the metal to hiss and glow orange. Slowly, like a dull knife moving through particularly chilled butter, the edge began to cut through the steel.
“Faster!” Gertie berated him.
“I’m going as fast as physics dictate,” Brian hissed in reply.
The werewolf was but a few rungs below by the time the sword cut through the first upright, but thankfully that one cut was all they needed; with an ominous creak, the ladder’s remaining upright broke free from its welds, the entire thing falling away from the platform as the werewolf clung on for dear life and whined in apprehension. Slowly, the ladder fell away into the darkness and, once more, they were rewarded with a pitiful yelp of pain.
“Well, that’ll buy us a few minutes respite, at least,” Brian sighed.
“Don’t be so sure,” Gertie told him, elbowing him in the side. “Look.”
In the dimness of the gloom, illuminated as it was by only the light of Brian’s sword, dark shapes could be seen by the concrete wall at the end of the warehouse; the werewolves were digging their claws into the concrete, hauling themselves like eight-foot furry spiders up the sheer wall towards the gantry. It was slow going, yet they moved inexorably, rising up the wall with all the unstoppable inevitability of the tide. The pair backed away down the gantry, keeping themselves facing towards the ever-climbing werewolves as they shuffled backwards towards the windows in the roof at the far end of the warehouse.
“Any ideas?” Gertie asked him as they backed away.
“Nope. But bear with me. And though what you hear in the next few seconds might make you think I’m crazy, trust me when I say I’m not; I have a certificate at home to prove it.” With that, he turned to the sloping windows in the roof overhead, gazing at his moonlit reflection. “XII, I’m in some dire need of help, old man.”
The reflection transformed, becoming that of his predecessor. His usually amused eyes were concerned as he stared over Brian’s shoulder at the steadily climbing lycans.
“So it seems. Cassandra?”
“Cassandra.”
“Bitch.”
“I know, right? But seriously, what would you do in this situation?”
Gertie stared at Brian as though he’d suddenly grown a second head.
“Who are you talking to? We’ve a situation here that could use your attention.”
“I know. And never you mind who I’m talking to. You just keep an eye on those big, climbing bastards and warn me if they get too close.”
With a grunt and a final, strange sideways glance, Gertie did as he bade, standing and staring in readiness at the ever-climbing lycans, daggers to hand, though what use they’d be if half a dozen or more of them descended upon them at once, she didn’t know. XII stared at the girl.
“I see Gertie’s not changed. Same hardass as ever.”
“You’ve not answered my question yet. What would you do?”
“Me? I’d kill them all. But you being you, I’d jump out of this fucking window.”
“Kill them all? That’s,” Brian quickly counted, before giving up, “multiple fucking werewolves bearing down on us.”
“And? You’re Helsing. And a young one in your prime, to boot. They’re the ones who are outgunned.”
“You off your ghostly rocker?” Brian rose to tip toes, glancing out of the window to the ground fifty feet below. “No chance of jumping down there,” he told the shade. “Could possibly Blink it, but I can’t hold Gertie and see the ground at the same time. And I’m not risking her reappearing up to her neck in concrete.”
“Then best get killing.”
“How? I can barely take one of these bastards down, even with Scy…” He caught himself, fully aware that an ever-more-worried-for-his-sanity Gertie was listening. “Even with Gertie’s help. How the fuck am I supposed to deal with half a dozen of the monsters?”
“Christ, lad. The power is in you. Even I felt it back in the Mount yesterday, and I’m dead. You’re a Helsing, the unstoppable force of good in the world.”
“You weren’t unstoppable.”
“It was my time. You have many more years ahead of you. Just let the righteous anger flow and the power will fill you, trust me. These werewolves are just mangy hounds ready to be put out of their misery. They’re nothing to such as you.”
“Nothing? They’re eight foot and pure muscle!”
The spectre sighed in exasperation.
“You’re still thinking as Brian. You need to let go of your past self, if only at times like this. But it seems that my words are falling on deaf ears. So let’s see if someone else can drive some sense into that thick skull of yours.”
“Brian,” came Gertie’s quiet plea from beside him. “If you’re quite finished with your descent to madness, we’ve company…”
Brian risked a quick glance behind him; lycans had now landed at the far end of the gantry and slowly crept towards them in single file, eyes filled with hunger and teeth bared ready for the kill.
“Shit.” He turned back to the window. “XII, I… wait, you’re not XII. You’re…”
The image of a mediaeval Crusader knight stared back at him, a wry smile on his face. An image identical to the body Brian had seen entombed in the Crypt beneath the Mount.
“Correct,” the apparition replied in a subtle Germanic accent. “No number needed here. Now come with me.” The shade reached towards the gawping Brian, a spectral hand emerging from the window to grasp him about the wrist with fingers that felt cold yet very, very real. “Let’s show you what it truly means to be Helsing.”
And with those final words, the spectre heaved. And Brian was hauled into the window, to disappear in a blinding flash of sorcerous light.
Chapter Eighteen:
Helsing
Helsing slammed into the sandstone wall, grunting in pain as the links of his chainmail dug painfully into the flesh of his arm, but no time to rue; even as he paused, the cackling, unearthly sound of the very demons of Hell filled the air of the accursed desert city, hailing from every direction. Forcing down his fatigue, he continued his run through the labyrinthine alleyways towards the temple in the centre of the city. They should have had more time, he cursed to himself. The satanic ritual was supposed to take six days, the same number of days that God Himself had taken to create the Earth.
But Heimlich had been uncharacteristically wrong; the madmen had only needed five days to summon the Beast.
A pox upon them. Who in their right mind would even think of calling forth creatures from the very depths of hell? Back home in Germany, the masses had been taught by the powers that be that the Saracens were barbarians, dread and violent, who would not think twice about stooping to any level, no matter how base, when it came to shedding blood in the service of their dark god. Helsing knew nothing of gods, despite the red cross that bedecked the palisade in his left hand. Gods were for priests, and Helsing, despite whatever magic powers might be lent him by the ring, was no priest. Or if he was, he was a grim one, whose only sermon was death. But what he did know was this; it wasn’t the Moors who had opened the gates of Hell.
It was the Crusaders themselves.
Besieged, knowing that Jerusalem was soon to be overtaken by the hordes of Saracens without, Master Francisco D’Amico, leader of the occupying Crusader army, had convened his council of priests, told them his mad plan to unleash the hordes of Satan himself upon the invading foe. If he couldn’t have the city, then neither could they. Scorched earth. Madness, Helsing spat, for the thousandth time since hearing about the plan. The Masters had dispatched him at once upon catching wind of the plot. But their timings had been wrong, Hell already unleashed upon the city, Crusader, Moor and innocent civilian alike, by the time Helsing had even arrived.
The panicked call came from the market square round the corner and, as Helsing rounded the end of the tall sandstone building and burst into the light, the ferocious Middle-Eastern sun glinted from shining plate bedecked in French livery. Plate that was racing towards him with terrified haste.
“Flee, mon frere,” the lead Crusader knight shouted to him as the group raced near. “There’s no defeating them!”
Helsing sniffed and angled his head so that he could see past the fleeing troops. A pack of gibbering red hell-spawn raced and bounded after them, with tiny horns perched above leering eyes and gangly limbs that belied infernal strength that Helsing had already felt first hand. With a snarl, he reached over his back and, with one hand, drew his huge, heavy broadsword. The cluster of fleeing Crusaders slowed to a halt behind him as they passed and turned back to watch him with disbelieving eyes. Their leader drew near, fear and confusion writ large upon his face.
“Zey are invincible, my friend,” the man told him in French. “Swords bounce from their flesh. You have no choice but to flee. Come; we make for the city gates.”
“Make for the gates if you wish, my Gallic friend,” Helsing told the man in perfect French. “But I have a job to do.”
A puff of black smoke, startling the French troupe, and Helsing vanished, only to reappear amidst the pack of equally startled demons. Before the creatures could even regain their composure, he laid about him with his sword. Five feet long, thick and ornate, the zweihander would have lived up to its name had it been wielded by a lesser mortal; as it was, Helsing whirled and spun, one hand holding his shield to block dread talons, the other, with supernatural strength, his sword, as it lashed out to crush and behead. The demons were fast, the very physics of the mortal world having barely the most tenuous of holds upon their form. But Helsing was the faster. Like a dervish he whirled and danced, a blur of motion, always one step ahead of those rending claws, his silver blade leaping like a salmon, powering through magic and might, through even the nigh-invulnerable hides of his infernal foes.
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Mission #3: Howlin' Mad Page 11