Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3

by Brian Ference

  It wasn’t obvious at first, but the home was too dark and too quiet. He knew someone still lived there. Most of the villagers kept tall wax candles burning through the night, illuminating hung charms of iron horseshoes or nails blessed with salt water to ward off evil spirits. He should investigate. Van Helsing slowly moved aside the brush and raised himself to his full height. He spent a few moments stretching his muscles and letting the blood flow throughout his body. Then he silently made his way towards the darkened house. The windows were completely dark and he could see nothing inside. The air was strangely calm. It felt as if the breeze had died completely. The wooden door was unlocked. He delicately opened it and slid inside. The house was only a single room, with a cold hearth at one end. In the center of the room stood a low table with three chairs. The third chair smaller than the others. A wife, husband, and small child shared this home.

  It was almost too dark to see, save for the light of the full moon that entered reluctantly through the windows. Van Helsing paused while his eyes adjusted to the dimness in the room. As they focused, he saw the young mother and her daughter. They were in the corner of the room on their knees, as if fervently praying—but their heads were not bowed and their hands were not clasped together. Their eyes stared blankly at the darkest spot of the room. They were looking towards the husband, who was also on his knees. No, they were looking past the husband and into the darkness above him. Something was very wrong here. He could taste a foulness in the air. Time seemed to move slowly as he raised his crossbow. He looked again at the husband. Was that blood flowing down the man’s head? His gaze kept passing over the dark spot in the room without quite focusing on it.

  He strained his eyes and concentrated on the shadow. It was no shadow, but a hideously horned demon from the pits of hell. The creature was half animal and half man, with the hooves and legs of a stag and the torso and chest of a man. The face was fanged and pointed, misshapen and unnaturally human. At the top of the head rose two horns, curved like those of a ram. The demon stood above the man kneeling at his feet, moving its long arms that ended in sharp talons. It was devouring the scalp and brains of the man in front of him as his wife and children looked on.

  Van Helsing’s instincts kicked in and he aimed his crossbow, preparing to fire. The demon casually raised one clawed hand and spoke a curse in Van Helsing’s mind. “Imobilă inima si membrele”. His muscles froze in place. The curse had stopped his every move just as the demon had done to the family. His body wouldn’t budge. He screamed inside his mind, remembering with disgust the unnaturally rigid form of the father. His hand was on the firing mechanism and he had already begun to fire the repeating crossbow—if only he could squeeze the release mechanism a little harder, the bolt would fire.

  It was not any normal crossbow bolt. Raised on his mother’s stories of the Evil Eye, Van Helsing had covered this bolt in holy water mixed with his own spit. He said a silent prayer, asking for his mother’s help as the demon continued its meal. The monster’s arrogance was astounding as it casually ignored the threat of the crossbow.

  Almost…he could almost move. The bolt gleamed in the corner of his eye as a tiny drop of water reflected the moonlight. Perched on the back of the fletching of the bolt sat a drop of his saliva mixed with the holy water. It fell and landed on his fingertip. Lightning shot up and down his body as his muscles strained against the demon’s curse. He fired the crossbow.

  The demon flung up its hand and another curse reverberated through Van Helsing’s mind. “Mizerie și chin să fie peste voi”. The metal string of the crossbow snapped, the sharp edge of the longer piece ricocheting back, towards his right eye. Searing pain brought him to his knees as his eye burned. Van Helsing screamed in rage as he realized his eye had been gouged out. The demon smiled, exposing pointed teeth—until its large red eyes looked down at the crossbow bolt protruding from its chest. Just as the holy water and spit had released his body from its paralyzed state, so had it allowed the bolt to fly true despite the demon’s curse and embed deep in the black skin. The creature’s distorted human face changed to a look of disbelief as putrid-smelling dark blood spurted from the wound, steaming and sizzling as it hit the ground.

  Van Helsing wasted no time, gritting his teeth against the pain and drawing the longsword from the sheath on his back. He strode forward and the monster once more raised its terrifying hand—only to slice it cleanly off with a mighty swing of the sword. Hot blood splattered on Van Helsing’s face, burning the spot where his right eye had been. The demon screamed and spoke the next curse aloud with a raspy voice that came from everywhere at once. “Omule nebun—Foolish man. My death will seal your fate and my blood will bind this curse to you forever. Misfortune and misery will plague you wherever you go. Whatever you seek shall be hidden from you, your mind will be paralyzed with terror, and failure and pain will impede your every move.”

  With a defiant yell, Van Helsing swung a two-handed blow that separated the unnatural horned head from its body. When the lifeless body of the demon hit the ground, the family finally regained their ability to move. Released from the curse, the father’s kneeling body fell over sideways. The mother and daughter immediately began screaming and Van Helsing was unable to comfort them as the sound brought the other villagers running. Together they all watched as the dead form of the creature suddenly caught fire and began burning. Van Helsing used his cloak to smother the fire enveloping the severed right hand that had cursed him. He would keep a trophy of this kill.

  The villagers proclaimed him “Erou” and “Salvator”, rewarding Van Helsing with silver for his efforts—though it seemed a poor trade for the loss of his right eye.

  The wound continued to pang him as he covered it with a patch and set to repairing his repeating crossbow. The pain was a constant ache as he traveled to a nearby doctor, hoping to ease it.

  The doctor, an elderly Russian man with a long trailing beard and squinty eyes behind a pair of bifocal spectacles, examined his patient carefully. “A very strange injury this is. How did you say it happened again?”

  Van Helsing thought it better to keep his response free from as much detail as possible. “A broken crossbow string.”

  Doctor Vladimir ran his fingers through his beard thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s right. Very unfortunate that. I have a special ointment which may help it to heal somewhat. The damage doesn’t appear as bad as you described. It is possible you will eventually gain partial vision in the eye. You said you have silver, yes?”

  “That’s impossible. I felt the eye crush and die. But yes, I have silver, for all the good it will do.”

  The Doctor chuckled quietly to himself. “Best to leave the medicine to me my boy. The damage isn’t as bad as you think. I can already see new tissue forming around the wound.”

  Van Helsing frowned. “Pass me a mirror, I want to have a look.”

  “As you wish, but the area is still irritated. I have cleaned out the infection as best as I can. The ointment will help, but the healing is up to your body now. It’s amazing really, the resilience of the human body. I have studied it for some time and am still unlocking new mysteries every day. I will have you know that I have successfully treated even the most terrible of injuries.”

  The Doctor reached over to a side table covered in dusty books and strange instruments. After a moment, he found a small mirror and handed it to Van Helsing as he continued speaking in his slow, rhythmic way. “Why, I even saved a young girl from a ghastly bite from a bear. She was bleeding everywhere, you see. I was able to slow the bleeding enough to stitch the neck bite closed.”

  Van Helsing paused with the mirror half-raised to his face. “How did you do that?”

  “It was a matter of slowing the beating of her heart and replacing the lost blood while I sealed the damage. The very same ointment I am giving you helped to prevent infection from setting into the wound.”

  Van Helsing’s thoughts went back to his father as he died slowly in his arms. He might have
been able to save him. “You could teach this knowledge to others? Could you teach me to save those who are dying?”

  The Doctor’s face brightened and he smiled with the prospect of having someone listen to his many theories while doing the heavy lifting and cleaning of his experiments. “Why, yes, my boy. I believe I could. I will make you a bargain, keep your silver for now and become my pupil. Help me with my experiments and the cleaning and I will teach you everything that I know.”

  “You will teach me to save people?” Van Helsing considered the Doctor’s words as he viewed the reflection of his swollen and ravaged eye. The aged man was right. It didn’t look quite as bad as he had imagined.

  “I will, if you follow my instructions carefully and dedicate yourself to learning. I will also provide the ointment for your eye at no cost.”

  “You are very kind. Consider the bargain struck.”

  Van Helsing was true to his word and he entered the Doctor's service, diligently soaking up every ounce of medical knowledge that he could. He studied every medical book that he could get his hands on, along with the Doctor's detailed sketches of the human anatomy. He assisted in the many experiments the Doctor orchestrated, gathering and mixing materials for the Doctor's medicines. He even helped examine and diagnose patients.

  His eye continued to heal slowly. The burning pain gradually retreated to a constant itch. Van Helsing wanted to be hopeful, but the redness never seemed to abate. Neither did the swelling, and the eye stayed about double the size it should be. He had no time to dwell on the healing of his eye, however, as every day became a greater struggle.

  Van Helsing's dexterity and skill in the forest had mysteriously vanished. In its place came constant failure and clumsiness in the Doctor's service. Hardly a day passed when he didn't drop some of the Doctor's equipment, or destroy the delicate balance of a mixture, burn his hand on a hot pan, or set fire to something. His patient teacher attributed it to the difficulty of the profession, but Van Helsing began to wonder if it was due to the demon's curse. His nightmares became worse until finally, in a fit of despair, he asked the Doctor for a sleeping potion that would guarantee him a dreamless sleep.

  One day he removed the patch over his right eye, only to discover that he could see some blurry light. The Doctor was pleased with the progress and Van Helsing began to hope that his vision would return. Each day the eye’s vision improved, but something was wrong. Instead of normal vision, the blurry light was tinted red. The eye was too large, the pupil dark as night and elongated like that of a wolf—or the eyes of the demon he had slain. As his vision finally cleared, it became deeply unsettling. The red eye worked better in total darkness and often distinguished strange shadows and vibrations that were not visible to his left one.

  He was examining the red eye in the mirror when he felt a strange pull towards his ghastly trophy. He took out the demon hand from its hiding place and unwrapped it slowly. Still perfectly preserved by some dark magic, the hand was a mottled grey with long claws like a bears. The hand glowed like fire under the gaze of his red right eye. The light emanating from the demon hand pulsed in waves that traveled directly towards his body. Van Helsing moved slightly to the left and the waves followed him. He went to the corner of the room and still the waves tracked his movement.

  A disturbing realization dawned in his mind. He remembered that the demon's blood had splattered in his ruined eye. Instead of healing, a new demon eye had grown in its place. He viewed the curse that the demon had put on him in a new way. He could see malevolent waves radiating from the hand. Could he somehow control them as the demon had? It was insane, but he had seen many things in his life that made him question his own sanity.

  Van Helsing concentrated on the demon hand and the curse radiating from it. With all his will, he commanded the curse to stop. Nothing happened. He tried again with no success. He was powerless to end the curse, but maybe he could redirect it away from him. He closed his human eye completely and stared hard at the claws of the demon hand, willing the fingers to move. They twitched ever so slightly and for a second the curse changed direction. He felt instantly lighter, as if a great burden lifted from his shoulders.

  In the following days, he continued to practice moving the curse until he could maintain control with the patch covering his eye. The Doctor noticed his students’ improved dexterity and precision, complimenting himself on his excellent teaching methods. But the change had manifested because Van Helsing had simply learned to regularly redirect the curse throughout the day. Eventually, he was able to maintain this and continually radiate the curse outward and away from his body. He took to wearing the demon hand in a sack tied around his neck and hidden under his clothing.

  It was only when the Doctor himself started breaking equipment and setting fires of his own, that Van Helsing realized the curse was spreading to those around him. He knew that he must leave the service of the good Doctor. He had learned much in the ways of healing and scientific experimentation. The Doctor had also schooled him in the basics of mathematics and physics. He would miss his kind instruction and patient encouragement.

  Van Helsing bid his teacher goodbye and set off into the world once again. His newfound knowledge soon proved immediately in modifying and created new weapons. He found that the demon eye could turn the curse on any creature. After long hours spent honing the demon curse, he began harnessing the power with increasing skill—making him nearly invincible during a hunt or in a fight. With the curse turned upon a wolf, he could kill it with only a knife in his hand. The spell-cursed wolf would stumble or mistime its leap, or snap its jaws too soon or too late. It was all too easy for Van Helsing to dispatch the confused animal.

  With his new power, the legend of Van Helsing grew even faster. He received summons to all corners of the world to hunt all manner of monsters. All fell to his unstoppable arsenal of deadly weapons coupled with the power of the demon eye. He always found time to hunt those vicious wolves that he had never forgiven for the death of his parents. When a letter from a Lady Helena arrived, hinting at a huge wolf terrorizing London, he packed his weapons and departed at once.

  CHAPTER 13.

  A

  SEA VOYAGE

  Dorian had never worked so hard in all his life as he did as a deckhand aboard the H.M.S. Victory. Their hands were raw from scrubbing the deck and working the sails and lines in the rigging. Their skin burnt and cracked from long hours in the sun, and their bodies exhausted from constantly climbing up and down the masts of the ship—as Dorian would have been if not for his amazing ability to heal. He went to bed each night just like the other men with a quarter ration of grog. Instead of waking up each morning exhausted and physically drained, he awoke completely healed and refreshed. Unfortunately, his resilience had only served to convince the ship’s Boatswain Angus Cain that he was shirking his duty.

  Bo’sun Cain, as the men un-affectionately called him, was a hard man to please. Tall and well-muscled from a life at sea, he had a bald and ears fitted with giant, gold earrings. His mustache carefully curled with the same oil used on the ship’s mast, was a constant source of wisecracks among the crew. He rarely wore his officer’s uniform or hat, preferring the standard slops that the rest of the crew wore. His collar and sleeves bore the decoration of a full white stripe, but his true marks of office were the silver pipes around his neck and the knotted wood cudgel in his hand. The Bo’sun used his pipes to send high-pitched commands to the crew when the sea drowned out even the loudest yell. His cudgel he used continually in disciplining the crew. Dorian had become quite intimate with the Bo’sun’s cudgel and had even come to consider it a friend. He endured the mild beatings with the soft wooden stick easily enough. What Dorian feared was to see the Bo’sun without his cudgel in his hand. That meant that the Bo’sun would be carrying a lash or the dreaded cat o’ nine tails instead.

  The Bo’sun prowled the deck like a mountain lion. “Seaman Lynch, should I have the ship’s boy show you how to tie the knots
properly on the aft rigging? Seaman Lynch!”

  A stinging blow across the back of his legs reminded Dorian of his assumed name. He responded in the way that would infuriate the Bo’sun the least. “No Sir, I will re-tie them at once.” He ran over to the mizzenmast and quickly scaled the rope ladder to the rigging. He set to untying and retying the complicated sheet bend knots. It did not matter that they were tied perfectly—the Bo’sun wanted them re-tied.

  The other men thought Dorian a lickspittle and they mocked him relentlessly. “Take a look at this meater. Hop to, you pigeon-livered stampcrab.”

  But he was simply afraid of anyone discovering his ability to heal after having his back shredded into weeping meat by repeated whippings with the cat o’ nine tails.

  The real motivation for his fellow seamen’s jealousy came from the agility that Dorian displayed in maneuvering among the masts and top sails of the ship. They envied his strength, balance, and comfort when climbing the swaying masts. He was far too young and inexperienced to display this level of seamanship and that earned him the worst watches at night. Dorian took it all in stride, finding that he needed to sleep less and less. His body recovered quickly from the type of exhaustion that would cause other men to fall asleep on their watch. His keen eyesight, particularly at night, eventually won him the begrudging respect of the other seamen—although they were quick to cover it up with insults. “Look at tavern wench go, boys. He reminds me of a young farmer’s daughter!”

  During the third watch, Dorian was often the one chosen to make the high climb up the mainmast to the crow’s nest and serve as the lookout. This was a particularly important role when the Lord Captain Elgin ordered a night sail. The Captain had decided to make up for lost time by sailing at night under the light of the huge oil lamps mounted on the bow. Lack of wind had delayed them several days. When the wind finally did return, the Captain decided that the risk of sailing at night was worth making up the lost time. He ordered them to do so at half-sails, effectively limiting the ship’s speed to about five knots.