Dorian heard the shot as pain and rage overwhelmed the invisible threads tying him to the black werewolf. He started back toward the alleyway where he had left the constable, then turned as he heard the distinct sound of claws scraping across the rooftops. He ran through the streets below, following the black shape as it loped across the tops of the buildings above him.
Dorian chased the creature as it moved away from the crowded streets and towards the borough of Hackney. The buildings grew sparser, and Dorian overtook the werewolf from behind as it descended to the dirt street below.
Throwing off his coat, he unstrapped the steel maul from his side and swung it two-handed into the werewolf’s haunches. The force of Dorian’s blow split the creature’s thigh like an ash log. His foe crashed to the ground in a bloody mess. Dorian took two more steps and jumped in the air, chopping his weapon downward at the werewolf’s neck. But the creature rolled onto its back and its long claws caught the top of the long wooden handle, stopping Dorian’s downward blow.
Dorian struggled to push the gleaming steel further into the werewolf’s flesh. The blade pierced the side of the creature’s muzzle, drawing blood. But Dorian could move it no further.
The werewolf rumbled a disturbingly human laugh. “Maaasssttteeer. Yooou arrre ssstttrrrooong…buttt nooot ssstrooong eeenooough.” Its uninjured leg shot out, claws ripping into Dorian’s stomach as it threw him off.
Dorian rolled away dripping blood. The werewolf smashed the handle of the maul into the ground and used it as a cane to stand. Its leg wound closed in moments and it tossed away the weapon. Dorian looked down at the deep slashes in his gut as they slowly closed.
The werewolf noticed the slower healing of Dorian’s wounds. It spoke in his mind this time. “Hooow looong sssiiinnnccce yooou haaave fffeddd, Maaasssttteeer? Yooou grrrooow weeeaaak.”
Dorian rose as his skin finally closed. He sent his thoughts back in response. “I don’t need to feed in order to kill you.”
The werewolf snarled on one side of his face—a sort of beastly smirk. “Peeerhaaapsss iiin yooour wwwooolfff fffooorrrm. Buttt aaasss a mannn yooou aaarrreee nooo maaatchhh fffooorrr meee.”
Dorian put his hands behind his back, resting them on the handles of the five-shot Webley revolvers cross-holstered in the back of his trousers. They were loaded with .455 cartridges of a new, deadly hollow-point design. Already banned for civilian use, the 218-grain lead point expanded and deformed on impact inflicting terrible damage. “Let’s find out.”
The werewolf’s eyes narrowed. Sensing the threat, the creature scrabbled back and began running on two legs as Dorian drew and started firing. The first bullet struck the werewolf between the ribs. The bones exploded leaving a gaping hole that gushed blood. The second bullet carved out a ring of flesh from the creature’s calf. The werewolf fell to all fours, a growl becoming a whining scream. The third shot went wide with the fourth burrowing into its shoulder, but it did not stop, hurtling towards a nearby alley to escape.
Dorian fired four more times into the werewolf’s back and hindquarters, dropping it to the ground. Two more bullets. He aimed at the back of the creature’s head and squeezed—missing as a brick smashed into his gun and knocked it from his right hand. The werewolf had gouged out a chunk of the nearby building and thrown it with incredible skill. Clutching his shattered right hand to his chest, Dorian aimed his last shot from his left gun between the creature’s gleaming, crimson eyes. Fear burned across their hidden connection.
Dorian paused as a sudden glint of metal materialized in the werewolf’s claws. Suddenly, a small throwing knife sprouted in his neck. The creature had kept one of Van Helsing’s throwing knives. Blood spurted out of Dorian’s throat. He clutched at the wound, desperate to stop the flow of blood. He dropped the revolver and fell to the ground, the world suddenly growing dark around the edges.
He watched helplessly as the black werewolf dragged itself away on its maimed back leg, the creature’s ravaged ribs showing white bone. He pulled out the sharp knife and willed the wound to close, watching in disbelief as his blood continued to pump out. The dirt around him turned to coppery mud. He wasn’t healing fast enough…he had gone too long without feeding.
CHAPTER 5.
F
ROM HUNTER TO HUNTED
The black werewolf slunk away from the slumped form of the Master. Night had fallen, and now it slipped easily by the constables who were searching the area. The creature gave them a wide berth, smelling the gunpowder on their weapons. It had nearly died in the fight, its healing ability drained from the gruesome wounds inflicted by the strange bullets. The need to feed became a ravenous hunger. Limping forward on all fours while dragging its right hind leg, the creature made its way towards a slate building with a white stone tower on top. The werewolf made it to the courtyard before its hind legs gave out. It must have blood. Lurching painfully towards the pillared doorway of the building, the creature dragged itself forward. It smelled a woman inside.
Sister Rosemary Oshea was just starting her prayers in the corner of St. John’s Church. Glancing back at the wooden pipe organ, she remembered how beautiful the music had sounded earlier, reverberating through the small church. The stained glass window was dark now, but the images there were wondrous, illuminated as they had been during that morning’s mass. The church was the one place in the world where she felt truly safe.
The Sister lit a small beeswax candle and raised her eyes to heaven, praying that her aunt might change her lecherous ways and return to her husband’s household. She loved the way the wooden prayer beads felt as she moved them through her fingers, worn smooth from a lifetime of use. Resting on her knees, she spread the skirts of her blue and gray habit. She spoke the words of The Invitatory aloud:
O God, make speed to save me,
O Lord, make haste to help me,
Glory to the—
The chocolate-oak double doors at the back of the church crashed open. Sister Oshea screamed in alarm as a hairy demon from hell crawled upon the ground, spreading blood across the paneled elm wood floor.
Still kneeling, she raised her prayer beads in defense. “God deliver me!”
The demon saw her and snarled. Its huge claws gouged deeply into the wood floor as it propelled itself toward her, back legs dragging behind it uselessly.
She stood and fled to the altar, calling upon God for protection. “You may not enter the Father’s house! In the name of Almighty God, I cast you out!”
The creature seemed to chortle from its wolfish muzzle, but it began coughing up blood and instead emitted a choking guttural sound. It peered around the church warily with its crimson predator’s eyes, sniffing the air with distaste. Still, the satanic monster crawled forward, teeth bared with the need to kill.
Sister Oshea began sobbing, too terror stricken to flee, and unable to believe that the Lord could allow this to happen. What had she done to deserve this? As the demon slithered up the steps to the altar, she ran to the right, towards the fountain of St. Augustine. The demon wheezed in pain as it straggled after her, knocking chairs and tall candelabra out of its way.
Sister Oshea plunged her hands into the fountain, cupped them, and threw water from the anointed font onto the upraised face of the beast. The werewolf bellowed as the sanctified water burned its face like acid. Sister Oshea tried to run past, but the creature grabbed her leg and pulled her down.
It pounced on her and began ripping at the flesh of her back, its teeth gouging out great swathes of meat and blood. She prayed silently as the demon gorged itself, begging for forgiveness, and that the wrath of God might send this devil back to hell. She shrieked as she was eaten alive, the werewolf finally silencing her with a slash across her neck. She died as the werewolf’s wounds finally closed and it stood to its full height, fully healed. The werewolf jumped from the altar, scattering the pews as it ran from the church and back into the night.
Thirty minutes later, a crossbow poked through the open doors of the
church. The demon claw had grown unbearably hot as Van Helsing approached the threshold to the church, so he had left the sack holding it on the ground outside. His demon eye burned as well, but the tracks led here, so he shut the right eye tightly and pushed through the pain. He crossed himself as he entered, following the blood and scratches on the floor. He felt the demon curse recede to a faint twinge. It felt as if a great weight lifted from his shoulders. Could he live the rest of his life free of the curse in a holy place such as this?
Scanning the destruction, his left eye came to rest on a nun lying face down near the altar. She had been partially consumed by the Vârcolac. The creature was gone. He paused. Any delay and the trail might grow cold. Then his thoughts turned towards that night so long ago. He remembered his endless search through the dark woods, a boy looking in vain for his mother’s body.
He would grant her this dignity, at least. Van Helsing carried her body outside and buried it among a copse of elm trees. Fashioning a small cross, he stuck it in the ground and said a few words in the nun’s honor. “Requiem æternam dona eius, Domine”
Re-entering the church, he took out a small vile of Demon Fire and sighed. “God forgive me, but the good parishioners of this church don’t deserve to see this.” He smashed the vial on the ground, turning away as the church burned. Van Helsing followed the prints of the creature across the courtyard. He would find no peace until he had killed the Vârcolac. It would pay for this affront to God.
Van Helsing tracked his prey through the night. The creature was fast. No longer slowed by the need to feed, the Vârcolac moved with unmatched speed towards the sanctuary of the forest. As the sun rose without a further sighting, it became clear that he would have to lure it out.
He set to work immediately. Spending Russian gold, he paid triple the price to take immediate ownership of a small sheep farm on the outskirts of the city. He hired a foreman by the name of Eddie Duffey who worked for the Metropolitan Board of Works. Suspicious at first, the man proved willing to walk off the job in exchange for three years of his wages paid upfront in gold. Eddie brought with him a handful of skilled laborers and miners whom he set to work at once excavating a large ring of the pasture.
Van Helsing sent runners to place rush orders with five different blacksmiths in the area. He sent porters to retrieve several crates from the warehouse he had rented near the docks. A team of carriages brought them by midday. Deliveries of dozens of steel pikes welded with driving stakes began arriving from the blacksmiths by the late afternoon.
The Foreman had found two idle teams of Irish railway workers who used spike mauls to drive the steel pikes into the trenched floor of the pasture. As the sun dropped below the horizon, a local fisherman oversaw the spreading and tightening of his best nets over the spiked circlet. The nets were covered with rags and a layer of soot.
Eddie scratched the back of his neck as Van Helsing paid the workmen with Russian gold and they went home to their wives. “Strangest construct’n I’ve ever worked on b’fore. What did ya say ‘twas for ‘gain?”
Van Helsing surveyed the finished trap. “Wolves.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes. “There ‘aven’t been a wolf ‘round for o’r a century.”
“Bears then.” Staring the man down, Van Helsing threw the foreman a few extra coins. “For your silence.”
A pillar of untouched earth stood in the center of the trap, connected to a narrow strip of land. This was the only area without any spikes hidden beneath the thin layer of netting and soot. Van Helsing would use the peninsula to place his lure in the center of the trap. He looked over at the pen of bleating sheep. They wouldn’t be enough to bring in the intelligent Vârcolac. He would need some bait that was more…enticing.
With the night still young, Van Helsing walked a short way and then hailed a hansom cab to take him into town. The horse-drawn carriage, pulled by a chestnut-brown Friesian, was in poor condition matched only by the rundown state of the surrounding area.
The driver smelled like a cheap cask of wine. His smile revealed several missing teeth. “How do you do? M’name’s Graham. Climb aboard my convey’nce if’n’ ya please.” Graham merely blinked at the scars on Van Helsing’s face as he made his way into the weathered transport.
With a flick of his reins, the carriage lurched into motion. “Beg yer pard’n for th’ thinness of th’ straw cushion. What be yer Lordship’s dest’nat’n on this f’ne evenin’?”
Van Helsing contemplated for a moment before answering. He nearly kept the shame out of his voice as he spoke. “I find myself in need of some…female companionship. What would you recommend?”
Graham whistled and slapped his knee. “Why, you’ll be wanting th’ Eight Bells Tavern. They’ll take right good care of yer Lordship. Might ‘ave ta pay double tho’.”
Van Helsing folded his arms and avoided the man’s gaze. “Very well. Take me there.”
The Eight Bells Tavern was set on the corner across from the railway and coal offices. Sandwiched between Rosies Inn and a betting shop called The Booking office, it received a high amount of foot traffic. This proved the perfect location for the working women to sell their wares.
Van Helsing saw half-naked prostitutes in many of the second story windows of the tavern. Other women of the night walked outside on the street displaying low bust lines, and shortened dresses, which they lifted indiscriminately at any passersby.
At a loss for how to proceed, it took him several minutes to work up enough courage to approach the tavern. Refusing to look at the crude dollymops displaying their nether regions, Van Helsing hurried through the front door and moved to the bar. He ordered a drink from a bearded barkeep with a blank stare. “A shot of Tuică.”
The man scoffed in reply. “We have Sheffield Brandy, six bob a taste.”
Van Helsing nodded, laying down a coin kissed with the seal of Alexander II. It was valued at five rubles. The second the gold touched the hickory wood, a beautiful woman in a black-lace dress moved in.
Her smoldering eyes spoke of hidden pleasures. “Good evening, my Lord.” She stretched out her slender wrist, the little finger of her hand delicately grazing Van Helsing’s thumb.
Van Helsing downed the shot of Brandy as it appeared and immediately gestured for another. He turned, observing the initial revulsion that blossomed on the girl’s face at the sight of his scars and the patch over his eye.
She covered her reaction quickly with a flick of a white crochet hand fan. “Forgive my surprise, my Lord. I have never seen such a powerful looking Russian before.”
Van Helsing couldn’t help but smile. “Romanian.”
The blush that rose on the girl’s cheeks awoke something primal in him, causing his blood to boil.
The fan closed to reveal her inviting smile, painted lightly with vermillion. “Would my company make your Lordship’s evening more pleasurable?”
Van Helsing reached for the second shot of Brandy, drinking it in two gulps as he planned his next words. “I have just bought a small farm outside of town and was wondering if I could pay you to spend the night with my sheep. I would—”.
She slapped him full across the face. “Ya' Pikey Schlepp! What kind'a girl do ya take me for?” The girl turned and stormed away with an exaggerated sway of her hips.
The barkeep’s eyes had sparked to life at the sound of the slap. “Don’t feel bad, you’re a right ugly one with them scars.” He poured another shot. “This one’s on the house. Try a different girl. This time show a few o’ them gold coins first. I’ll wager you’ll have a taker b’fore too long.”
Van Helsing took the drink, rubbing his still stinging cheek. He saw an older but still alluring harlot on the other side of the room. He wandered over to try his luck.
Several slaps and an ungodly amount of gold later, Van Helsing finally managed to hire a prostitute willing to follow him to his farm. Lillie was in her early twenties with coiffed wheat-blonde hair. She was stunningly beautiful, if not a tad too thin. H
er speckled-green eyes had negotiated the sum with a cold-blooded detachment. She left a chatelaine bag containing her payment with the barkeep, a safeguard for her loved ones should she not return alive.
They returned to the farm together in a Brougham carriage. Paying the driver, Van Helsing escorted her to the pasture where his trap lay in wait. She calmly held his arm as he guided her across the hastily laid wooden planks to the refuge in the center. Lillie slipped her hand free from his elbow and moved toward one of the sheep penned there. She placed her delicate hand silently on the soft wool of a young ewe.
I did well in choosing this one. Van Helsing studied the woman carefully. She wore a tight-fitting cream dress that accented her petite figure in all of the right places. Her bust line cut sharply to reveal small but firm breasts.
Lillie’s gaze took in the freshly turned ground. “Are you building something here?”
Opening a small crate, he pulled out a warm Sable Fur coat. “Here, this will keep you warm,” he said, draping it around her shoulders. “No matter what happens, do not leave this circle of grass. Walk back across the boards if you must, but do not set foot in any place covered in leaves or soot.”
She shrugged as she felt the velvety pelt. “Throw in the coat, and I’ll sleep here all night.”
Van Helsing nodded. “Try and get some sleep. I will keep watch from a short distance away.”
Confusion flashed across her face, and she called out as he began crossing over the wooden planks. “Aren’t ya going to give me a green gown?”
Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3 Page 33