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Note: This chapter, is perforce, a little…er…gory. Sorry about that!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything (sniff), but I do like to play
Feedback: To Monica, Chibi-Kaz, Elwyndra, MagRowan, KaindeAmedha419, Tiari Clovis, FKitty, and Milady Dragon , thank you so much for your reviews! Reading them kept this chapter going! I hope you like it!
Special Thanks to my muse, Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word
Within the stone fist of the Order’s catacombs, the captive Fury, Sybl, unknowingly leaned forward upon her wooden stool as her wide-open, black eyes stared fixedly into empty space. Her lips pulled back from the white tips of her teeth and a thin, clear line of saliva trickled over her bottom lip to drip from her chin unheeded. The cold grey stone of the Catacombs and sounds of its inmates had ceased to exist. In their place she saw sunlight, a trampled field, and the murder of innocence.
Carl’s headlong run through the circus in search of Van Helsing abruptly became a staggering series of hops and skids as he desperately attempted to avoid colliding with it. By a series of backbreaking twists and turns, he managed it, but only because the werewolf was not expecting him. It appeared to be disoriented as it staggered among the quiet wagons, frequently bumping into them only to snarl and bite at the obstruction before stumbling on. A horrific wound in its throat and the front of its left shoulder bared white bone amidst a welter of blood and ripped tissue. With each collision against a solid object, its snarls were followed by an ongoing whimpering whine that set the teeth on edge and raised the hair on Carl’s neck and arms.
The friar’s abrupt appearance caused the wolf’s whimpers to change to a cry of fright. It fell back against the nearest wagon, crouching as italternately growledwarning then whimpered in fear.
Carl, too, fell back against a wagon and cursed the trap its unyielding splintered surface represented as he stared, horrified, at the wolf. He recognized it easily from his nightmare and swallowed hard against the immediate feeling of panicked revulsion. For better or worse, he had seen many werewolves during his trip to Transylvania and during this mission, but none of them had looked like Nikko.
Nikko’s wolf looked as though it remained caught in the act of changing. Its dark skin was only thinly covered with black hair, instead of fur. The shoulders were thick with muscle but were warped and twisted so that the massive muscle of the back appearing more as a hump. Its thick neck was topped with a tiny flat head with the eyes situated at the sides. There was a thick, cloying feeling of sickness about it that made Carl’s skin crawl. Like the man that spawned it, the creature before him was an abomination and completely evil.
As the seconds passed, its initial whimpers died away. The small red eyes narrowed as it leaned forward and drew in a great breath of air through its wet black nose. Carl shuddered and pressed back hard against the wagon side. He was positioned between the two large wheels—to slide away from the wagon, he would need to take a step toward the creature in order to clear the wheel. That was a step he could not force himself to take.
“Ehhh kehkehkkeh…. Ehhh, kehkehkeh!”
The creature was making a new noise, a strange huffing, lilting sound. It took several seconds for Carl to recognize the sound for what it was—laughter. He couldn’t stop his own sound of panic from boiling up in his throat as the creature slowly rose and took a mincing step toward him. It was disturbingly plain that Nikko's original fear had changed with the lightening rapidity todelight.
Without conscious thought, Carl moved, darting about the wheel and away from the wagon—only to fall back as the creature moved faster, blocking his way with wide-spread arms. As he backed away from it, it waggled a long, clawed finger at him with an appallingly human-like disapproval.
“Nn..Nikko,” Carl stuttered, then fell silent as he was forced to swallow as his mouth dried to cotton whenthe creature’s stuttering laughter came again.
“Yy..you’re not a werewolf...,” Carl stated with horrified fascination as he continued to back away, one step at a time, as the creature advanced. “Can you understand me? Something…went wrong, you weren’t able to change completely?”
The creature’s advance halted, it’s stooped predatory posture relaxing and becoming more upright as it seemed to consider Carl’s question. Then the red eyes returned to the friar. Holding Carl’s gaze, the creature smoothed its long fingered hands down over its body, petting itself with languid easy pleasure. An air of malicious thoughtfulness entered the red gaze as its self-petting grew more suggestive. In the narrow confines between the wagons, alone with it and surrounded by the ongoing mournful howls of the wolves in the fields beyond, Carl shuddered at the macabre sight with a terrified revulsion. His last meeting with the mercenary left him in no doubt of what the creature was suggesting.
Unable to speak past the solid wedge of disgust that robbed him of breath and voice, Carl took another step back, shaking his head with quick sharp jerks.
The red eyes flared as if lit with internal crimson flames as the creature raised one hand between them and allowed its claws to fully emerge. The threat was obvious.
Carl bit his cheek hard enough to taste blood as his gaze dropped from the glittering red eyes to the gaping wound in the creature’s neck and shoulder. As horrifying as the creature was, it wasn’t the devil. It could be fought—it had already been in a fight for its life, evidently. Had it met Van Helsing? Was the hunter even now lying somewhere injured?
With that question, deep within Carl’s soul, something expanded, questing for a response from the black wolf. He didn’t have to look inward to check—his own wolf had awakened. Its response to finding Nikko was instinctive and viciously sudden.
In the brief instant that light turns to dark, at the razor’s edge where both exist, a decision must be made. Most certainly, if Carl himself were to face the creature before him, he would be killed, or worse. His only alternative was hardly better—to choose to loose the wolf inside himself, to allow it to kill the creature and the man that spawned it. Once, Carl would have seen the creature as another figure of evil, to be killed per the Order’s mandate. In his short time sharing his life with another such monster, his understanding had grown dim and cloudy, and full of questions about what was right and what was wrong. For the first time, he clearly understood the burden Van Helsing bore every day.
Looking at the creature advancing on him, reading its intent, the friar made a decision and in so doing, felt a part of himself wither and die.
Carl closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and fell back into the darkness as the white wolf came roaring out, lunging at the creature.
Shock clubbed the creature into frozen rigor, its red eyes grew round and huge, its misshapen jaw dropping open in surprise. The white wolf took visceral pleasure in the act of raking its claws in a glittering arc that neatly sliced open the creature’s belly from one side to the other in parallel furrows. Another strike laid the creature’s cheek open and dislocated its jaw.
With pain came release from inactivity--the creature whirled, scrabbling away from its attacker on all fours. They were in a rough corridor, with two openings—the tent, which led out to the werewolves waiting in the fields beyond, and, in the opposite direction, to the open circus rings and the crowds of people. The fields meant certain death--but no wolf in its right mind would chose the alternative.
The creature hesitated for less than an instant before choosing to canon out into the milling crowds. Lost in the red haze of blood rage,the white wolf pursued it. All around them, the villagers that had come for the circus now fell back, screaming and trampling one another to escape as the two monsters fought one another.
The press of humanity pinned the creature as firmly as the wagons had. All around were people screaming, striking at it, confusing it. It whirled and lunged but couldn’t find an opening. Behind it, the white wolf’s snarled challenge came to it with surrealistic clarity.
Unable to escape, the creature turned to face the white wolf. Severely wounded and with a broken jaw, the creature clawed at the white wolf, attempting to catch its throat or vulnerable belly. The thick white pelt thwarted its efforts; but, in the instant that the creature opened itself, the white wolf lunged forward, bearing them both to the ground.
On its back, the creature brought all four paws into motion, its dark hands smashing its attacker’s head while its back claws raked the white sides repeatedly. For the first time, the white wolf howled in pain and twisted away, staggering as it shook its head. The creature rose to its feet, rearing up, one huge paw rising to club the other wolf unconscious.
In that instant, the white wolf whirled and lunged upwards, between the creature's upraised arms; the serated white jaws closed with a loud vicious SNAP on the creature’s neck. With its entire weight dangling from the creature’s throat, the white wolf gave a convulsive heave, snapping its head from one side to the other, ripping the creature’s throat and opening the great veins. Hot thick blood poured over its muzzle andthe white wolf released the creature, dropping away, out of its staggering path.
The flame behind the red eyes was fading; it snapped blindly at the people about it but couldn’t see well enough to catch any of the bodies that criss-crossed in front of it.
The white wolf circled, staggering on four feet, ignoring the horrified crowd as it watched the death agonies of the creature. Deep within its mind, almost too faint to be sensed, a feeling of shocked horror was building that annoyed the wolf. Its constant snarling growls were directed as much inward as out. It was tired, it hurt, and the presence of the crowd surrounding it was like an electric charge, causing its skin to prickle and its thick white fur to rise in spikes. The wolf was sick of humanity and the stench of it.
Thedrunken perambulations of the creature came to an abrupt end as it suddenly staggered and then collapsed, falling first from its feet to sit onthe ground heavily so that puffs of dirt and dust rose in the air. With the next shuddering breath, it fell back with an audible thud to lay outstretched upon the ground. From its gaping mouth, theblack tongue dropped to the sideto lie upon the dirt. The red glow within the dark eyes was almost gone,yet when the white wolf approached closer, the dark muzzle rippled with a snarl. It was the creature’s last act of defiance. Then, thered glow faded completely from its eyes and the bulky misshapen form sloughed away, leaving Nikko behind, lying naked and bloody upon the field.
The mercenary’s green eyes rose to the white wolf. He grimaced inhatred as he pursed his lips and spat at its clawed feet.
The white wolf rose upright, towering over the dying man, its muscular arm rising, claws extended, to deliver the final blow.
The crowd screamed, several stooped to seize up rocks and threw them at the white wolf. It whirled as the missiles thudded into its back and injured sides. The blue eyes darkened and flared golden as it snarled at the crowd, then at the growing presence that was filling its mind, demanding it not kill, demanding to be set free. All around it, more people were picking up rocks, throwing them at the wolf as they shouted their fear and hatred at it. The wolf was surrounded; its eyes narrowed as it turned to face the section of the crowd closest to it, and crouched.
Simultaneously, it was struck viciously by unexpected blows—one from within and several from without. The human within its mind forced his way out, tearing the wolf’s control apart with agonizing strength. At the same time, a dozen gleaming darts thudded into the white pelt, sinking deeply into flesh and muscle.
The white wolf howled—howled with pain, howled for its missing pack mate.
“No!”
Van Helsing lunged to his feet, turning to the tent’s open flap as he simultaneously thrust the wolf back. Its howl of anger made him wince while its presence slashed at his mind, attempting to dominate him, to force him aside. The white wolf might accept the hunter as a part of the pack, but the black wolf saw him only as an impediment. Ruthlessly, he forced it, snarling, to the back of his mind. Then he left the tent at a dead run. He didn’t need to ask where Carl was, where the white wolf was. He could sense them, could feel their pain as if it were his own.
He emerged from the dark tent, blinking rapidly at the bright sunshine that stabbed at his eyes, blinding him. He raised his hand to block it out, only then noticing the dark silent men waiting at the tent's entrance. He didn’t have time to raise a hand in his defense before they seized him, catching hold of his limbs, waist, neck, and hair. He fought them then, as they forced him down, rolling on the ground with them as he kicked and punched at whatever he could reach. At one point he was actually winning, and then a dark, foul-smelling bag was forced over his head. Its smothering folds held a heavy scent that made his head reel and closed his airways. He couldn’t fight both the men and suffocation. Cold metal was clamped bruisingly tight about his wrists and ankles before the bag was removed, leaving him squinting blindly up into the blazing afternoon sun. Involuntary tears further blurred his vision, and he blinked angrily at them, trying to clear his eyes, to see his attackers.
A gloved hand seized his chin, forcing his face up, turning it from side to side.
“Is this him?”
He snarled at the flesh-colored blur of faces hanging over him, his white teeth a flash of brilliance in his dirt-smeared face. “You attack a man and don’t know even who your victim is?”
They didn’t answer him. For an interminable span, a breathless silence hung over them and for the first time, Van Helsing realized the howling of the werewolves had ceased. Their silence worried him more than their previous obvious presence. He didn’t know where they were now, or what their next action might be.
A scuffing footfall caught his attention. Its approach kicked up a small cloud of dust that made him cough and stung his eyes. The blur of shapes about him fell back slightly, allowing a new shape to squat down beside him. For an instant, the still silence returned as the newcomer regarded him.
An unexpected touch of cool fingers against his cheek, swiping away a tear, made him start and turn his face away. The grip on his chin wasn’t allowing that, however, and he growled as his face was forced back to the front.
The affirmative grunt from the owner of the fingers had a pleased note to it that made his skin prickle as old memories were stirred. His eyes narrowed into hard glittering slits as he squinted upward at what he dreaded was an old acquaintance.
“Reynaldo.” The name emerged from his lips as a sigh and a curse. Above him, the dark shape stirred and the fingers returned, patting his cheek insultingly.
“There,” the Inquisitor’s voice was soft with satisfaction. “You see, we aren’t strangers. I’m pleased you remember your stay with us after four years. Sadly, I can’t say I’m pleased that you will be returning to us under such terrible conditions. Still, we will do what we can."
Van Helsing's eyes narrowed as his mouth thinned with impatience. He remembered now, Reynaldo had alwaysenjoyed hearing his own voice mouthing platitudes that fooled no one.
TheInquisitor nodded, as though pleased with his captive'slistening silence. "Now, we know, of course, that you are not alone. You will need to tell us--where is the friar, Carl?”
Van Helsing’s eyes dropped as his face became an unresponsive mask.
“Sullen so soon?” Reynaldo chided, his tongue making sharp staccato clicks against his teeth. “Tsk tsk. Everything would be so much easier on you if you cooperated.”
Van Helsing'sreply was spat out in a rough painful bark. “Go to hell.”
The monk shrugged as he rose to his feet. Absently he swiped at a swath of dust that defaced the pristine whiteness of his robe as he spoke with apparent regret. “Very well, Gabriel. We will do it your way, though I fear your stubbornness will send you to hell long before me.”
He was surprised as he became aware of the fact that his eyes were still closed—he immediately forced them open and just as quickly regretted doing so.
The circus grounds were ablaze with harsh sunlight that all too clearly allowed him to pick out the thronging crowds surrounding him. Upon their faces was a mixture of dread and fascination—more than one pair of eyes hastily averted from his as their owner sketched the sign of the cross between them. The sign against evil. Against…him?
Blinking, Carl’s blue eyes dropped down and an immediate hard flush of color flooded his face and chest as he realized he was half lying, half sitting in an open field, surrounded by people, and absolutely stark naked.
“Oh my God,” Carl moaned, and without thinking, attempted to curl up, to hide himself as best he could. Immediately his arms were wrenched backwards again, forcing his back to arch as he cried out in surprised pain.
“Leave him alone,” a gruff voice snapped, and the agonizing pressure at his elbows suddenly disappeared. In fact, it disappeared so quickly, the friar found himself falling helplessly forward, toward a face full of dirt and a certain broken nose. Unable to stop himself, he squeezed his eyes shut.
Before he could strike, a pair of large hard hands caught his shoulders and pulled him back upright. His lips fluttered out in a hard sigh of gratitude as he blinked against a trickle of stinging sweat that trailed down his forehead and through his eyebrow. Still blinking, he turned cautious eyes upward as he turned his head to look back at the owner of the hands.
Markus met Carl’s gaze with grim reserve. No warmth or familiarity lightened his eyes as he held the friar’s gaze with an air of stern warning.
“Where is Van Helsing?”
“I…I don’t know…,” Carl stammered. “H..he wasn’t….wasn’t with me….”
Abruptly, Carl’s arms were wrenched back again, causing his back and shoulders to flare with agony. “Don’t lie to me, Carl,” Markus growled. “I’ll treat you with respect as long as you don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying!” Carl cried. His blue eyes were wide in stunned shock, staring up into the unclouded blue sky above. His breath was a harsh panting staccato that segued to a whimpering groan when the pressure on his joints was abruptly released. For a moment, black dots danced before his eyes and his consciousness flirted with the alluring prospect of a blackout. Then a large, calloused hand slapped him smartly on the cheek, stunning him into wakefulness.
More hands were lifting him, so that he hung from them. He was dimly aware that, mercifully, a blanket had been produced to cover his nakedness. The crowd was falling back as he was carried through it like a sack of potatoes. Evil potatoes, judging by the number of hastily-sketched crosses made.
Behind him, Markus’ voice was a barking sound, giving orders for the search of Van Helsing.
Carl was shocked to see what appeared to be half the crowd peeling off to search for the hunter. Markus, at his side now, grunted as his eyes on the friar narrowed.
“You’re surprised? You didn’t think we’d suspect the circus? I can’t believe Van Helsing would be so careless.”
“But why?” Carl asked, a note of uncontrollable hurt in his voice. “Why are you after us? Who sent you? Why would they send you?”
Markus’ grey stubbled jaw tightened, causing tendons to jump along his cheeks as he caught and pushed at Carl’s shoulder, urging those men carrying him to move faster. “You know who. As to why…everyone in this village knows why. Everyone saw you…saw it. You killed a man in front of a hundred witnesses.”
“I…I didn’t kill anyone!” Carl flared, horrified.
"Tell that to him," Markus said grimly, pointing to the huddled form of a naked man upon the ground. Carl's jaw fell open as he looked at the still face of the man who had haunted his dreams for so long. The green eyes had lost their vividness. They were dull and dead, like cold marble. Nikko was gone. Obviously dead, obviously at the claws of his wolf. A small dark voice within his mind whispered with fascination, was Nikko dead because he was evil? Or because he'd dared to threaten Carl?
The friar shook his head, hard. When he spoke, his voice sounded thin and guilty, even to his ears. "But...you saw it…they must have seen it. The creature. I had no choice. It would have killed me…killed them. I had to fight it. It’s what the Order….”
A hand clapped over Carl’s mouth with bruising force.
“Shut yer mouth.” Carl’s eyes rolled over to the grim brunette who held one of his arms and who now held his mouth shut.
“You’re in enough trouble, Carl,” Markus advised the friar with a frown. “Don’t make it worse.”
Unable to speak, barely able to move, Carl nodded as vigorously as his captor would allow. Grudgingly, the muzzling hand slid away, and Carl gasped for breath, licked his sore lips and winced at the lingering taste of sour sweat.
The sound of running feet caught everyone’s attention as another hunter slid up to them.
“Pearson?” Markus' voice held an unmistakable note of impatience. “You found Van Helsing?”
The young hunter flushed at the implied censure, but nodded. “I did. But someone else found him before us.”
“Someone else?” Markus growled. “What are you talking about? I don’t have the patience for riddles!”
“The Inquisition!” Pearson snapped, stung into anger. “Over there….” He turned to gesture irritably only to come up short as everyone saw the crowd of black and white robed clerics emerge from behind a knot of wagons. In their midst, securely manacled with silver, Van Helsing was forced to walk with the short jerking steps the small amount of chain between his leg cuffs allowed. The look upon his face was thunderous but inexplicably, his anger lightened as he caught sight of Markus and his captive.
Van Helsing said nothing to express his relief at finding Carl safe and, though captured, at least in the hands of Markus rather than the Inquisition. Markus would see to it that Carl was taken to Jinette in one piece. Though it sounded odd, at the moment, Carl could not be in safer hands.
Reynaldo led his small group toward the knot of glowering hunters, a small smile playing about his own mouth. When they closed the distance to a few feet, he gestured his band to stop. Crossing his arms, he gestured with a jerk of his chin at Carl.
“It appears we are at cross purposes,” he said grimly.
“Aye,” Markus grunted, his own gaze moving from Reynaldo to Van Helsing and back again. “We’ve come for these men with the sanction of his Holiness…..”
“As have we,” Reynaldo interrupted. “Our authority is known far and wide. Your’s…less so. Surely that gives us the upper hand.”
“You know our authority,” Markus muttered, his eyes darting about the large, inconvenient crowd. “And you know it supersedes the Inquisition’s in matters such as these. Will you surrender your prisoner?”
“Hardly,” the Inquisitor sniffed. “Four years ago, his Holiness saw fit to place this man in our care. I see no reason to suppose that his attitudes have changed. And, as Friar Carl is a cleric, I would think that makes our claim to him much better than yours.”
Markus ground his teeth together, his grey brows drawn down low over his darkened eyes like thunderclouds. He was tempted just to force the issue—he had more men than Reynaldo. He’d brave the consequences to take the other hunter from God’s Dogs with a clear conscience. The problem, again, was the crowd. And the damned Inquisitor knew it.
As he stared at Reynaldo, mulling the array of bad choices before him, he noted a faint flicker within the Inquisitor’s eyes. Barely perceivable, given the distance between them, but there. Reynaldo’s gaze kept flickering to the friar. There was an eagerness about it. An impatience that belied the man’s easy manner. Was there something between the two men? Some history? Why didn’t he know about it? Reynaldo said there was history between himself and Van Helsing, but his reaction to Carl was more marked. Why?
Markus’ eyes darted to Van Helsing, and rested there. The other hunter’s hazel eyes met his, and held. And as Markus made up his mind, he saw Van Helsing’s dawning comprehension. Abruptly, Van Helsing threw himself forward, against the backs of the Inquisitors as he shouted at Markus.
“Don’t! Take him to Jinette! Markus!”
The hunter’s struggles were violently ended with the impact of an unexpected truncheon to the side of his head. He sagged in the arms that held him, head lolling.
“I didn’t know God’s Dogs carried the weapons of cut throats,” Markus sneered.
Reynaldo shrugged, the ever-present smilecurling upon his lips. “We do what we must, in the service of God,” he murmured piously.
“Hmph. Fine. It’s none of my business. I’ll make you a trade—our prisoner for yours.”
Behind him, Markus heard Carl’s startled and horrified gurgle of surprise that was quickly stifled. He didn’t want to do this. He knew Carl, respected him. But Van Helsing was a hunter. It was understood—hunters dealt with their own.”
Reynaldo made a pretence of considering the offer, but judging by the eager light in his eyes, the trade was an unlooked for but foregone conclusion.
“Fine," the Inquisitor agreed with ashrug. "To each his own. That seems fitting.”
They made the trade, approaching one another with the ginger watchfulness of circling dogs. Carl made only one attempt to avoid the hands that reached for him—it was clear he did it only to catch a glimpse of Van Helsing’s face. His concern was palpable, and unwelcome by both parties. Reynaldo hauled him violently back, causing Carl to stumble and almost fall. Markus noted that none of the other Inquisitors touched the friar, though their help would have been useful. By his hand alone, Reynaldo steadied and led Carl away. Markus watched them, until they disappeared into the crowd.
He turned, then, to Van Helsing who hung from the grip of his men. It felt as if it had been a long time since he had last laid eyes on the hunter. Carefully, he caught Van Helsing’s chin and pulled his head up. He looked at the slack face, and felt a superstitious shiver course down his back as deep within the darkness of his mind, something stirred. Something silent and watchful.
“Let’s get out of here,” he grunted, releasing Van Helsing to wipe his hand upon his pants leg. “We have what we came for.”
“Little bird, little red bird…fly to me,” she murmured. And smiled as she heard the sound of a familiarapproaching step.
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