Luna Amour
Author: H.J. Bender
Pairing: Van Helsing/Carl
Rating: T+
Summary: All is bad that ends worse; after Van Helsing and Carl return to Vatican City, the legendary hunter discovers that he did not leave Romania empty handed—he brought a disease back with him that is endangering the lives of everyone around him, and only Carl can help him find an antidote.
Disclaimer: Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.
A/N: This is my first Van Helsing fanfiction. Enjoy if you can, critique if you must, and review if you would so kindly.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
1 Corinthians 13:6-7

VIII.

Evening settled over Vatican City, and six o'clock found Gabriel van Helsing standing awkwardly in Cardinal Jinette's office, though looking clean and somewhat groomed after his dishevelled appearance earlier that day. He watched Jinette alternate between pacing and the floor and tapping a conductor's baton against the large map of Europe hanging from a bookshelf as he briefed the huntsman on his newest mission.

"Fortunately this assignment does not extend beyond the country, at least not yet," the Cardinal said crisply as he stabbed the baton into northern Italy. "We received information this morning of a disturbance in Turin, a city a few hundred miles northwest of Rome. However, Turin was not alone in its claims of supernatural activity; an investigation of the surrounding area led us to a trail that extended as far as Austria-Hungary, and several accounts from the citizens of these eastern kingdoms described the entity in question as a vampire."

"Vampire?" Van Helsing echoed. "That can't be possible. I killed Dracula with my own two hands, therefore everything created by him –including other vampires, directly or otherwise– ought to have been destroyed."

"Well, apparently you have been mistaken," Jinette muttered, "unless this is some madman's sick idea of a prank. There is one interesting note that I should mention: the supposed 'victims' of the vampire all survived."

Van Helsing looked stunned. "All of them? Have they given testimony?"

The Cardinal passed to him a sheet of paper on which was written a long queue of names. "We were able to catalogue each of the victims, who are described as having partially-healed wounds on their bodies consistent with the familiar bite pattern of a vampire. The culprit is believed to be heading south, though no idea was given about its means of transport or how fast it might be travelling. It has been noticed, however, that this creature has stopped in every major city tracing as far east as Budapest, almost as if it were systematically searching for something."

"Or someone," Van Helsing muttered, standing to his feet and putting the paper on Jinette's desk. "A solitary vampire, and a survivor no less, is something I can't quite understand. They seldom travel alone, and they certainly don't leave victims alive to tell their stories."

"The Order is vexed by this as well, which is why we are sending you to find this creature, considering that you have been dubbed the unofficial authority on vampire slaying and have extensive experience in this line of business."

"Really," murmured the unofficial authority on vampire slaying with a raised eyebrow.

"Carl has been assigned to equip you as he too now carries a level of expertise in dealing with the undead."

"Will he be accompanying me on this mission?"

"Certainly not," Jinette huffed. "He has far too many tasks to complete here, and it is not as if this assignment is particularly far away or dangerous; if you leave tonight, then that is all the sooner you can be back to… distract him." The Cardinal gave Van Helsing a sidelong glance, though there was no hostility apparent in his demeanor. Regardless, the hunter quickly wanted to avert the subject before it could linger into unfriendly territory.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Yes, that is all. Here is the paperwork—you should let Carl take a glance at it to get an idea of what provisions you'll require, and it might be wise to bring it along in case you need details. But if you think your memory is still working properly…"

"I get the pun," Van Helsing said with an acidic smile, and took the papers from Jinette. "And don't harass Carl about the Denmark assignment while I'm gone. If you want to discuss my forgetfulness, I suggest finding someone a little less tedious."

"Was that a threat?" the Cardinal inquired.

"No. It was a request." Van Helsing met Jinette's eyes, hoping that he was getting his point across clearly. "He is still in a delicate state of mind, and I don't want officials traumatising him with questions while he's recovering."

"I see." The Cardinal bowed his head slightly and looked somewhat melancholy. "Has he professed his devotion to you yet?"

Van Helsing swallowed. "He has," he said evenly, unable to lie so readily to the man whom he knew did all things with only the best intentions.

Jinette nodded solemnly, as if he had anticipated the answer all along. "And have you accepted it?"

The hunter was aware of what he was truly asking, and he replied with, "I have."

The Cardinal released a long sigh and rubbed his bushy grey eyebrows as he stared at Van Helsing. "Remember that he is young, Gabriel, and whatever is done to him now will echo in his future. See that he is… kept safe."

Van Helsing put on his hat and turned to leave. "I can only protect him from the Church for so long, Your Grace. The rest is up to you."

† † †

Workers in the labouratory could not help but to stare and chatter as Van Helsing made his way among them with an aloofness that only a man of his rugged character could accomplish. The hunter smiled to himself in amusement as he caught pieces of incredulous conversation between priests, rabbis and imams who never expected to see him alive again. However, nobody seemed willing to offer up a polite 'welcome back', almost as if they suspected him of being a ghost returning to haunt the Order; fortunately one cheerful chazzan held no fear of ghosts.

"I knew you would pull through somehow, Mr Van Helsing," Daniel Cohen grinned behind his Yankee accent. "The whole lab has been buzzing like a hive ever since we heard about your arrival this afternoon. I'm glad to see you've made it back in one piece."

"So am I, Danny," said Gabriel, flashing a fleeting smile. "You wouldn't happen to know where I can find Carl, do you? It's rather urgent—I'm leaving on business again."

"So soon? Oy, you've got to put in a request for a vacation sometime, otherwise Carl might lose his mind being stuck here with the rest of us." Daniel chuckled at his own joke and pointed across the labouratory. "He's right over there, calculating equations that the chemistry committee couldn't seem to figure in two month's time. The fellow has a head for numbers, I'll give him that much."

The hunter smiled as he caught sight of a familiar tousle of blond hair over the glass chimneys of beakers and pipettes. "Right. Thanks, Dan."

"Feh! Don't mention it."

Van Helsing removed his hat and made his way across the lab. "Good evening, Carl," he greeted as he approached the friar's paper-cluttered work desk.

"And to you, Van Helsing," came the formal reply as the young man sat busy writing complicated looking formulas onto a sheet of paper. "How went the meeting with His Eminence?"

"Unbearable as usual. I've been given a new assignment, and I mean to leave tonight."

Carl's eyes never left the paper, though he began to blink rapidly. "I take it that I won't be going with you."

"Not this time. It's not very far," he added hastily, hoping to keep the friar's spirits high. "Just north, to Turin. There is a philanthropic vampire on the loose and leaving a trail of unhappy blood-donors in his wake, and I've been charged with stopping him before somebody actually scars."

Carl set down his pen and turned to stare at Van Helsing. "Are you serious?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"That's a preposterous mission, not to mention impossible! You destroyed Dracula completely—I don't even think his crumbs are still on the floor of his fortress. How could a vampire walk the earth when the father of vampirism is dead?"

"I'm not certain," said the hunter, "but I mean to find out. What weapons do you suggest I use to combat this undoubtedly sinister threat?"

"Perhaps a decent scarf. I hear it's still rather cold in Turin this time of year."

"That should work; this vampire is less a menace than I am. At least no one can call him a murderer."

"Now, now. Don't start in with the self-abuse," Carl clucked, rising from his bench. "It will do you no good, believe me, I should know." He smiled briefly, but something in his eyes flickered and his cheeriness abruptly evaporated from existence. Van Helsing saw it and was immediately alarmed.

"Carl?" he asked gently. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

Van Helsing lowered his voice to a bare whisper. "Has anyone talked to you?"

"It's not safe to discuss this right now," Carl said, glancing about himself worriedly. "They could be watching us."

"What do they know?"

"Everything, although there is the problem of… disappearing evidence. We're safe for now, but I'm not sure how much longer it will be before they find something they can use against us."

The hunter set his jaw. "That does it. I am not leaving you alone in this place—you're coming with me."

"I don't think that would be very wise, and besides that I've-"

"Damn wisdom! You're not safe here, and I'm not going to allow them to intimidate you at their leisure when I can't protect you."

Carl's rare temper flared suddenly and he snapped, "I am not some willowy damsel in need of rescue, Gabriel—I am a man with a fully-functioning brain in his head, and if you think me weak and stupid, well then, perhaps I should start wearing petticoats and enroll myself in primary school!"

"Carl…" Van Helsing murmured, wounded by his lover's sharp words. "I'm sorry if I've offended you. It was not my intention." He added with a silent motion of his lips, in case they were being listened to: I love you.

The friar looked guilty for his previous harshness, but he smiled bravely despite the sadness in his eyes. I love you too, he mouthed.

Gabriel lifted his hand to touch Carl's cheek, but remembered his place and resisted with a pained expression. "I hate this," he muttered. "I hate what they've done to us, what I've done to you."

"You've done nothing to me. Rather, it's what you've undone to me that I find so unsettling."

"What do you mean?"

"Not right now—we'll discuss it once you've returned," said Carl brusquely as he assumed his cheerful façade once more. "Now then. I suppose we should start off the evening with stakes, garlic, and a good vintage of holy water, yes?"

Van Helsing grinned despite himself, always grateful for the friar's undying sense of humour in even the darkest times. "Are you arming me, or taking me out to dinner?"

"If it were the latter, I'd have done it years ago. Unfortunately I'm not quite fond of garlic, except when used as a weapon."

"Ah yes. The dreaded, deadly Garlic Breath of Rome. Greatest natural weapon on earth, or so I've heard. Repels humans and vampires."

Carl laughed lightly, a melodious chime of mirth and unbound happiness, and Gabriel thought it was the most beautiful music in all the world.

† † †

He set out from Vatican City on horseback just as the stars were beginning to glow, equipped with a broad array of weaponry and carrying a heart that grew heavier the farther he rode from the Holy See. Carl had been unable to slip past Dominic to give his good-byes to the huntsman, so they had parted in the lab with meaningful glances and a gentle brush of hands. Even if they had been able to hold each other tightly as if no one were watching, Gabriel doubted it would have ever been enough to ease the pain of separation.

I would be happy if I never had to leave him again, he thought as he travelled swiftly through the shadows of the night. And I would spend my life beside him if only I could.

Van Helsing did not know what it was that drove him to be so protective of those for whom he cared; it had been his nature for as long as he could recall, even in vague memories when he had walked the world without a friend to call his own. It had been ingrained into the fabric of his soul to fight and to protect his fellow man from harm, because it simply felt like it was the thing he had been created to do.

He recognised what was good and what was wicked –as if he had been born with a sixth sense that could detect and judge human character– and some instinct deep within the core of his being reacted to evil, oppression, and injustice. It both revolted and appalled him, and such negative forces were met with Van Helsing's almost reflexive desire to destroy.

He cared nothing about defiling himself in the mires of iniquity, so long as he could rout from the world all that was bad and unkind. It was the sole reason why he could never consider himself a holy man, not with his history of reckless violence and willingness to wallow among the damned. However, most theologians failed to realise that Christ did not spend His days shut safely inside a temple with His disciples, but ministering to sinners in brothels and dens where thievery, gambling and unspeakable acts of inhumanness took place. Christ dirtied His hands to save souls, and so did Van Helsing to protect the innocent—at least in this they shared a common ground, though the hunter would never go so far as to compare himself with the Saviour.

As he left behind the crowded streets of Rome and began to enter the countryside, Van Helsing started to feel edgy and anxious, and a quick glance to the sky cited the source. The full moon hung heavily in the blue velveteen firmament, gliding in and out of the clouds with the ominous, hypnotic grace of a cobra. Looking ahead to the open road, moonlight spread itself across the vineyards and drove away all darkness; even the shadows of the tall cypress trees that grew alongside the way offered little relief from the moon's cold radiance.

Van Helsing reined his horse just short of the unsheltered road, and gazed at the pale blue light from the safety of the shade. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to make sense of the apprehension he was feeling. Why was he acting as if the moon still had control of him? It was ridiculous—he had been cured of the werewolf's curse and it no longer affected him, not even through the slight symptoms he had experienced before his first full moon in Transylvania.

But something about the night still gripped him, and Van Helsing knew it in a sleepy part of his subconscious. There were moments during the dark hours when he seemed to shake his head and suddenly find himself standing in a different place, wondering how he had gotten there. Could it simply be fatigue? Was he coming down with a general illness? Or was there something truly wrong with him?

Whatever it was, it did not make him a coward—the hunter clicked his tongue and urged his steed forward into the light. He slowly rode on, keenly aware of every sensation that ran through his body, searching for something that felt out of place. He felt nothing, and stared up at the bright white orb with narrow eyes, daring its power to strike him. He felt extremely silly for acting so superstitious, and muttered to himself, "No wonder they are called 'lunatics'."

The words had scarcely left Van Helsing's lips when he felt his entire body seize up as a rush of pure adrenaline exploded into his veins. His mind reeled and his heart began to pound fiercely as his very blood seemed to catch fire, and before he could react, his horse had bolted out from under him in terror. The hunter landed gracelessly in the road, sending up a plume of dust as he listened to his steed thunder off into the distance. He sat up just as a second shockwave struck him with full force, and he let out a breathless groan as he felt himself begin to change—but into what, he knew not.

Agonising pain stabbed into his shoulder blades, and he wrenched his off his leather duster with a scream as he heard the fabric of his waistcoat rip. Gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes, he tried to remain calm while his insides moved beneath his skin and his bones began to form a new structure. He felt as if he had descended into Hell itself, so unbearably hot was his body temperature. Thick, needle-sharp claws sprouted from his fingertips, but they were not the claws of a wolf; the whole transformation felt different—more painful and spiritually destructive, as if something in his soul was being torn apart and burned.

"God, please," Van Helsing prayed as his vision began to fade to red, "don't let me…"

† † †

Carl was dozing in the labouratory, hidden behind a thick book he had been reading, when his eyes suddenly flew open and he sprang to his feet with a cry, knocking over his wooden stool and sending a glass beaker flying off of his desk. Without so much as a thought, he reached out and caught it before it could shatter on the floor.

He blinked a few times and his mind returned to him from the comforting realm of sleep. "Well… that was peculiar," he murmured to himself, putting the beaker back on his desk and picking up the fallen stool. "I don't remember falling asleep."

"Most people usually don't," said a voice, and Carl turned to see Friar Dominic staring at him owlishly behind his round glasses.

"Ah, Dom," said Carl sheepishly. "So sorry about that."

"Don't apologise. If I were you I'd have fallen asleep by now as well. I don't know what's so interesting about-" The older friar glanced at the book his colleague had been reading. "-binomial nomenclature, anyway. Why don't you go ahead and turn in for the night, yes? It's late and everyone else has already retired for the evening."

"Right, then. Thank you," said Carl, gathering up his books hastily. "I, ah, suppose I will see you tomorrow?"

"First thing in the morning," Dominic nodded. "The mechanics are having trouble with the new design for the gatling rifle you drew a few weeks ago. Something to do with the firing pins, I think."

"Amateurs," Carl muttered under his breath but disguised it with a smile as he began to make his escape. "Very well," he said loudly, "first thing tomorrow. I'll be right on it. Got to get some rest now, I suppose. Don't want to fall asleep on the clock again, do I?"

"You don't have to stand there and blather, Carl," Dominic said with a shake of his head. "Just say good-night and get out of here."

"Oh. All right. Good-night then!" And the young blond was scurrying off through the lab like an excited mouse who had escaped its cage. He made his way briskly down the corridor, his thoughts engrossed in the strange feeling he had experienced just before he had been jolted awake—as if the part of his brain that registered danger had suddenly started to life and gone full steam ahead. And his first reaction was to suspect that something had happened to Van Helsing.

"Poppycock," he muttered to himself as he turned down the hallway to the abbey barracks. "Psychic abilities are a load of rot. No distinct evidence at all." Of course, Carl recalled, many people thought that homing pigeons were intrinsically psychic creatures, given that they could find their way back to their roosts if dropped hundreds of miles away in an unfamiliar land—Paul Reuters had made himself famous through the use of these birds, and he had been a man of distinction and good standing. He wasn't a raving maniac who professed knowledge of magic or any other form of such ridiculous nonsense.

That was a distinguishing feature about Carl: sensibility. He was certain that there was a scientific explanation for everyone and everything, and that if science couldn't define it, then it didn't really exist. Of course, this mindset clashed somewhat in the fact that he was a firm believer in God, but he was not insecure in either his study of science or theology, for he believed that both worked together as a tool to keep humanity spiritual and at the same time reasonably skeptical. He also believed that if God had not wanted mankind to question their world and how it functioned, then He would not have given them brains and free will, but he was not so bold as to say this to any of his superiours.

The friar carefully approached his bedroom door this time, checking to make certain that no one was waiting for him or that he was to be on the receiving end of an ambush. After a brief inspection, the premises were deemed safe and Carl shut the door behind himself as he walked into his small-but-adequate living quarters; the memory of earlier that afternoon still tainted the atmosphere with feelings of dread and despair, but he set his books on his writing desk and pretended to ignore the dirtiness he felt crawling on his skin.

He went to the battered armoire in the corner and opened the cabinet, revealing an extensive collection of tools, papers, trinkets and unfinished gadgets. Reaching behind a hidden shelf, he pulled out a small rack in which were set each individual vial of blood taken from Van Helsing the previous day. Carl removed one sample and inspected it closely, seeing no signs of changes at all—it was still dark and viscous.

"Aren't you ever going to coagulate?" he asked the blood, giving it a shake before placing it back in its tray and setting it on his desk. "Now then," he murmured in deep thought as he reached for one of the books, "where was that chapter about blood disorders…?"

Carl sat down in the chair with book in hand, licking his thumb and turning through pages for a short while. He tried to concentrate on finding the haematology section where several possible theories were described concerning the peculiarities of Van Helsing's blood tests, but something was nagging at the back of the friar's mind like a persistent street peddler who wouldn't accept 'no' for an answer. He continued to nonchalantly flip through the book until it suddenly hit him like a tidal wave:

He was sitting in the dark.

Carl sprang to his feet and the book slid from his lap, clattering to the floor. This wasn't happening. It could not be happening. He turned about quickly and saw the unlit lantern hanging in the corner of the room; the shutters were drawn over the narrow window above his bed, allowing no light to creep in. There was no source of illumination to be seen. Anywhere.

The friar held his hands in front of his face and stared at them as if he had never seen fingers before. But he saw them—in pitch blackness. First the disappearing scars, and now the dark-vision.

"Oh God," he breathed, blinking rapidly. "What is happening to me? Why is this happening to me?"

Despite Carl's frenetic distress, bits of memory began to drop into place like pieces of a many-dimensioned puzzle: the dagger wound in Van Helsing's chest that had almost healed completely within a fortnight, his sudden sensitivity to light—whatever strange symptoms the hunter had experienced, Carl was also beginning to display. And through his many years of scientific knowledge, it could only mean one thing: Van Helsing was infected by a strange illness of some unknown origin, and Carl had been contaminated by it as well.

"How could…" he began, but halted himself as his mind answered his own question, recalling ardent images of intimacy, love, and sins of the flesh. The young man was forced to sit down on the edge of his bed, suddenly feeling quite weak in the knees. "Intercourse," he murmured. "That is how I… It was transferred during…"

For several long, silent minutes Carl sat alone in the dark, teetering on a fulcrum between tears and madness with his heart lodged firmly in his throat. He tried to be rational, tried to be methodical, but the one-half of him that felt emotion was screaming at the top of its lungs in a hysterical maelstrom, and he could no longer ignore it: Van Helsing was not all right, and Carl had known this ever since the return from Romania, yet he had refused to acknowledge or accept it—and he would pay the price for being so blindly hopeful, for allowing himself to believe for one second that things could possibly have ended with a 'happily ever after'. He was a fool, and now he had nothing left to do but suffer the consequences.

His love for Gabriel van Helsing had ruined him.

"That's not true," Carl said determinedly to himself, a flutter of something hopeful in his spirit. "It's not true. It's not over yet, not as long as science exists and there is still one ounce of love in my heart for him." Tears sprang to his eyes but he was too excited to notice or care; he stood to his feet and grabbed a vial of blood from the tray on his desk.

"I think I understand," he continued, talking hurriedly to himself as he climbed onto his bed. "It's not a disease; it behaves like one, yet doesn't appear to be brought on by bacterial infection. Science can explain it, can't it? Lycanthropy, vampirism… what if they are not paranormal curses, but some form of mutated and highly-evolved disease? Or perhaps something that had the ability to change cells instead of destroy them? That would mean the cure Van Helsing received wasn't some kind of magical potion—it was a vaccine, an antivenin. Yes!"

Carl, standing on his bed mattress, excitedly threw open the shutters of his window, which sent slivers of moonlight striking across the wall. "Luna amour," he said as he raised the vial of blood into the path of the light. The contents began to react, growing warmer as if being rekindled like a dying flame. The blood began to move of its own accord: shifting, pressing, heating until the glass almost burned. And then the vial abruptly shattered.

The friar jumped with a start as hot blood spattered onto his robes and coated his hand; he was stunned but unharmed, rubbing his slick fingers together as he stared in awe. "So it's true, then." He lifted his eyes to the glow of the moon outside the Vatican. "Love really does make lunatics of us all."

† † †

When Gabriel van Helsing opened his eyes, he was staring at stars. For a moment he felt peace and relief as he gazed listlessly into the quiet eyes of eternity, shining brightly on their celestials spheres so far away that mankind had not yet even begun to conceive their greatness. And then his memory returned to him, assaulting his mind with recollections of excruciating pain in those final seconds before his world had all but been ripped out from beneath him.

The man sat up slowly and beheld what he thought were stars twinkling from below, but as he felt the wind blow through his hair, he realised that it was not stars, but the lights of a beautiful sprawling city. He also perceived that he was very far from the ground, stranded on what appeared to be a large, red-domed roof that he felt he recognised from somewhere. The architecture of the city spread seemed foreign and yet familiar, even in the dark: stony silhouettes of towers with their renaissance-style corners and sweeping arches, cast amidst a sea of glimmering streetlamps.

Van Helsing was deeply troubled by this whole turn of events, and carefully stood to his feet to move away from the steep slope of the dome. He had not travelled far from Rome before he had experienced his attack, and how far was it to the nearest city? Surely several leagues? How could he have covered such a vast distance without a horse, or better yet, how could he have gotten to this colossal height without the aid of wings?

No matter—all he wanted to do was to get his feet on solid ground once more and try to continue his mission, whether or not it was already doomed. Reaching for the grappling gun in his belt, Van Helsing steadied himself against the dome's cupola and searched for something to which he could anchor the line. There was a tall, four-sided tower that looked to be a hundred metres away; taking precise aim, the hunter shot the hook through the top of the open structure and watched with satisfaction as it lodged firmly into the wrought iron lattice work. He secured the other end about the cupola and prepared to make his descent.

Since his great coat and hat were missing from his person, Van Helsing removed his shredded waistcoat –not before relocating his pocket watch to his trousers– and tossed it over the taut wire to use as a runner. Then, taking a deep breath and a sprinting start, he sprang from the dome and sailed down the wire. His waistcoat ripped in half a few seconds before he reached the tower, but fortunately he had enough momentum to smash into the side of the structure several feet below the window.

Holding onto little more than a few jutting inches of ledge, Van Helsing grunted and pulled himself upwards, climbing the rest of the way as easily as if he were a spider. Once safely inside the tower, he took a moment to calm his racing heart and cast a glance behind himself.

"Oh my God," he said softly, recognising the great dome of the Santa Maria del Fiore. "I'm in Florence."

Though it was far from possible, being that Florence was over one hundred and fifty miles from Vatican City, Van Helsing was beginning to grow accustomed to things deemed inconceivable by now, and travelling across the county in one night with no recollection at all only vaguely disturbed him. What concerned him at this moment was what he was doing in Florence at all. Had he been drawn here, summoned by some unknown force? Had whatever power that had been controlling him suddenly fled, dropping him onto the roof of a cathedral? Or was he simply losing his mind?

The latter seemed most feasible, the hunter thought with bitter humour, and he followed the stairs down out of the tower. He slipped from the church undetected, and began to wander the city streets aimlessly as he tried to sort his thoughts. What had happened to him back on the road? Had he really transformed, or was it his imagination? Was he experiencing some form of psychological torment brought on by the Romania mission? Was he ever going to be able to function normally ever again, or would he remain scarred by the knowledge that he had once been a part of the very evil against which he fought?

To have known the savagery and wickedness of a werewolf, perhaps one of the most violent creatures of darkness, is to have looked into the smouldering eyes of Hell itself. Was there any redemption from this ruthless venom, or had it never left his veins? Would he remain forever tainted by this horrific memory?

Certainly, Van Helsing had not chosen to become a werewolf of his own free will, but he had willfully endangered the lives of those around him simply by allowing himself to live. But had he ended it in suicide, no blissful afterlife would await him, not that he had ever expected that he would ever be allowed through the Gates anyway; Heaven was reserved for saints and popes, people who had lived lives free from any sort of ugliness that filled the world. Van Helsing knew he was far from either, having taken lives both good and bad and committed some of the worst sins imaginable, including his most recent affair involving a friar and certain carnal acts that had once been grounds for God destroying an entire city.

No, Van Helsing thought mirthlessly, there was no shining light at the end of the tunnel for him. Just torture and fire, or –and this is if he were lucky– absolutely nothing.

Few people were about at this hour, and those that were thankfully showed little interest in an obviously foreign man patrolling their boulevards. Van Helsing himself had to wonder why he was wasting time by mapping this section of the city, but then a notion came creeping to him: he was subconsciously searching, like a prowling beast waiting to catch wind of a scent, the most basic of instincts that perpetuated itself even in mankind. When a human being was troubled or afraid, they would seek comfort any way they could: through familiar smells, gentle touches, soft words.

The hunter couldn't decide if it was solace or evil he was looking for, but he nevertheless decided to follow his instincts. That was when it truly came to him, that feeling, like an invisible hand reaching into him and wrapping around his spine, pulling him towards something that he knew was beyond his understanding. He allowed himself to be drawn into alleys and unsavoury shops, pausing to detect if the trail had gone cold. And then he would be off again, searching with greater haste as he perceived himself growing closer to whatever it was that had captured his senses.

A scent had begun to form itself, and now he followed that as well. It was familiar, and inspired in him a feeling of fear and regret, the same sentiments he had felt when he was slowly succumbing to the werewolf venom. Visions of Valerious Manor haunted his mind's eye, as did a blurred, hazy image of a face that lurked in the back of his consciousness, which grew more and more taught as it neared the point of bursting into clarity like an arrow shot from a bow.

And then, as Van Helsing emerged from the shadow of a street bridge, a heavily-accented voice spoke to him in Latin tongue: "It seems you have found me before I could find you."

The hunter immediately stopped in his tracks, knowing he had found what he was looking for. With one hand resting on his pistol, he stated loudly in answering Latin, "Show yourself."

"I am not hiding from you, Mr Van Helsing. Lift your eyes."

The man did so, and found himself staring at a dark silhouette sitting on the edge of a pedestal where a large marble statue was mounted. Through the darkness Van Helsing was able to discern that it was a young man, perhaps even a year or two younger than Carl, though his face was obscured by shadows.

Van Helsing drew closer, sensing no threat from the stranger. "You know my name," he said. "Have we met before?"

"Once or twice, though I do not think we were ever properly introduced." The figure gracefully sprang from the statue and landed on his feet without making even the slightest sound, and walked slowly forward until the moon illuminated the features.

Van Helsing uttered a cry of shock as he took a step back.

Prince Velkan Valerious smiled slightly and bowed.

To Be Continued in Chapter IX