Rating: PG13

Pairing: Carl/Gabriel

Series/Sequel: The finale of the Brother Wolf/Sister Wolf Trilogy

Warning: Suggested violence, slash relationship.

Disclaimer: I don't own the canon characters within this story, nor do I own the genesis of this trilogy. But I am grateful for the opportunity to continue on with both.

Feedback: Thank you for your emails of support! They really did help shape this story—I hope it lives up to expectation. Please let us know if there is something that should be changed or if there is something you hope to see happen in the story. Thats what makes a good story!

To Kydasam—you are missed more than you know. I hope you enjoy the story!

To Shoshone, my Beta, thank you helping me gather the courage to attempt this story and for making it shine. it would not have been written without you.

Special Thanks to Archangel Gabriel, the patron of the written word

Brother Wolf : Van Helsing and Carl are sent by the Order to find and hopefully cure a werewolf being shown by a traveling circus. Along the way they run afoul of a mercenary band of hunters headed by a madman called Nikko; a cold hearted circus owner who wants to use Carl and Van Helsing as his new exhibits; a troupe of circus performers who start out as enemies and become trusted friends; and a village of werewolves, the leader of which wants the hunter and his friar to join them.

Sister Wolf: the second story is about Van Helsing and Carl adjusting to being wolves and discovering that intentionally or not, they have formed their own pack, they’ve learned they depend upon and love one another as friends. The Order dispatches a group of Hunters to bring them back to Rome. Also, Nikko resurfaces when he too is infected with lycanthropy, but his metamorphosis creates a monster who can only destroy. His hatred of Van Helsing and Carl leads him to murder and consume the monks of a local abbey, then alert the Inquisition saying the murderers are Carl and Van Helsing. The story concludes in a fight to the death between Nikko’s werewolf and Carl’s. Carl is victorious, but he cannot bear the thought that he has killed, even when forced to it by a madman. All parts of the story come together here: Van Helsing is captured by the Inquisition and Carl by the Knights of the Order. The Order and Reynaldo, the leader of the Inquisitors, decide to affect a switch of captives. Once again, Carl and Van Helsing are separated, each in the hands of men who see them as only monsters. And each is now cut off from their first need—the Pack.

The premise of this story arc has to do with all the forms of family—both natural and unnatural. When both Van Helsing and Carl become infected with lycanthropy, they must learn to deal with the changes it brings about in their bodies, minds and souls. And, like an injured joint, once the mind and soul have been exposed to the open unclouded simplicity of the wolf’s need for togetherness, it can never be whole again, except by accepting and embracing the need to be with and protect the pack. To do anything else leaves man and wolf a cripple who can never find peace.

In darkness there is life, in the night--freedom. Perhaps it’s an unthinking, unasked for deity from ages past that ties antiquity to the present and makes sure those it touches never actually progress too far from their genesis.

The daylight offers nourishment and growth to the soft quiet places within the wood, causing small green things to unfurl with fragile life. It encourages quiet birth and young things to stretch their limbs toward the sky in a bid for new domains within a foreign environment.

But it’s the darkness and its mistress, the moon, that causes the ancient forest to remember its primeval root, and every living thing within its fastness is carried back with it. Back to its powerful awakening when birth was a cataclysmic event of fire and killing frosts.

Darkness takes the earth back to the first awareness and sets the beast within free. In daylight you might deny the beast and fancy it a figment of the imagination, of tales and legends. But, in darkness comes an undeniable clarity of vision that exposes all the lies we swear by. In their place, an age-old truth becomes a certainty that sunders the mind and flesh.

…

The darkness beneath the great trees split open and bled silver shadows that raced over the cold moist ground with silent paws and laid back ears—shadows dotted with flaring golden eyes and bared white fangs. It’s not actually true to call these shadows ‘wolves’ because their primal root has been infused with the awareness of men; but they are no longer truly men either, here in the darkness. They are a new life that pays homage to their common beginning—the first wolf and the first man. They are the combination of both and in those who embrace this essential fact, there is an understanding that brings transformation and power.

True, the power comes at a cost: like the primal wolf who survived his harsh world, like primal man who seized dominion over all, this power insists upon the knowledge that there is safety and growth in numbers, in the Pack. There must be an understanding of what comprises the Pack, an understanding that lives in the blood and bone and for which life will unthinkingly be given to protect and preserve. When the whole is healthy, all within it survive and prosper. When the Pack is torn and wounded, none will rest until it is made whole again.

It’s not conscious thought nor mulishly mouthed platitudes that drives this. It must come from the root of the beast itself, and once that’s understood, everything else makes sense. Nothing is impossible.

Not wolf. Not man. Not single or alone. There is only the Pack.

The Pack is Everything

“You will walk,” the Inquisitor spat into Carl’s face, his hand clutched tightly in the coarse brown fabric of the blanket the friar wore as concealment of his nudity. In the heat of the afternoon sun, on the broad yellow field, Inquisitor’s presence succeeded in blocking out everything else

“Yes, yes, I’ll walk!” Carl squeaked, squirming as the blanket clenched in the cleric’s fist tightened about his neck. “If you’ll just let go…,” he wheezed.

A harsh shove got the friar tripping forward, the pure silver manacles about his wrists and ankles jangling. His captor and the five others dressed like him in the same black and white robes of the Inquisition fell in step around him, their hands conspicuously placed on the hilts of their swords.

Before them, the inhabitants of the nearby village, Keely, parted like the tall field grass, staring and whispering; when they caught Carl’s gaze, they sketched hasty crosses or, worse, shoved their loved ones back behind as if to protect them from him.

He dropped his eyes, concentrating on the black-cloaked backs of the men of the Inquisition who surrounded him, forcing his awkward barefoot passage over the hot brittle field toward Keely. The villagers might not want anything to do with them, but apparently that mattered little to his captors. He’d gathered from their sparse conversation amongst themselves that the Inquisitors were on their way to the village’s abbey, to meet with the unfortunate survivors of the werewolf attack. “Unfortunate” because those survivors, though they had sent for the Inquisition, were now, like Carl, due to fall under the dominion of God’s Dogs. Survivors or not, they’d had contact with ‘unholy beasts’ and were now suspect, a situation they were not likely to survive.

A rough hand slammed into his back, shoving him forward as his footsteps lagged with his thoughts. Staggering, he threw out his hands for balance only to drop them immediately, clawing at the falling blanket that served as his only clothing.

Around them, the same villagers who had drawn back at his gaze pressed forward for a quick peek at his exposed body. Miserably he admitted he didn’t blame them for seeking any titillation they could glean from the situation. They’d come to this field expecting a day at the circus and they had instead been treated to a fight to the death between two werewolves. One of which changed before their eyes into a nude friar. Even with the inclusion of the dreaded Inquisition, that was a show that topped the circus any day.

He blinked and licked his lips; squirming as the rough itchy blanket scratched at the wounds he gotten in his fight with the werewolf Nikko. He desperately wanted to wipe his eyes free of the sweat dripping into them but he didn’t know how he could manage that and keep the blanket positioned with the limited play the chain between his wrist manacles allowed. A stray thought wandered through that it really was too hot for blankets—why was it everyone always had a hot stuffy blanket at the ready but no one carried a cool cotton sheet?

Gingerly, he flexed his shoulders, wincing. His body ached from the wounds he’d sustained in his fight and now his mind ached with the knowledge of the death he’d caused.

How could he deny he was a monster now? He’d killed.

Reflexively, he found himself wishing with all his heart and soul for Van Helsing. His need for the hunter’s calm presence, the unassailable assurance in Van Helsing’s hazel eyes, was a physical ache that cut him like a blade more savage than the wounds Nikko had caused.

A fist slammed between his shoulders, shoving him hard forward. He cried out in shock and then pain as his barefoot came down hard on a sharp rock, making him hop awkwardly then trip as his leg manacles tangled. This time he would have gone down if the Inquisitor that walked at his side hadn’t caught his arm, hauling him upright. He chanced a glance at the man at his side, wincing at the familiar features.

Reynaldo. This Lead Inquisitor didn’t draw back or cross himself when he looked at his prisoner. Unlike his fellows, he didn’t stoop to spoken threats or common rough handling. His dark eyes, when he directed them at Carl, were probing and thoughtful and he kept bodily contact between them to a minimum, making it all the more devastating when it finally occurred.

Carl shivered at Reynaldo’s touch, drawing away as soon as possible. What he knew of this man made him fear his touch more than any incidental violence the others could inflict. Reynaldo was well known for his love of pain, he’d made no secret of his belief that each falling drop of a penitent’s blood was a step closer to God. But the search for true redemption could not be realized by the grossly inflicted pain of a fist or weapon—rather it had to come subtly and slowly, taking his victims into the dark pit where agony dwelt. Reynaldo’s pursuit of this form of salvation could have washed the Palace floors with the hot blood of those he’d ‘redeemed’.

Carl believed with his whole heart that the man was a monster.

Regrettably, he was also a member of the friar’s own family.

Reynaldo had made this fact known to Carl two years past, seeking him out and informing the horrified friar of their relationship, on his father’s side. When Carl had attempted to question his father, his queries had been met with only a tersely worded reply affirming the fact and a dry suggestion that Carl spend as little time as possible with his twice-removed cousin. His warnings were hardly needed, the friar had avoided Reynaldo like poison.

For his part, the Inquisitor made no especial effort to seek Carl out; but, when they met by chance, he took every opportunity to delay the friar and question him minutely on his family and his daily doings. A desperate mix of lies and rabbit-like reflexes got Carl out of most of these meetings relatively unscathed. And, after each meeting, he’d suffered a mixture of acute relief and contrition—he had never worked out exactly which he should be feeling.

Now, he couldn’t stop the traitorous hope that somehow this unlikeliest of connections would save him. But did he really deserve to be saved?

“We are almost there.” Reynaldo’s quiet voice broke into Carl’s muddled thoughts. “When we arrive at the village, you will stay close to me at all times,” the Inquisitor instructed and Carl nodded once, sharply, even as his skin crawled at the thought.

Van Helsing’s awareness returned to him in piecemeal—first came the omnipresent sense of pain. He was used to that, not even bothering any longer to attempt rating it on a scale of discomfort. Though, there was a small nod to the fact that certainly this particular pain, centered in the back of his head and radiating to all outward points, was something he was getting much too used to. At what point had he signed up for a life where having his brains regularly bashed into oatmeal was a common occurrence? He stifled a groan of discomfort, more from habit than conscious thought, as he tentatively stretched and in doing so made his second discovery. He was bound. He could feel the chafing restriction of a hemp rope about his wrists, binding them tightly together before him so that the adrenaline-fed pulse of his blood rebounded hotly between them like a rubber ball.

He didn’t open his eyes, but he did flex his fingers slowly, then his forearms, then biceps…. Carefully, slowly, with only minute movements to signal each test, he checked his body for function. He discovered that his legs were apparently unbound though judging by their stiffness he wouldn’t be making any abrupt movements soon. Apparently he’d been unconscious for a good long while this time. Carl wouldn’t be pleased he’d managed, yet again, to subject his skull to another doomed duel with the business end of a club.

That thought provoked another, more sluggish but insistent. He allowed it to emerge, pushing aside concerns of location or lurking danger with total disregard. Whatever his mind was trying to remember, it was something worth his life.

Realization stabbed through the haze like a red hot needle, and his hazel eyes flew open. “Carl!”

Immediately, his eyes began to stream as the direct sunlight stabbed into them, seeking out the headache that came roaring forth to meet it. Within the watery white fog clouding his abused eyes, a merciful shadow took shape, moving first to loom over him, and then sinking down at his side. He noted the series of clicks and creaks that announced his visitor’s joints probably felt no better than his own and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the pools of obscuring moisture from his eyes so he could see who his apparent captor was. To his surprise, a helpful hand came down, bringing with it a soft cloth that swabbed his eyes. Before it had completely lifted from his face, he had opened his eyes, narrowing them to get his first good look at the man above him.

“Markus?” he murmured, his forehead creasing as his dark brows drew together in a surprised frown. “What are you doing here? What’s happened to Carl?”

The grey-haired hunter above him smiled slightly, just the corners of his mouth lifting as he shook his head.

“That’s like you,” he grunted. “You awake to find yourself a prisoner and the first thing on your mind is your friar? You spend more time thinking of his wellbeing than your own.”

Van Helsing ignored the question in the other Hunter’s eyes and instead directed his gaze to the area around them. They were still in the field the circus had chosen, a short distance from the village the performers had hoped to lure out with promises of exotic and thrilling entertainments. Certainly they’d kept their word, though not in the manner anyone had planned.

His eyes narrowed, brows coming down in a dark V as he squinted into the sunshine, searching for the one face he knew would not be present. The other hunters that had come with Markus were present; settled down in a temporary camp, their constant vigilance denying any pretense of resting. They were dark-eyed, dark-faced men who had succeeded in cutting off their emotions. They’d known Carl for years, had been witness to all the quirks and eccentricities that made him unique and irreplaceable. Now, in a single afternoon, he’d become just another monster.

Van Helsing swallowed hard at the taste of bile at the back of his throat, shoving up roughly to a sitting position. Immediately the other hunters gave over their varied other tasks, turning as one to watch him with unblinking eyes.

Markus too watched him, his grey eyes narrowing assessingly. “We mean to take you back to Rome…to the Order. You’re one of us so you deserve some dignity in your treatment. If you swear to me that you’ll give us no trouble, I’ll keep the bindings and restrictions at a minimum.”

Van Helsing couldn’t help the huff of amusement as one dark eyebrow rose in a sardonic arch. “I’m a werewolf, Markus. It’s not likely your idea of ‘minimum’ and mine are going to match. And you still haven’t told me where Carl is.”

The other hunter shrugged and rose with audible creaking joints. “Stubborn as always—alright, have it your way, Gabriel. As for Carl, we weren’t the only ones looking for you two. The good brothers at the local abbey had a nasty run-in with the other werewolves from that village. All but two of the brothers were killed, very gruesomely. The survivors apparently notified the Inquisition, who lost no time in hotfooting it out here. They’re the ones who found you—we found Carl….”

Markus’ voice trailed off, his gaze expectant upon Van Helsing, nodding grimly as he saw the other hunter’s eyes narrow and anger spark within them.

“Aye, I suspected you’d take it that way. Gabriel, there was no help for Carl. He was seen turning from a wolf into a man by a hundred witnesses. The Inquisition was certainly going to take one of you and demanded both. They weren’t going to settle for nothing.”

“So you turned Carl over to them?” Van Helsing snarled, his voice rising as he struggled up to his knees.

The other hunters’ arrival stopped Van Helsing from rising any further as their hands fell heavily upon his shoulders and arms.

“Better the friar than you,” Markus grunted, then fell back, eyes widening, as Van Helsing lunged against the hands holding him.

“You know Carl—he’s saved your life a hundred times with his weapons. Saved all our lives. And you threw him to those jackals?”

An unexpected twinge of guilt lanced through Markus’ mind, reflecting momentarily in his face and eyes before he rigorously suppressed it. Gesturing at the incredulous man whose angry eyes stirred those unwelcome feelings, he spoke to the other hunters in clipped short tones.

“Manacle him. Make sure the locks are fast. We’ll move out in 15 minutes.”

He turned away then, though he winced at the sounds of struggling behind him.

“Markus! It’s not too late…”

For a second he hesitated; for a single second, Markus’ mind suggested a devotion foreign to the Order. The horrifying possibilities that burst from that slight chink in his loyalties caused him to drive out the thought with desperate strength. Shaking his head to rid himself of any clinging shred of doubt, he squared his shoulders and back with an almost audible snap.

“To each his own,” he growled and moved away, leaving behind Van Helsing’s cry of disbelief and damnation.

The narrow dirt streets of the village were at once deserted and full to bursting. It seemed that every single villager had gone to the circus that morning, thus essentially emptying Keely. And now they were all returning, closely following Carl and his captors step for step.

For some reason, the black-and-white garbed Inquisitors didn’t seem disposed to object to this close scrutiny. At a guess, Carl supposed they welcomed the chance to prove to the population that the Inquisition was still alive and thriving. It was easy to deny monsters in the dark of night, but so much more difficult when it paraded in front of you in broad daylight. The Inquisition’s public profile might have globally declined somewhat but there would be no doubt in this village that they existed and continued their horrifying vocation.

The warm soft dirt of the streets was a relief to Carl’s bare feet, yet he found it difficult to appreciate overly as each step brought them closer to the Southern end of the village and the dark bulk of the abbey.

Its doors were yawning open and even from a distance of some yards the hot stink of blood was plain.

As if by a single switch the crowd abruptly stopped their forward progression. Risking a look back, Carl saw fingers were flying in warding signs as the villagers got their first good whiff of the evil that had come so close to their own doors. He saw it in their faces--the moment they linked the deaths of the brothers with the werewolf in their midst. Horrified, he wanted to deny it, to shout his innocence—but who would believe him?

A sharp prod in the small of his back got Carl walking again, although much more slowly than before. Mercifully, the villagers remained where they had stopped, unwilling to take one step closer to that black doorway.

They’d come within a dozen feet of the dark entry when the shadows within stirred, drawing upward, its silhouette spilling outward onto the dirt road like a tainted pool.

“Eeep!” Carl squeaked as the men about him stopped and drew their swords. He dropped back from what he was sure was another werewolf only to find to his horror there was no where to go. Despite his captors’ shoving and proddings, his feet stubbornly refused to move one step closer.

From the abbey, the figure within moved slowly forward; it’s form flexing in unnatural ways in the diffused light of the slanting sunlight. From the graying light within the structure, it came forward and became a murky figure which grew rapidly shorter as it stepped into full sunlight.

Carl blinked, straightened, and then leaned forward for a more careful look.

It was a monk. A simple monk, dirt and blood streaked, carrying a prayer book from which he could be heard to be reading.

The surprised huff of sound from the crowd startled the brother, bringing his eyes up with a snap. He almost dropped the battered book he carried and juggled it for a second before regaining a firm grasp.

His breath whistled through is teeth as he gave the book a little pat, then, visibly steeling himself, he at last turned his attention to the crowd before him.

He was a man of medium age, about Carl’s size, with bushy brown hair and a round face that currently had a pronounced green tint to it. His brown eyes were magnified by round wire spectacles that perched on the bridge of his thin nose like an exotic bird on a branch and his wide mouth was thinned in the bloodless straight line of a man trying hard to keep his lunch down.

The monk’s black robe was torn and bloodstained, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal thin bloodstained arms and long blunt-fingered hands. In every way, he seemed a normal, run-of-the-mill monk, though traumatized, and Carl allowed a breath of relief to gust out.

The monk’s eyes had roamed the crowd before settling on Carl and his guard. He blinked, released one hand from its death grip on his prayer book to adjust his glasses, and then took another longer look, cocking his head to one side.

“Oh…you must be the brothers of the Inquisition?” he hazarded in a breathless voice. “I had heard you were here.”

“You ‘heard’?” Reynaldo queried, moving to the fore, one dark eyebrow rising.

The monk nodded, checked, then nodded again more firmly. “Yes. That’s about it. I heard…as opposed to saw…which I suppose I’m doing now.” A nervous titter burst from the man’s lips only to turn into a rigid grimace of embarrassment. He gestured first to himself, gripping the black material over his heart in a death grip before pointing back to the abbey’s open door. “Er…I’m Brother Albert. It's-I'm..." He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself before meeting the head Inquisitor's gaze with a pathetic trust and hope. "I'm sorry. It's pretty awful back there. I'm glad you’re here…”

"Indeed? How refreshing," murmured the Inquisitor, cutting the monk’s rambling explanations short, and with a flick of his fingers the lead Inquisitor gestured the others forward. Immediately, two of the black-garbed Dominicans moved to take hold of Albert’s arms, jerking them forward. The brother’s prayer book was jostled from his hands, he made an aborted lunge to catch it only to be hauled back upright as manacles were closed about his wrists.

“What-what, no! You-I-wait please! Please, I don’t understand!”

Albert’s protestations were ignored as he was shoved back to stand before Reynaldo.

The dark Inquisitor’s pale lips curved ever so slowly in a slight smile as his gaze traveled over the flustered man, at last coming to rest upon his face with a light in them that struck the little monk silent, his wide eyes fixed on Reynaldo as if he were a serpent about to strike.

“That’s better,” Reynaldo’s smile deepened. His voice was a soft murmur that Carl, standing beside Albert, was barely able to hear. “This is an official investigation. You understand?" The other nodded feverishly. "Now, I will ask you questions. You will answer them, completely, with as few words as possible. You can not sway us, you cannot lie to us. Your only hope of salvation lies in your cooperation.. You are a monk of the church—I know your salvation is important to you….”

“Yes,” the brother whispered as he nodded, then licked his lips.

“Good. That’s good, Brother Albert. Now, where are the other brothers?”

“Other…well…inside. I think…”

“You think?” Reynaldo asked, frowning. “You came from the abbey….”

“No-Yes, well,” Albert interrupted, then paled only to sag with visible relief as Reynaldo signaled him to continue. “I was on call when…whatever happened in there…happened. I had no idea at all ….”

“No?” Reynaldo asked, patting the monk’s arm. “It was a surprise?”

Albert’s body relaxed as he nodded, evidently drawing comfort from the Inquisitor’s manner. Beside him, Carl winced, wishing he could warn the brother in some way. As if reading his thoughts, Reynaldo’s dark gaze moved to the friar’s and his smile widened as he saw Carl draw back.

Nodding, Reynaldo took Albert’s arm, urging him forward, toward the Abbey, despite the other's reluctance. He spared a look backward to Carl in a silent command and the friar found his feet moving before his mind had even registered the intent.

As one, their swords still drawn, the Inquisition and their prisoners moved into the structure, leaving the sunlight and the crowd outside.

The darkness seemed absolute and at first they stood still in the entry, allowing their eyes to adjust. Then, the Inquisitors moved forward, further into the abbey and the gardens without. When Carl was able to see clearly, he wished with all his heart that he couldn’t.

All about them, the spare furnishings were turned over and slashed; over all was a crimson wash of blood. Their feet made sucking sounds as they trod in the sticky drying splotches of blood that was liberally sprayed over the floors, walls and even the ceiling.

Carl gulped, shutting his eyes in horror as the insanity of the wanton destruction tore at his senses and threatened to empty his stomach.

Beside him, Albert too shut his eyes, shaking his head as his features contorted in grief.

In the semi light, Reynaldo’s dark eyes glittered as he took in the destruction slowly, as though memorizing it. When his gaze turned again to Albert, he cocked his head as if perplexed.

“I see the blood, of course, but not your fellow brothers. You said they were in here?”

Albert’s eyes opened as he swallowed, then nodded. “I…found some…pieces. That’s all.”

“Pieces. That’s all?”

“Yes.” The monk nodded once, his jaws clicking shut.

The sounds of approaching footsteps alerted the return of the other Inquisitors, each shaking his head to Reynaldo’s questioning glance. With each mute report, Reynaldo’s face became sterner and his gaze upon Albert grew more thoughtful.

“All gone,” the lead Inquisitor murmured. “No sign of them except for…pieces. Yet you are alive. You came from this place of death and blood, with signs of the beast at every turning…yet you are unharmed. How can I explain that? I cannot. How would you explain that, Brother Albert?”

Albert’s pale face paled further as he shook his head, his eyes flying from one implacable face to the next. “But I…wasn’t here. I had to attend a christening! I don’t know how this happened or why, I only saw footprints of a beast as I returned home, but I don’t know how it got in….”

“’Don’t know…’ “ Reynaldo murmured, his long pale hands steepling before him as he regarded the monk thoughtfully. “You speak of a beast—one beast. You spent enough time in this place, amongst this death, to ascertain that much?”

"I was administering extreme unction!"

“You are a very brave man…or you knew you would not be hurt. Perhaps you know more about this hell beast than you remember at this moment? Yes, yes, I know you were away from the abbey,” Reynaldo held up his hand to stop Albert’s renewed explanations. When the monk fell silent again, Reynaldo sighed, then nodded. “I think you can help me, Brother. And in return, I can help you.”

Carl was moving forward, blocking the Inquisitors who reached for the monk’s bound arms. “Wait! He doesn’t know! Reynaldo, don’t do this!”

Reynaldo’s thin mouth softened as he clucked his tongue, one hand rising to pat Carl’s bound wrists. “Sshh, Carl. You and I will have our talk, all in good time.”

…

Out on the darkening streets, the waiting crowd of villagers fell back and then fled in horror as agonized screams boiled out of the yawning doors of the black abbey.

tbc