Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Mission #2: Surf's Up Read online

  Chapter One:

  Quiet Pint

  Neil gazed down incredulously at the Omega Speedmaster watch on his wrist, his stunned eyes taking in the beautiful craftsmanship; the curves of the steel, the sumptuousness of the leather, the smooth motion of the various hands as they rotated on myriad dials. Slowly, he dragged his eyes back up to the patiently watching form of Brian.

  “Mate, I can’t take this. It’s worth more than my car.”

  “Your Impreza’s worth fuck all, Neil. It’s a chav-mobile. And besides, it’s your birthday. And anyway, I kind of owe you one, what with the banshee nearly taking your head off and all that.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Neil grinned, hoisting his pint and saluting his friend. “Cheers.”

  Brian smiled and clinked his own pint against Neil’s, before taking a swig of his Doom Bar. He was probably going to get it in the neck from Heimlich over this little expenditure, but it was worth it to see Neil happy. Though to be fair, Neil never seemed to need much encouragement to be happy; he was the type of person to leap out of bed in the morning, his bed-hair already perfect, his limbs full of energy and mind buzzing to start the day. Whereas Brian needed a team of wild horses to drag him out from the warm cocoon of his duvet when the alarm went off. Even the vast wealth and magical powers his new career had brought him rarely seemed to get him going as they would anyone else. Neil here would have been ecstatic to have been declared the new Helsing, champion of the innocent, hunter of all Things That Went Bump In The Night, and in all honesty perhaps he was far more suited to the role than Brian was himself, what with Brian’s gangly six-foot seven frame and weak chin a stark contrast to Neil’s chiselled good looks and rugby player physique.

  The gods had a wicked sense of humour, it seemed.

  The band sidled into the pub, all guitars and swagger, making themselves ready on the stage at the far end. Only a small pub, this one, and certainly not Wetherspoon’s; Brian daren’t show his face in there, not after the whole vampire fracas of before. Though the local constabulary hadn’t believed the crowd in their protestations that Brian had murdered a girl in front of them – and why would they have, when there had been no corpse to be seen? – he still didn’t feel welcome there anymore. And he definitely didn’t want to find himself surrounded by angry locals baying for his blood; it would certainly end badly, though for whom he wasn’t sure. Once upon a time, he’d have been sure that he’d have been the one ending the night on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Nowadays, he wasn’t so certain, yet he still wasn’t keen to put it to the test.

  “These guys good?” Brian asked.

  “Not a clue, mate,” Neil admitted, taking another swig of his pint. “They’re a bunch of fisherman from Newlyn. The flyer said they cover classic metal songs.”

  Brian nodded. That would explain the name proudly emblazoned on the front of the bass drum. Boaterhead. The lead singer, clad in leather and studded like an antique couch, swaggered up to the microphone. He was relatively young, probably Neil and Brian’s age, with a flashing smile, long, brown hair that trailed down over his shoulders, and shining black eyes that scanned the crowd with the intensity of confidence, drugs or most likely a potent mixture of both.

  “Y’all ready to rock, Penzance?” he hollered. The sound of indifference was deafening, but he didn’t notice or if he did he didn’t care, instead continuing into the microphone with gusto. “We’ve got a set and a half lined up for you tonight. So get your pints down you and throw some horns!”

  As the band launched into their gig, opening with a stunningly loud rendition of Iron Maiden’s Number of the Beast, Brian wondered at the band’s sheer determination in the face of overwhelming apathy. He looked about; fishermen, pensioners, a smattering of youths. No-one particularly rocky or goth to be seen. Surely this was the wrong type of venue for such a band? Wrong type of music for such a crowd?

  And then the frontman began to sing.

  Neil’s jaw dropped open beside him. Old men who’d been conversing in irritated tones over the screech of guitars paused and turned to watch, to listen, eyes glistening in wonder. People began to rise from tables and make their way, faces alight with joy, to the clearing before the stage, starting to bob, to tap their feet, then finally bounce up and down, throwing horns into the air. As the sounds of his haunting, soulful voice reached out through the half-open door, they pulled with beckoning invisible fingers to the passers-by, hauling them in from the cold as though powerless to resist, to join the adoring throng. Among the stream of people that made their way in through the door, a familiar face, making her way towards the pair by the bar, all bouncing, brightly dyed pigtails and wide eyes. Eyes that, even as she approached, seemed drawn irresistibly towards the stage.

  “He’s… incredible,” Gertie breathed, mouth open in that same stupid gormless gaze as Neil, as all the others in the bar save Brian himself seemed to be wearing.

  “Hello to you, too,” Brian greeted her, and as if shaking some spell from her mind, she turned to him.

  “Sorry, Helsing,” she replied. “How are you?”

  “Good, thanks. Nice to see Heimlich let you off the leash for a night. How are you?”

  “Yeah,” she murmured, attention already being dragged back to the stage. “Yeah, that’s… yeah.”

  Brian frowned, puzzled, before turning his own gaze now towards the stage, following those of his friends. The singer was good, he had to give him that, but he was no Bruce Dickinson. Why, then, was everyone so strangely enthralled by him? His answer came from an unexpected source, vibrating in pent up fury on his finger.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned.

  “What’s up?” Gertie asked him, somehow managing to tear her eyes from the stage for a few brief moments, though the effort of doing so was clear to see on her face, her eyes making continuous attempts to dart back that way, like dogs straining on a leash.

  “He’s a vampire.”

  “Oh,” she replied, her face still alight with the joy imparted by those wailing tones, eyes already being dragged inexorably back to the band up front. “That makes sense. It’s… glamour… and stuff…”

  Her voice, even mid-reply, died to nothing more than a distracted murmur. Brian sighed.

  “You know that means I’m going to have to kill him, right?”

  “Kill him?” Neil gasped to his side. “But… listen! He’s got the voice… of an angel.”

  “Neil’s right,” Gertie told him, moshing up and down now with ever-increasing enthusiasm. “Let him sing. You can kill him after the set’s done.”

  His two friends now moving off to join the masses bouncing and throwing horns at the front, old and young alike, Brian shook his head, before turning to the bar in resignation.

  “Another Doom Bar please, mate,” he called to the barman.

  “Hmm?”

  The barkeep was likewise transfixed, a smile of elation on his face.

  “Doom Bar! Pint of! Stat!”

  “Yeah, sure, sure…” he replied, slowly, as though sleepwalking, reaching for a glass without looking, sending the first one to smash on the floor, before his questing fingers finally found another and began to fill it up. It was overflowing by the time Brian impatiently snapped his fingers, the man sliding it his way across the bar. Brian held out a fiver, but the barman had already begun to walk away, drawn like a moth to a flame towards the source of the singing.

  Brian shrugged, before leaning back against the bar and taking a sip of his pint. He should be nervous, he knew, knowing
that he would soon be facing a vampire for the third time in his life. And yet, strangely, he wasn’t. Was it the influence of the ring that still vibrated like an angry wasp on his finger? Or was it the five pints he’d already had that evening? He didn’t know, and to be frank, he didn’t care. He’d long resigned himself to the fact that this was his job now and that no matter how much he sulked or protested, no-one else would or could do it for him. He only had to look about at the mindless zombies, including his own Master of Combat, Gertie, of all people, all moshing like idiots in the centre of a quaint Cornish pub, to see that. Whether the ring was protecting him from the vampire’s glamour, or whether it was merely his own strangely cross-wired brain that rendered him oddly immune, as had been the case when he’d met the seductive Cassandra on that first, fateful day, he didn’t have a clue. Regardless, as he leant back and watched the band, the singer now belting out the opening verse of Holy Diver in what Brian had to admit was a passable impersonation of Dio, he sipped his pint, content merely to wait this out and see how it ended.

  And, to be fair, the band weren’t actually half bad.

  Chapter Two:

  Coitus Interruptus

  Brian grinned as the pair made their way unsteadily back towards him, sweat glistening on their brows as they blinked in confusion, as though they’d been making their way through a long, dark cave and had now at last stumbled painfully into the light.

  “Welcome back,” he chuckled, lurching unsteadily. “You’ll have to excuse me; I helped myself to several pints while you were making fools of yourselves and I’m pretty intox… a bit inebri… I’m fucked,” he finally admitted.

  “What the hell was that?” Neil asked, rubbing his head as though in the throes of some mighty hangover.

  “Glamour,” Gertie spat, as though angry at herself. “The hypnotic charisma of a vampire. He had us dangling like puppets from his strings. God, I feel so… humiliated. I’m a Master of the God-damned Order. I’m supposed to be teaching Helsing, setting an example.”

  “Well you certainly made an example of yourself,” Brian laughed, making to sip his pint and spilling some of it onto his shoes. Gertie glared daggers at him and his grin flickered and faded, fully aware of the many ass-kickings he’d received at her hand. “Sorry,” he added.

  “Kill him,” Gertie told him. “I’m gonna get a drink. See if it won’t blot out the memories. Neil, you’re buying.”

  Neil reached for his wallet, then frowned.

  “Wait, why aren’t you buying? I thought you Order guys were all rich?”

  “No, he’s rich,” she answered, gesturing to Brian with a thumb. “Because he’s the one doing the hunting.”

  “Aren’t you going to help me?” Brian asked, puzzled. “I mean, I’m pissed as a fart!”

  “Yes, and I intend to be too within minutes. Now go do your job. Once you’re done, you can come and join me. I’ll be five Disaronnos in by then, that’s if this bloody barkeep hurries up!”

  She raised her voice several decibels for that last sentence, the barman hearing her and wandering over, his own shirt drenched with sweat and face etched with the same strange, puzzled frown worn by everyone else in the pub. Neil and Gertie now with their backs to him, intent on their drinks, Brian shrugged, before staggering away from the bar and screwing his blurry eyes, gazing towards the stage. The band members were beavering away, dismantling their kit, but the frontman was nowhere to be seen. Where had he scarpered off to, he wondered? There was a car park out back of the pub and he meandered unsteadily through the dispersing crowds towards the back door that led to the beer garden. The cold air outside was fresh, as befitted Cornwall in the depths of winter, yet it did nothing to sober him up. If anything, it made him feel worse, the slabs of the beer garden, as he traversed them towards the car park, see-sawing from side to side as though he were on the Scillonian ferry visible half a mile distant in the harbour.

  Where might the bloodsucking crooner be hiding, he pondered, making to scratch his chin yet missing and poking himself in the mouth. There was a big, white van there, rear doors open, one of the band members cursing as he tried to load the bass drum into it. Staggering towards the man, Brian called over.

  “Eyup, mate. Where can I find your singer? I want to, erm… congratulate him on such a great set.”

  The man pointed a questing finger across the car park, to a campervan, all bright, garish colours, with curtains drawn in the windows.

  “In there mate. But I wouldn’t disturb him. Couple of blonde pieces in there with him. Think he’s giving them the, aha, backstage tour.”

  With that, the man went back to trying to load the van, as Brian duly ignored him and zig-zagged his way towards the camper. As he drew nearer, muffled noises from within, the sounds of giggling. He paused for a moment, wondering whether to listen lest any more interesting noises began to sound, before shaking his head clear of the thoughts and instead, rapping his knuckles on the metal side door.

  “Go away,” called the singer’s voice from within.

  “Erm… room service?”

  “The fuck you on about? Go away!”

  With a shrug, Brian reached for the handle and slid the door open. Within, the singer with his Metallica t-shirt and leather jacket discarded, revealing pasty-white skin and the ripped physique so typical of such creatures that shunned the light yet seemingly never the gym. On either side of him on the pull-out double bed, two young women from the pub crowd, both in various states of undress. Brian hadn’t even the time to gawp at their hastily covered up forms before the man in the middle shouted.

  “Close that bloody door, you twat! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Brian told the trio. “But ladies, would you mind making yourselves scarce? Me and this man need to have a chat.”

  “No, stay,” the man told his guests, before turning back to Brian. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here and ruining a perfectly good ménage a trois?”

  “You might have heard of me,” Brian grinned, the ring now beginning to feed him a confidence that went beyond mere inebriation, before reaching over his back and grasping with his fingers. “My name is…” Suddenly, his grin vanished to be replaced by a frown of confusion, and he began to spin round and round on the spot, still reaching over his back for something that frustratingly refused to manifest. Finally, it clicked. “Shit.”

  “Well, Shit,” the man snarled. “I’m gonna close this door now and if you don’t fuck off with immediate effect, there’s gonna be trouble. Comprende?” With that, he reached out and slammed the door shut once more with a bang. Brian could hear his muffled voice through the metal. “Now, where were we ladies?”

  As the sounds of giggling began anew, Brian strolled off across the car park. Two Camaro’s, hunched, grey and angry looking sat there at the far end. No, wait, he thought, narrowing his blurry eyes. One. One Camaro, but one was all he needed. He sauntered up to Bertha’s boot, fumbling in his pocket for the key, before unlocking it and lifting the lid. His eyes found what they were looking for and he smiled.

  “There you are,” he murmured.

  Scabbard now belted over his bony shoulders, he closed the boot, before making his way unsteadily back towards the campervan. He reached over his back to the scabbard that was now well and truly there, withdrawing the sword. Moonlight would have glinted dramatically from steel, had the night sky not been filled with pesky clouds. Thankfully, thought Brian with a wry smile, this particular sword was self-illuminating. He thumbed the ancient runes on the hilt, opening his mouth, before pausing. Wait, what were the mystic words again? Flameo? Flambards? No, nothing to do with flames. He wracked his booze-addled mind, resting the blade on his shoulder. Something to do with lizards? Iguana? Ignis! It came to him with a grin.

  “Ignis Veritum,” he whispered.

  The blade caught light with a whoosh of holy flames, causing him to drop it as his black Pantera hoodie smouldered just above his shoulder, the swo
rd falling with a clatter on the tarmac, flames puttering out as quickly as they’d first appeared.

  “Christ! That’s the third time,” he berated himself, before putting out the glowing embers on his shoulder and bending down to retrieve his weapon. Holding it at a distance from him now, he whispered the words once more, this time through gritted teeth. “Ignis bloody Veritum.”

  This time, the sword ablaze but his own form blissfully untouched, he continued on his way to the campervan, stopping outside and rapping on the door with his knuckles once more.

  “What did I say?” came the exasperated cry from within. The door slid open to reveal the angry face of the band’s frontman once more. “There’s gonna be…”

  His eyes widened as he caught sight of the burning blade held nonchalantly by Brian’s side. The two girls behind him, now in even less clothes than before, recoiled from the heat, striving to hide their modesty, each pulling at a small sheet that could cover one of them, then the other, but never the pair at the same time. Brian blinked and stared for a moment, as equally transfixed as the vampire, if for different reasons, before recovering himself with a start and turning his gaze back to the still-frozen man.

  “Trouble?” he finished the man’s sentence for him. “Why yes, I believe there is.”

  “You’re the new Helsing,” the vampire growled.

  “What gave it away?” Brian asked, swishing the flaming sword from side to side.

  “The fact you’re an idiot. I’d heard on the grapevine that the new hunter was a buffoon. It seems Cassandra was right.”

  “Wait, how the hell do you guys keep hearing about this stuff so quickly? Is there some kind of vampire twitter I’m not aware of?”

  “There’s a lot you’re not aware of,” he growled, slowly and warily climbing his way out of the van, before stretching himself up threateningly to his full height. As he did so, he realised the full extent of Brian’s towering stature, the lad’s amused face still nigh a foot above him, and some of his bravado seemed to dissolve, but only for an instant. With a snarl, he turned back to the campervan. “You girls stay there, I’ll be back in a jiffy and we’ll pick up where we left off.” With that, he slid the door shut, hiding the pair of terrified faces within, before fixing his venomous gaze once more on Brian. “Now, let’s get this over with.”