Just Try Not To Die Read online

  And thus, Brian had escaped his first murder – if murder the accidental impaling of an undead demon of the night could be called – totally scot-free.

  His dreams, during what little booze-aided sleep he’d managed that night, had been haunted by visions of lithe, buxom women, their pretty faces twisted by fangs and eyes that glimmered with bloodlust, each of them dying in some brutal accident of his own unwitting making. Even now, sat in the passenger seat of Neil’s Impreza, cradling his throbbing head against the burble of its dust-bin exhaust, he still couldn’t rid himself of the images of the night before. Had it really happened? Judging from Neil’s excited chatter beside him, yes, yes it had. His friend’s reaction had puzzled him; shouldn’t Neil have been scared by it all? Instead, he seemed buzzing, almost loving this strange new world that Brian had been so suddenly and violently thrust into. He should, by all rights, have been terrified. As Brian was himself.

  But no, intrigued and excited he remained, using even his day off from work to shuttle an unwilling Brian to St Michael’s Mount, to seek out these strange mentors Helsing had hinted at. I suppose I don’t have anything better to do, Brian thought darkly. I mean, every day is my day off now. And even washing-up liquid had failed to remove this accursed ring.

  And so, as they drove along the coastal road, the majestic castle upon its private island rising above the bay, Brian sighed. This was his life now, he thought, resigning himself to this strange twist in his fate. So far it had proved scary and surprising in equal measure, both feelings that Brian tried to avoid as much as he could in his life. The Subaru screeched into Marazion’s car park, the tourists who’d come to visit the quaint village and its soaring castle scattering like birds before a waking bear as it spat, popped and burbled, gifting them dark looks as they darted out of their way.

  Such a chav-mobile, Brian thought to himself, shrinking back into the Recaro bucket seat in embarrassment.

  “Tide’s out,” Neil declared, wholly unabashed, staring out at the sea as he finally, thankfully, switched off the thundering engine. “We’ll be walking across. Just think,” he grinned, punching Brian on his shoulder, “ten minutes and you might finally have some answers.”

  Brian groaned.

  “I’m not sure I want them,” he replied. “I want my bed. I want to veg out on my settee and play some Xbox. Can’t bump into any more monsters if I don’t leave my house.”

  “Don’t be a pussy all your life,” Neil chastised him with a chuckle. “Now come on; destiny awaits.”

  Destiny was at home on his Xbox, Brian thought darkly. Destiny 2, in fact. He’d not even gotten around to opening the wrapper yet. Would he ever? Was he even in control of his own life anymore? It certainly didn’t feel like it as he slowly, begrudgingly, climbed out of the car and followed Neil who was already walking down the path towards Marazion itself. The cluster of pubs, cafes and shops sat on the coast of Mount’s Bay, overlooking the eponymous island, upon which rose, like some mediaeval wizard’s fortress, the castle itself. Strolling past dogs, pushchairs, tourists randomly stopping and taking selfies in front of the spectacular view, Brian and Neil finally reached the cobbled causeway that forged a path across the sea to the island a quarter mile out.

  The castle loomed above them as they traversed the sea, drawing nearer and nearer. Brian had lived in Penzance all his life, the view across Mount’s Bay so normal to him now that he always wondered why tourists flocked down to this craggy nubbin of land that stretched out into the Atlantic. And yet, as he drew near the towering mount, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of history pressing down upon him. It was intimidating. But then most things were for him.

  “Where do you think we need to go?” Neil asked, waving away a spotty young National Trust guide who proffered pamphlets and maps their way.

  Brian shrugged, gazing about the island’s small harbour and its cluster of granite cottages.

  “No clue, mate. I didn’t even want to come here.” At Neil’s insistent stare, he sighed. “Helsing said something about ‘the masters,’ whoever they are.”

  At his overheard words, the spurned young tour guide’s eyes widened suddenly and, to the pair’s surprise, he sauntered closer, looking furtively left and right as he did.

  “You’re here to see the Masters?” he whispered conspiratorially.

  Brian darted a look of warning to Neil, wanting nothing more than to turn back towards the mainland, but Neil merely grinned.

  “Yeah, we’re here to meet them. We were told we could find them here. Something about destiny, vampires, and whatnot.”

  The youth’s mouth opened wide, then he nodded slowly as if in understanding, his eyes taking in Neil’s blue eyes, square jaw, muscled shoulders.

  “You must be the new Helsing,” he gasped. “The Chosen One…”

  Brian coughed, before raising his hand in front of him, flashing the sovereign ring inscribed with the cross.

  “Actually, I’m the, err, Chosen One,” he mumbled.

  The tour guide’s eyes moved from Neil to Brian, scanning him, starting way up at his head with its wispy tufts of light brown, near-ginger hair, down past his gaunt face with its watery brown eyes like two congealed cups of tea, before descending and taking in his body, all limp, noodle-arms and lanky, pipe-cleaner legs. The youth’s smile flickered slightly.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh…?” Brian frowned, but before he could protest further, the youth turned and started up the path and across the harbour, heading for the landscaped gardens at the foot of the Mount.

  “If you’ll follow me, please. I’ll take you to the Masters.”

  “What does ‘oh’ mean?” Brian called after him, hurrying to keep up as Neil chuckled beside him. He turned to his friend, frown still plastered to his face. “What did he mean by that?”

  “You’re probably just taller than he was expecting,” Neil suggested.

  Brian nodded, staring daggers into the tour guide’s back as they continued under an arched gateway, other National Trust guides sidling out of the way as their escort waved them through. Up the main flagstone drag leading to the castle they strode, before veering left at the foot of the great, stone steps, and along a gravel path through the ornamental gardens at the Mount’s base. A thin rope twixt two upright poles on either side of the gravel path barring their way ahead, their guide removing it, gesturing for them to pass. They did as told, the youth replacing the rope with great reverence before turning to them, greasy teenaged face serious.

  “You’re entering the Sanctum of the Helsings,” he told them in a voice hushed and full of foreboding. “A place of forbidden secrets, arcane knowledge, kept safe and secure from the outside world.”

  Brian stared down at the thin rope that swayed in the gentle breeze, on the other side of which, but a dozen feet away, a pack of tourists standing taking photos of the gardens behind them.

  “Yes,” he commented dryly. “A veritable Fort Knox.”

  The tour guide rolled his eyes.

  “Not the gardens, obviously. Now follow me, please.”

  Once more, they followed on behind the teen, crunching through gravel, the scent of lavender and various other herbs that Brian’s unrefined nose could never hope to name wafting up from the low hedges on either side. Finally, as they rounded the back of the Mount, the castle looming like some disapproving parent high above, a door there in the very bedrock of the island. Hewn from thick oak, banded and studded with dark iron, the door looked impenetrable. Upon a small, round plaque in the centre of the door, the very same cross as that on Brian’s ring.

  “Here’s your Fort Knox,” the lad told Brian, before banging loudly on the wood.

  Moments passed, then suddenly an eye-slit near the middle of the door slid open with a metallic screech. An eye gazed out, blinking in the sunshine, darting suspiciously back and forth between Brian and Neil, before settling on the tour guide.

  “What’s this, Steve?” a dry voice barked from within. “Why are y
ou bringing strangers to our hallowed enclave?”

  “It’s the Chosen One, Master Friedrick,” the boy they now knew to be called Steve replied. “He’s arrived.”

  “Oh, good!” the voice replied, altogether more cheery now. “We’ve been expecting you. One second, let me unbolt the door.”

  With that, the visor slit slammed shut and noise began from behind the wood, that of bolts sliding open, keys turning, chains unlatching. For long moments the noises continued, working their way slowly down the height of the door, as Brian and Neil glanced at each other. Steve stood there, tapping a foot, gazing round at nothing in particular as though embarrassed at how long it was taking. Finally, the last lock had been undone, the door creaking open, and a figure rolled out into the weak sunshine; Master Friedrick. The elderly man’s face was beaming with a smile, and he regarded them with his eyes; one good, normal as it should be, all eye-like and such; the other just a whirring monocle of brass and different lenses that flicked in and out on thin wire arms as he tried to focus on his guests. And yet this strange bionic eye wasn’t even the standout feature of the man, they realised with a start. For he sat on – or rather in, for no legs had he – a wheelchair, four-wheeled and powered by a tiny, smoke-spitting steam engine at the rear, and seemingly controlled by a vast array of small brass levers by his side.

  As the two newcomers stood, struck dumb by the sight, Friedrick reached forth towards Neil with one gnarled, withered hand.

  “Welcome, Helsing,” he beamed.

  Neil raised his eyebrows, before nodding pointedly towards Brian. Master Friedrick followed his gaze, craning his neck up and focusing on the second man with his strange bionic eye.

  “Oh.”

  Chapter Six:

  The Heimlich Manoeuvre

  It was warm in the Sanctum, Brian mused. Considerably more so than the October air without. The air was thick with strange scents as the three, Brian, Neil and Steve, walked along the long, stone-hewn corridor, lit only by dim oil lamps on either side, following the puffs of smoke popping out from Friedrick’s exhaust as he steamed his way along.

  “I have to say,” Master Friedrick told Brian as they continued on their way. “I was expecting you sooner. Helsing XII’s candle went out yesterday morning.”

  Brian frowned.

  “Well, that’s a day,” he replied. “I mean, it’s not like I went on two-week Med cruise in the meantime, is it? I’d say a day is good going, to be fair.”

  “Most make their way here within hours,” the Master chuntered. “Soon as the ring is on their finger, soon as the dying words imparted, they race here, eager to embrace their new calling.”

  “Really?” Brian was sceptical. “People must have families, surely? Commitments, jobs.”

  “And what’s your job…?”

  “Well, I’m, err… I’m kind of between jobs at the moment,” he stuttered.

  “I see.”

  “And anyway… number twelve? That’s like Mcdonald’s-level turnover of staff. I saw how Helsing XII died; and you expected me to rush down here?”

  Friedrick reached a new door, his chair rolling to a stop with a splutter as he turned it with a tug on a brass lever, angling himself towards Brian, even as he fumbled for some keys in a large pack sat in front of what remained of his lower torso. His face was unreadable.

  “I expected you to be at least a little curious.”

  “I am,” Brian admitted. “Same way I am when I see a car crash on the other side of the road.”

  Neil chuckled quietly beside him, even as Friedrick glanced to Steve, the youth merely shrugging. With a sigh, the Master found the right key and placed it into the door before him. A click, a whirr, and the heavy door slowly rose upwards, vanishing into the stone ceiling.

  “Behold,” Friedrick told them. “The Sanctum of the Helsings.”

  Brian blinked as the little group walked through into the wide, high ceilinged chamber. Carved out of the very bedrock of the mount itself, no doubt with the weight of the castle in its entirety bearing down upon it, the room was buzzing with activity. Functionaries ran to and fro, scuttling about long tables filled with equipment, computer screens, jars of strangely coloured liquids. Various tall corridors stretched off from this large central room, delving further, deeper into the depths of Cornish granite. At the sight of the pair of newcomers, everyone stopped going about their business, now standing and watching them in fascination.

  “This is your base of operations,” Friedrick told him, spreading his arms wide and proud. “The very heart of the Helsing Order. Here we scry for threats, keeping a tab on all supernatural activities of our foes, those who skulk in the night and would prey on the innocent.”

  “Like Vampires?” Neil asked, excitedly.

  Friedrick nodded sagely.

  “Amongst other such creatures, yes.”

  Neil’s eyes glistened in wonder and he strode over to a long oak table, upon which was a pair of strange objects, looking for all the world like Christmas trees, sparks of blue lightning arcing between them with a buzz.

  “Tesla coils?” he ventured, as Friedrick grinned, nodding. I could have told him that, Brian thought darkly; they were in Command and Conquer: Red Alert. A line of them and no tanks could get to your ore harvesters. Slowly, Neil took off his jacket, discarding it on a chair, before reaching forth with a finger, tiny tendrils of electricity reaching out to caress his skin. “It tickles,” he laughed.

  Friedrick sat there in his chair, regarding the man’s curiosity and seeming lack of fear, seeing too his gym-honed muscles that all-but bulged from his tight Superdry t-shirt. Then his gaze turned once more to Brian, and his face sagged.

  Brian shrugged.

  “I didn’t choose the Helsing life; the Helsing life chose me.”

  “Indeed. A strange twist of fate, for sure. But we work with what we get. And once gifted to you, the ring can never be removed, not until death.”

  “Besides,” came another voice, this one deep, rich, booming, smooth as molten chocolate and aptly so, for it belonged to a tall, well-suited black man, his head bald, face square and handsome, with eyes that glimmered like shards of obsidian glass. “It is our job to train you.”

  “Helsing,” Friedrick said to Brian. “This is Heimlich, the leader of the Masters. Heimlich; this is number thirteen.”

  “Lucky for some,” the man chuckled, reaching out to shake his hand.

  Not for me, Brian mused as he shook hands.

  “Friedrick, Heimlich; those names sound German,” he said. “But you don’t. What gives?”

  Heimlich stared into his eyes, his own form not too much shorter than Brian’s own, quite a feat.

  “Tradition? The original Masters of our order were so named and, as each mantle is taken up by someone new, they keep the original name out of respect.”

  “What was your real name?” he asked.

  “Bob.”

  “I see why you changed it.”

  A moment’s pause, then Heimlich’s face split into a grin, showing perfect white teeth.

  “Indeed. Each of the Masters bears a name and holds a position, our goal; to teach you the skills needed to be Helsing, the ultimate hunter of demons, protector of mankind. The wealth of knowledge from centuries of past Masters and Helsings is ours to bestow upon you. Each of us has our own speciality subject and we will pass on our skills to the best of our ability.”

  Brian raised an eyebrow, dubious.

  “And what’s your area of expertise?”

  Heimlich grinned.

  “Magic,” he whispered, from behind Brian, right in his ear.

  Brian spun one-eighty, then staggered backwards, shaking his head. Somehow, in an instant between the blinks of his eye, the man had appeared behind him.

  “What? You… you were… how?”

  “As I said,” Heimlich chuckled. “Magic. I call that one the Heimlich Manoeuvre.” He laughed, briefly, then stopped, realising no one was laughing with him, before cleari
ng his throat. “And I shall teach you these skills. In time. Only with a certain amount of sorcery can you defeat foes that are, by their very essence, magical in nature.”

  Neil clapped in amazement at the show, even as Brian blinked, furiously, his mind simply unable to comprehend what he’d just witnessed. Sounds of laughter from a wheelchair nearby, Friedrick sat there, clearly amused, in a cloud of steam.

  “And what’s your gig?” Brian asked him.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Friedrick asked him, gesturing to his chair, to the various artefacts and gizmos that popped, banged and crackled on the tables all about. “Technology. I will arm you with tools beyond your wildest dreams. All secrets of technology are clear to me, plain as day, for I am the Master of Ordinance.”

  “Then why is your wheelchair steam powered? I mean, there’s such a thing as mobility scooters, you know? They don’t choke everyone around. And they don’t need coal.”

  “Neither does this,” Friedrick grinned. “It runs on whiskey.” He rummaged in the cavernous bag where his lap should be, pulling out a bottle of Famous Grouse, unscrewing the top. “One for me,” he said, taking a glug, before pouring a dash into a nozzle by his side. “And one for the chair.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Brian told him. “And stupid.”

  “You’re stupid,” Friedrick pouted. “And the chair, like our titles, is tradition. As each of my predecessors used it, so do I.”

  “Wait, what?” Brian blurted, puzzled. “Did they have no legs either?”