Van Helsing 2

by a fan fic fan

When a serial killer gets his hands on the Invisible Man’s invisibility serum, the Knights of the Holy Order bring in Van Helsing, along with some new monster-killers, to stop him. Includes other classic monster icons. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!

1. Part 1

Van Helsing 2

Summary

When a mysterious serial killer gets his hands on Dr. John Griffin (a.k.a. the Invisible Man)'s invisibility serum and plans to use it for his own nefarious reasons, the Order of the Church brings in legendary monster-killer Van Helsing to stop him.

Notes

I started the outline for this story in December 2006. I began to write this story as a script on June 22, 2007. I began the novel version of the story on September 17, 2007 and finished on December 22, 2007. The entire edited version was finished on January 23, 2008. I own no rights to any of the characters. I would love to have you tell me what you like or don't like. I have completed the story, but in an effort to see if the story is liked or not, I've only posted the first half or so. If I get some reviews asking for more, I'll do it. So for those that want to read more, just ask! Thank you for your time. Enjoy!

Prologue

1890; Romania

Daryl Wearne cursed angrily as he felt the carriage slide into one of the many rain puddles that littered the grim road. He looked out of the window of his carriage for the eighth time and cringed at the sight of the blackened sky, which was occasionally lit by lightning. The inevitable rumble and crash of thunder seemed to be only feet away. Every time he heard a thunderclap, Wearne jumped abruptly.

What a God-forsaken place… Wearne scratched his scalp, where his grey hair was receding. Over the years, he had developed this nervous reaction as a way of relieving his all-too-apparent stress. Occasionally a lightning bolt would spook the horses pulling Wearne's carriage, and the carriage would rock violently. Wearne hated it. He hated abrupt movements. He lived an uncomplicated simple life, where rapid movements were unnecessary.

He still was perplexed on his client's choice of where to meet. It was in the middle of nowhere. Why couldn't they have done this in the daytime? Everyone always in a rush…

If the money wasn't so good, Wearne would have been tempted to tell his would-be client to go to hell in a hand basket. But when someone offers twenty thousand dollars for something so simple, the person would have to be a fool to refuse. He had even been paid half of the payment already. The other half was to be paid on delivery. Exactly what he would have done in his client's shoes. This client was smart; Wearne had to give him that.

Wearne again looked out of the carriage window. They were getting closer to the town… what was it called? Ah, yes, Gilon. That was where the instructions had said to go.

Of course, there was the fact that Wearne had never in fact seen his client. The client had decided he would rather communicate through a third party, through an assistant of his. What had the young man's name been? Wearne wracked his brain. It was Tim… no, Jim… what was it? Thomas! That was it.

Wearne sighed. He was getting too old for this kind of job. In his younger days, he could have remembered what he had had for breakfast two weeks ago. Now he had trouble remembering where he had placed his favorite gold-plated pen the night before.

Yes, it had been a young man named Thomas who had given him one last letter on Tuesday, saying that his client wanted to have the items as soon as possible. After saying when to meet, Wearne's client had said where to go and what to do. Wearne had to at least admit that the man's instructions were completely straightforward.

Maybe these little incidents meant that it was time to retire from his illegal trade. God knew that after this last transaction, he could retire, never to have to work another day in his life. He could live wherever he wanted to, marry a young woman, have a houseful of children, and live comfortably for the rest of his days.

Just one more transaction…

Randomly, Wearne heard the barking of some of the village dogs. Some of them were out on the deserted street. After a moment, Wearne heard something unusual about the barking.

Where he lived, back in England, the dogs barked deep and rough, caring very little at who they barked at or why.

But these dogs seemed to shrink back, whining pitifully, as the carriage drew closer. They seemed to stare at Wearne as if he was a demon. Their eyes watched his every movement with terror. These dogs are afraid of something, Wearne thought. He looked around nervously. Were there robbers out here, waiting for a rich passerby to appear? He had nothing of value on him, at least nothing a common thug would find interesting enough to steal.

At that moment, he found that the carriage had stopped abruptly. He looked out the rain-soaked window yet again, and found that the carriage was now in front of a quaint, local bar. It was an older building, its wood and bricks having turned a dark color.

A large sign hung right above the bar's door, whipping in the strong wind. On the bottom of the sign was a drawing of three black, ghostly figures; each with small, white, beady eyes that seemed to watch everything around them. Four claws resided on each of the ghost hands, reaching outwards, as if to grasp any poor soul who attempted to enter the building. Above the horrific specters was the name of the establishment. This was the Lost Souls Tavern.

The Lost Souls Tavern… who in the Depths names a tavern something like that? Wearne shook his head at the prospect. He had more important things to do than to ponder about the curious name of a tavern. Much more important things.

Grabbing his rather expensive-looking umbrella, Wearne stepped out of the carriage and out into the pounding rain. His boots seemed to instantly suck up several pools worth of water. He looked at the driver, who had not moved since stilling the horses.

"Just wait here for a moment, will you?" yelled Wearne, as another thunderclap sounded like a cannon, "this should not take long!"

The driver, an older man with grizzled hair, nodded solemnly. Wearne pulled out a five-pound note and handed it to the driver. The driver's eyes lit up at the extra incentive. Then Wearne ran towards the tavern.

The bell above the tavern door rang loudly, and another thunderclap sounded as Wearne made his way into the tavern. The smell of alcohol and grease hit Wearne the moment he walked through the door. He shook the rain from his coat, and looked around.

The first thing he noticed was that the establishment appeared much larger from outside. The tavern was filled with empty tables and chairs, giving the place a depressing aspect. Each oval table each had four chairs surrounding it and a small red tablecloth covering it. The faint source of light came from several dimly-lit candles, two hanging from hooks on each wall of the building. The only person that Wearne could see was a young, attractive barmaid, who seemed to not have noticed Wearne's presence.

Wearne looked around. Where was the man? He said to meet at precisely 10:00 o'clock at night! Sure, Wearne was a few minutes late, but that shouldn't have given the man time to get here, wait, and then leave!

Wearne pulled his umbrella together in one motion and walked towards the bar. The brunette barmaid, who had previously been washing dirty mugs, had by now noticed the neatly-dressed man's arrival. Drying her hands on her cotton apron, she turned towards him with an attractive smile.

"Anything I can help you with, stranger?" There was the strong accent in her speech, the same that Wearne had heard from every Romanian he had met on this journey.

"Actually, you can," replied Wearne, leaning on the bar.

The attractive woman's smile widened pleasantly, but she shook her head. "I am sorry; sir, but I don't do that kind of work."

"That's not what I meant," Wearne said quickly, his cheeks reddening. "I mean I am here to meet someone."

Understanding filled the woman's eyes.

"He's in the storeroom," she replied quietly. She nodded her head to a door behind her. Wearne let out a sigh of relief. So his client hadn't left yet. Wearne nodded appreciatively towards her.

"Thank you."

"You had better hurry, sir. He's been waiting."

Wearne walked past the barmaid and to the door leading to the storeroom. He put his hand firmly on the doorknob and turned it. The door opened with a small push, and Wearne made his way inside.

The light was dimmer in this room. The reason for this was because only one small candle lit the room. The storeroom was full of barrels of ale and dozens of boxes, covered with a variety of symbols of different trades and nationalities. In the middle of the storeroom was a wooden table, and sitting on a chair near the table was a man. The man was unusually slim, with dark brown hair that was well groomed and cut to perfection. The man's face was clean-shaven. He wore more casual clothes than Wearne wore, with a collared short-sleeved shirt and average pants.

There was no doubt in Wearne's mind that this was his client. The factor that gave the man away was the eyes, colored deep crimson. Wearne felt his body shudder at the sight of them. The eyes seemed to be piercing through Wearne's very soul, laying bear everything that the older man thought. The man's hands were folded together on the table, and his left leg was relaxed, propped up on the third chair in the room. The right leg remained on the floor. The faint light seemed to dance mischievously on the man's face. Half of his face was in darkness, the other was dimly seen. It gave a sinister aspect to the man's looks.

So this is Jack Bronson, Wearne thought with another shudder. This is the man that I have been working with.

"You're late."

No emotion seemed to come from Bronson, neither engaging nor threatening. No chatter, no niceties, just right to business.

"I had some problems finding this place—" muttered Wearne, trying to form coherent thoughts as the man's eyes followed him.

But Bronson interrupted Wearne's words. His tone was sharp but calm. "Do you have the merchandise?" He unfolded his hands and placed them slowly on the edges of the table. He seemed to glare at Wearne.

Wearne, feeling his legs growing weaker as if the gaze from Bronson was sapping all of his strength, sat down on the chair opposite his companion. The eyes followed him to his seat.

Carefully, Wearne reached his hand into a coat pocket, and pulled out a small vial. The vial was extremely small and fragile, something that Wearne could have broken by just firmly grasping it. The vial itself was not clear, but made of silver, giving no sign on what the contents were.

"Yes," replied Wearne.

Bronson looked carefully at the vial. He looked suspicious. He pulled his red, penetrating eyes back on Wearne.

"How do I know that it holds the contents I am about to pay you for?"

Wearne gulped. "It is."

Bronson seemed to be amused by this comment. The sides of his lips rose in what seemed to be a cockeyed smirk. It was an attractive sort of smile, but also one that warned his companion to be cautious.

"Why should I give any credence to a promise coming from you?" asked Bronson, removing his left leg from the chair and replacing it on the ground. "After all, you apparently have no qualms about stealing from the Order or your leader – it is a church, after all." He leaned forward slightly. "So tell me – why should I believe you?"

Wearne felt sweat falling from his forehead. "There is no method for me to prove it to you. All I can say is that this is what I stole from the vault, and thus far the Order has not made a mistake at bookkeeping."

After a moment of silence, Bronson chuckled lightly.

"Where is the rest?"

Wearne reached into his coat again, and pulled out a long, slim item. It appeared to be made of paper. He unrolled it carefully, and opened it fully in front of Bronson.

But Wearne was disconcerted at the sight of the other man's eyes, as they greedily soaked up the sight of the contents of the map in Wearne's hands. If it was possible, Wearne thought that Bronson looked even more menacing than before.

Wearne quickly rolled the map back up and put it back in his coat, careful not to damage his prized goods in any way.

"As I said; I have it," said Wearne.

Bronson then reached towards the vial, but Wearne immediately put the vial back his coat along with the map.

Bronson pulled his hands back together, and continued to look at Wearne with an almost amused expression.

What is the matter with me? Wearne thought, angry at himself. He hated to have clients who made him feel this nervous. He always wanted to be in control of any situation he entered. But what was it about this man that put every fiber of his being on edge?

"The money, Bronson!" snapped Wearne, looking at the man carefully.

Bronson looked at Wearne, an odd smile materializing on his face.

Of all the things Bronson had done to this point, that smile was the first thing that put terror into Wearne's soul. What kind of man was this? The smile… it was just so… Wearne could not think of any worldly comparison.

"Yes, yes, of course," said Bronson, starting to put a hand to his inside coat pocket, "the money."

But as Bronson sat searching his pockets, Wearne felt his instincts blare inside of him. After twenty years of illegal activity, Wearne had begun to trust that the nagging feeling meant that something was wrong. That nagging feeling had saved his life on more than one occasion. That was the only way a man of his line of work stayed alive for as long as he did. Fifty-six years old this November and he wasn't planning on stopping the clock anytime soon. His crimes, if revealed, would get him charged with armed robbery, extortion, forgery, treason, and even… murder.

Wearne had killed more than once due to this "nagging feeling." He was willing to kill again.

And, in trusting his instincts, Wearne let his hand slid down to his coat pocket. Then – quicker than a man of his age should have been able to do – Wearne pulled a revolver from his coat. Bronson looked up, and saw the gleam of the sinister weapon aimed at him. The odd smile not only remained, but seemed to widen all the more.

"Don't try anything, Bronson," snarled Wearne, keeping the other man fully in his sights, "just because I'm not from Romania doesn't mean I don't know how you all do business. I've heard the horror stories just the same as anyone. I don't like to take unnecessary chances."

Bronson took another look at the weapon, and smiled again.

"But of course, Mr. Wearne… I wouldn't expect anything otherwise," said Bronson, his eyes going from Wearne's face to the gun.

This time, Bronson went into the left pocket of his coat and, after only a moment, brought out a decent-sized stack of American bills. He waved the bills slowly.

"You see the money. Now the merchandise, Mr. Wearne," said Bronson.

Warily, Wearne took both the map and the vial back from his pockets and, after a moment's hesitation, handed them to Bronson.

Bronson seemed to ignore Wearne for a moment, looking at the two items with such a pure, horrific delight that Wearne was glad that their business transaction was nearly at an end.

Then Bronson handed Wearne the stack of money.

"I believe that that is the agreed-upon amount?" asked Bronson, watching Wearne carefully.

Wearne looked at the money in his hands. Each was in the form of an American hundred-dollar bill. Wearne felt his hands start to sweat as he began to count the money. 19,800… 19,900… 20,000… 21,000… Wearne tried to stop himself from visibly reacting. There was more money here than they had agreed upon. He continued counting. Now there was more than five hundred extra. What a fool this man was, to make such as stupid mistake. And Wearne was not the kind of charitable man to tell Bronson the fact. If Bronson was dumb enough to miscount his money, who was Wearne to tell him he was wrong?

"I— I think it is the correct amount," replied Wearne, attempting with all his will not to show his excitement.

Bronson waved a hand dismissively at the money.

"By all means, count it all to make sure. After all..." Bronson smiled again, "I wouldn't want to make you think I would cheat you."

Wearne started to finish counting the money. But little did he realize that that action was an extremely costly mistake. Unknown to him, Bronson had slid a hand down to the back of his chair, and proceeded to slowly pull out an automatic pistol.

Wearne was too entranced by his immense luck to even give a thought to the dangerous man in the room. He had found that it was not just five hundred more; it was over two thousand more.

Just thinking about what he could do with all of the extra money distracted Wearne. In his greed, he missed Bronson's lightning-fast reflex of pulling out the automatic and aiming it at Wearne's chest.

At that moment, Wearne looked up and realized what had happened. He realized his mistake.

Bronson's pistol went off three times, and Wearne could feel each bullet smash into his chest, two of which proceeded to travel through his body and sink themselves deep into the wall behind him.

In shock, Wearne felt his legs give way, and he fell to his knees in front of Bronson.

Wearne looked down his body, and saw his very lifeblood seeping through his expensive white shirt. But, by then, he found that he did not feel the pain anymore. It felt less like he was dying and more like he was watching someone else die. All there was left in him was resignation… and a question.

Wearne, with the last of his strength, lifted up his head to look squarely at those horrible red eyes of the man who had killed him; the man who was now so calmly watching the dying man before him.

The odd smile was still in place, but now, on the edge of death, Wearne found that the man's smile had a more serious glint to it.

Wearne shook his head slowly, trying to at least delay the darkness that continuously tried to take over his senses. Why had this happened to him? This was supposed to be a simple business transaction. Why had Bronson done this to him? What was there to be gained? To die without knowing why…

Wearne could feel his blood filling his mouth, and thought that he would suffocate by the amount. But he had to talk. He had to know…

He tried to speak, but he found that he could not speak out loud, except for a sickening gurgle. But Bronson seemed to know what Wearne wanted.

"I know what you are thinking, Wearne," Bronson said in a calm, nonchalant tone. "You are wondering why I just did this to you. You have thought about it over and over again in your head, but you just can't quite figure it out. As your mind begins to clear itself of all personality and comprehensible thought, you find that you can still remember one, single word."

Bronson bent down on one knee so that he was at eye-level with the dying man. "And that single word is why." He brought his pistol up again, and put it to Wearne's sweaty forehead. "Well, I'll tell you why." Then he bent forward, so that his mouth was next to Wearne's ear.

"I don't want any witnesses who could turn against me," whispered Bronson, his voice so low that Wearne at first could not understand him, "but most of all…"

The pistol cocked.

"…because I can."

Bronson moved his head… and then pulled the trigger.

The gunshot cut off any screams that Wearne might have tried to make. Bronson looked down emotionlessly as Wearne's body fell to the floor with a slight thud. Dark blood was slowly surrounding the body. Bronson bent down again, and pulled the stack of money from Wearne's lifeless hand.

"I don't think you'll need that anymore," said Bronson. "Being in the career you had chosen, you should have learned in life that greed is the best distraction."

He walked out of the storeroom, and made eye-contact with the attractive-looking barmaid, who had been staring at the closed door in horror since she had heard the three gunshots.

"I am extremely sorry, my dear…" said Bronson politely, "but I am afraid that you have a slight mess to clean up in the back." Then, with a dark chuckle, Bronson walked out of the bar, leaving the barmaid in shock.

The storm was still raging outside. The lightning in the sky seemed to fill the entire sky. But Bronson didn't seem to notice, except to pull his black coat higher over his uncovered head.

There was still so much to do. He felt the coveted contents that he had just killed for in his coat. This was only one step of a much larger plan. Things were starting to move quickly in his plan. He was losing time. The plan… all for the plan. Then Bronson caught sight of the carriage in front of the tavern, waiting for a man that lay dead inside.

Jack Bronson laughed.

Chapter 1

In Romania, anyone outdoors after sundown was considered suicidal. There was good reason for this assumption. Romania was considered by most of the world to be one of the most haunted places on the earth.

The country was economically dead in the area of trade, so the Romanians quickly found that, for survival, they had to fend for themselves. Due to the 'secluded' nature of the country (no one in the outside world ever visited), rumors of demons, were-wolves, and other horrific creatures began to spread in the outside world.

But no one could prove or disapprove these rather unrealistic tales due to the fact that no one wanted to share the ill-fated Romanians' deaths if it was true. And so, as the years got longer and longer, the rumors grew in horrendousness and implausibility, until the inevitable point came that the outside world refused to have anything to do with the strange place, where things happened that they couldn't understand. At that moment, Romania was truly on its own, surrounded by a world that was afraid and terrified of its very existence, a world that wished for nothing more than for Romania and its problems to just disappear.

Though the world had no way of knowing this, Romania's stories were more than just rumors. Though some of the stories might have been exaggerated in the multiple conversations in drinking taverns, the majority of the horror was true.

But there were many who knew the truth that wished to keep the rest of the world in the dark, or at least confused, on the true happenings of the country. These people were stationed all over the world, in Paris, Rome, America… all these people grouped together against a common threat.

These individuals created a secret society, one that would protect the world, and Romania itself, from the horrors that were unleashed. Thus was the organization called Knights of the Holy Order.

Vatican City, Rome

Cardinal Jinette watched from the confession box with interest as the large, wooden doors to the Church of the Cross's opened. In stepped a man, dripping wet from the rain.

Cardinal Jinette knew this man, had known this man for many years. Of all the people that Jinette had ever worked with in the Knights of the Holy Order, Gabriel Van Helsing was one of the most complicated of them.

Jinette's left hand was resting on his chin. The emerald eyes watched Van Helsing close the doors with a clang and walk slowly towards the booth.

Found at the gates of the church almost four years ago, Van Helsing had no memory of who he was or where he was from. He was a lost soul, and the Cardinal had brought him into the Order, seeing in the young man such intensity and passion that could be shaped and molded for God.

Van Helsing grew to be one of the most efficient and deadly field agents the Order had ever seen. He had gone to places of nightmare and came out victorious. Although it had been many years, Van Helsing had never been able to find any clue to his secret heritage… until a case came to them two years ago. The same infamous Romanian case involving the evil Count Dracula and Princess Anna Valerious, who had died fighting with Van Helsing. Although Van Helsing refused to talk about it, Jinette had guessed that the young man had developed a relationship with Anna before her untimely death.

The ring upon Van Helsing's right hand shown brightly, shining through the large room due to all the mirrors and windows. Jinette knew well what the ring was. It was one of the only possessions that Van Helsing had on his body when he had appeared on the doorstep. An insignia of a dragon, curled in a menacing position, its red eyes blazing. For many years, this ring posed an unsolvable riddle to Van Helsing. Until two years ago.

Although the mystery still had many parts unsolved, several strands had come to light, but by a rather unreliable source… known as Dracula. In their final battle, Dracula told Van Helsing many things. Van Helsing was the right hand of God. Van Helsing had been alive in the fifteen hundreds. Van Helsing had killed Dracula over two hundred years ago. The ring that Van Helsing had been found wearing was the same ring Van Helsing had taken from Dracula's severed finger after he had killed the vampire centuries ago. So many facts… none of which could be proven. In the end, Van Helsing decided that Dracula's death was more important than his own past, and killed the only link to the truth.

Two years ago. And as of yet, no new facts have come to light. But Jinette was sure that, one day, the truth would be revealed. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and Jinette knew that there was a destiny awaited Van Helsing. A destiny so extravagant that no one could imagine it. Not even him.

Jinette came out of his thoughts and again looked back at the approaching man. Van Helsing was dressed in a long black cloak, which swirled in the wind as he walked. A dark velvet fedora sat on his head, tilted just enough to cover the man's penetrating, alert eyes.

Van Helsing walked briskly up to the confession booth, and sat down. He did the sign of the cross, and said the words:

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

Cardinal Jinette opened the booth window. For a moment, the two looked at each other in silence. This situation had been acted and reacted what seemed to be hundreds of times. Although all of them were different in some way or another, they always had generally the same results. Jinette was already sure what the end result of this conversation would be.

"Did you find him?" asked the Cardinal, looking gravely at his agent.

"Yes."

"And…?"

"I had no choice." There was no emotion in Van Helsing's voice. The tone was cold. Apparently, Van Helsing had been more influenced by this mission than he let on, Jinette thought.

"You never do, do you?"

"Dorian Gray was a much greater threat than I had first anticipated. It quickly became clear that it was either him or me." Again, something that Jinette could have guessed Van Helsing would say.

"So he is dead?" A stupid question, to be sure, but one that needed to be clarified with certainty.

"Yes."

"What of the man's portrait?"

"Burned in the mansion's fireplace."

"Any traces to yourself or us?"

Van Helsing smiled thinly. "Come on, Cardinal. I would think you know me better than that."

"Perhaps."

The Cardinal opened the secret door next to Van Helsing

"Come inside, Van Helsing. I know that this is short notice, but we already have another assignment for you."

Van Helsing nodded, and followed the Cardinal into the narrow hallway, which led to the secret laboratory of the Knights of the Holy Order. This was faster than usual, Van Helsing thought. Usually he had a few days break between missions. Not always. But mostly.

All around Van Helsing were groups of men in black cloaks, all working on experiments that seemed to come from the very imagination. To a stranger, it would be a very strange sight, indeed.

Near one of the experimentation tables, Van Helsing saw one of his close friends, Carl.

Carl the monk was a very unusual monk, to say in the slightest. For one thing, he despised being called a monk. Van Helsing could just hear the all-too-familiar line "well, technically, I am just a friar" run through his mind. Yes, all too familiar. Carl had been a part of the Knights of the Holy Order for quite a few years. Seventeen years, to be exact. The blonde-haired man, with a stubby beard and wide eyes, was one cleric who would be just happy staying down in the hidden recesses of the Order for the rest of his days, working on his many experiments (half of which worked). He had a weak-looking physique, and was tall, though thin.

Though the man's outward appearance seemed to make him look weak-minded and helpless, he had proved to be an able-bodied ally, as Van Helsing found in his battle with Dracula. Were it not for Carl, things would not have gone so favorably. As favorable as the entire situation had gone, anyway.

Carl saw Van Helsing as soon as he entered, and gave him a small wave. Unfortunately for the friar, pulling his hand away from his experiment to wave proved to be disastrous. The silver, bejeweled circular device that he had been working on started to roll to the end of the table.

"Now wait a minute!" cried the poor friar, reaching desperately to catch the ball. But his fingers just missed the ball before it hit the ground with a metallic clang.

Van Helsing winced, waiting for the obvious explosion to come. But, after a moment, nothing happened. The field agent sighed.

Carl sighed sheepishly. "Sorry about that!" the friar hollered to the other monks surrounding him, who were now looking at the man pityingly. "Truly sorry, quite clumsy today, I know. My deep and profound apologies—"

But as Carl reached his hand down towards the ball, a sound like a thunderbolt amplified a hundredfold filled the room. Swords fell to the ground in droves, as the blacksmiths brought their hands up to hold their ears in pain. Van Helsing himself was forced to put his hands over his ears. It felt like the entire room was vibrating. Van Helsing lost all sense of direction.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the shrieking, blasting sound was gone. Sighs of relief filled the laboratory, as many of the clerics removed their hands and glowered crossly at the friar.

Van Helsing removed his hands, and saw, with minor surprise, that the Cardinal did not seemed a bit fazed by the outbreak. Actually, Van Helsing wondered if the Cardinal had made any notice of the explosion except with his habitual scowl.

Van Helsing moved through the groups of disgruntled clerics and made his way towards Carl, who had been thrown backwards by the intensity of his creation. Van Helsing helped the man to his feet.

"Quite an entertaining performance, Carl. May I ask the name of the insidious object?"

Carl looked hurt at Van Helsing's tone. "Well, for your information, it is called…"

He stopped suddenly, and frowned, clearly embarrassed.

"Go on," prompted Van Helsing.

Carl's voice was so low that Van Helsing had to step closer.

"Banshees in a ball," uttered the humiliated friar.

Van Helsing began to laugh, but quickly turned it into a cough at the sight of the incensed clerics who found Carl's outbreak anything but humorous.

Carl looked at his friend with a hurt expression on his face.

"Now, you could do better than laugh at me, couldn't you?" Carl, trying to ignore Van Helsing, bent back down to pick up the ball. He did it so gingerly that it looked as if it was a poisonous asp. He placed it on the table, and then, thinking better of leaving it to repeat itself, put two heavy books to the sides of the ball.

Finally satisfied that it wouldn't move, Carl turned back to Van Helsing.

"So what happened with Gray?" asked Carl, thinking that he knew the answer.

Van Helsing saw the look on Carl's face, and saw that, apparently, this was becoming a dark pattern.

"Well…"

"He's dead, isn't he?"

Van Helsing grimaced, and guiltily shrugged.

"I knew it!" exclaimed Carl, but with dark looks from his fellow clerics, he lowered his voice. "You always seem to kill your targets, don't you?"

"Maybe that's why they call them targets," replied Van Helsing coolly.

"Van Helsing!" called Cardinal Jinette, who was still standing where he had when Van Helsing had left him.

"I'll see you later, Carl," said Van Helsing, as he left, careful not to tap the table.

"Oh, you could count on it," muttered Carl, as he looked at his experiment ball banefully, clearly wondering whether to finish the experiment or take a hammer to it, knowing that he would enjoy the latter more.

Van Helsing then followed the Cardinal into the briefing room.

Inside the room was a small movie projector, along with two wooden chairs and a large desk. The Cardinal gestured towards one of the chairs, and Van Helsing sat down.

The Cardinal turned on the projector, and a immediately a black-and-white picture appeared on the faded screen; a thin, tall man, with eyes that Van Helsing could tell, even in black and white, were blood red. A strange smile was on the man's lips, one that Van Helsing had rarely seen even on the worst of his enemies.

"Your target for this assignment is Jack Bronson," the Cardinal's voice rang out, "he is a murderer of a member of the Order."

"Why do you need me for this?" asked Van Helsing, though for reasons he could not understand found himself drawn to that terrible face of Jack Bronson, "I mean, don't the London police deal with people like this?"

The Cardinal raises a hand for silence.

"For most of his sort, you would be correct…" then he stopped, as if debating what to say next. "But this man is… different." For a moment, Van Helsing thought he saw a flicker of pain in the Cardinal's eyes. But then it was gone, making Van Helsing wonder if he ever saw it at all.

The projector clicked again, and another picture appeared in Bronson's place.

This showed a picture that was so old, torn, and bent that Van Helsing had to look harder at the picture to decipher anything from it.

It was a man… at least it appeared to be. All facial features of the man were too wrinkled in the picture to see clearly.

"This is John Griffin, the only known scientist who was able to create a serum to render the user invisible."

Van Helsing's eyebrows rose.

"Interesting… I have never heard of such as scientist."

"Neither did the Order, until seven years ago."

Van Helsing looked at the picture again. The picture was extremely unhelpful in saying anything about Griffin.

"Why can you not get a better picture of him?" asked Van Helsing, "There is no way to know what Griffin looks like."

"Don't you think that we have tried?" replied the Cardinal, "All pictures and records, including birth certificates, were somehow destroyed, along with all of Griffin's personal friends and family. All died from 'natural causes.' Even the house was razed to the ground."

Van Helsing nodded. He understood so far.

"So what went wrong with the serum?" he asked.

"The problem is that Griffin missed a very important detail: the side-effects." After a long breath, Jinette continued, "Not knowing what the serum would do, Griffin used the serum on himself. He found that his strength that increased ten-fold, and that he was sharper mentally than ever before. But he found that he could never again become visible after taking the serum. Griffin realized that long exposure to the serum produced madness. He became a monster.

"He was finally killed by a group of townspeople who had realized what he was. We found out about the serum, and decided to intervene by taking the serum and bringing it here. John Griffin was then forgotten… until now."

"What do you mean?"

"For reasons we have not found yet, Bronson has been searching for the invisibility serum."

A brief silence filled the room. Van Helsing was the first to break it.

"But I thought that you had the only remaining sample of the serum-"

Seemingly ignoring Van Helsing, the Cardinal changed the projector picture, this time showing a dead man on a gravel floor, his face unrecognizable, as if someone had tried to blow the man's entire face off.

"Before I answer that, we will go to one week ago," The Cardinal said. "This unfortunate man…" Jinette pointed to the man in the picture, "…had the name of Daryl Wearne, and he was part of the Knights of the Holy Order."

Van Helsing let out a rather vulgar exclamation.

"No blasphemy in the house of God, Van Helsing," admonished Jinette, before continuing.

"For some time, Wearne had been stealing valuable artifacts from the Order's archives, and selling them to the highest bidder. When we found out about this, no more than three weeks ago, we posted an agent, a rather attractive woman, to watch him.

"This agent, one week ago, came across something much larger than any of us had first thought. Wearne had gotten a message from a client to meet him in Romania, and Wearne decided to listen.

"This Wearne sounds like a fool, for him to go to Romania simply for a business transaction," said Van Helsing thoughtfully.

"Wealth and greed can make a man to irrational things, Van Helsing," replied the Cardinal, "you of all people should understand what greed can do to the hearts of men."

Van Helsing nodded. He did know, from bitter experience with evil men, what an evil power like greed could do.

"So," continued the Cardinal, "Wearne did, in fact, meet with his client, as he also met our agent. She posed as a barmaid. She heard and saw much of what happened next, and from what we understand, Wearne provided Bronson with a vial and a map, after which Bronson killed Wearne. Our agent was unable to act due to the importance of returning to the Order with the information. Revealing herself to save a traitor of the Order would not have been beneficial.

"So what does this business with Bronson and Wearne have to do with…?"

Then Van Helsing stopped, realizing that he had just answered his own question. The serum! Bronson must now have…

"I see that you understand now, Van Helsing," said Jinette, "and yes, we did get a sample of Griffin's serum before he died. Unfortunately, we were unable to get anything else due to the suddenness of his death and the efficiency of someone terminating all his links."

"So Bronson now has in his possession the only surviving sample of the invisibility serum," said Van Helsing, "but what about the map? What is that?"

The Cardinal smiled humorlessly. "That is one of the mysteries of this assignment."

A new projection appears, now showing the remains of a map.

"After our agent told us of the meeting, we chose to look through our archives. We reasoned that if Wearne had stolen the invisibility serum from the Order, then the map came from the Order as well. We found that we were short one map after a short census. And not just any map, but a map that leads to the Black Lagoon." The Cardinal stopped for dramatic effect, which seemed to be lost on Van Helsing.

"The Black Lagoon?" asked Van Helsing, smirking slightly. "What kind of name is that?"

The Cardinal ignored the question. "The Black Lagoon is a vast swamp located in Romania—"

"It seems like everything evil or strange is located there."

"…It is always covered with an unnatural fog and too immense for complete exploration. Many men have traveled there for the untold secrets hidden deep in the Lagoon."

"What kind of secrets?"

The Cardinal shrugged. "It depends on the version of the story told to you. For some it is countless treasure. For others it is ultimate knowledge. For some it is even the gates of Heaven itself…" The Cardinal paused. "Although, if the latter is true, I would suspect the gates come from below instead of above."

"What makes you say that?"

"The place has a… an evil living there. Whether it is of man or of the Devil, I do not know. But I know there is evil there. Of all the people to travel the dangerous road, most have never returned. Those who did return came back different people entirely. Of all the dangers known there, only one is listed in our archives."

"And what would that be?" asked Van Helsing.

"It is simply called the Creature from the Black Lagoon."

"Wow…" said Van Helsing, an eyebrow raised once again. The name obviously tickled him. "That is sure imaginative."

"The Order is not a successful government institution because of its imagination, Van Helsing. The Creature has been a rumor for many years. Although the Creature has always been seen in the villages or local ports, it has been said that it originally came from deep within the Black Lagoon."

"So why would someone steal a map to the Black Lagoon? It sounds like the place is pretty easy to find, anyway."

"No, Van Helsing, it is not. The Black Lagoon is hidden carefully, and only the most skilled of men could make it through the perilous dangers of the road to get there."

"You sound as if you know this as a fact."

The Cardinal was silent for a moment. "We sent a team of the Order, five members I believe, to find the legendary Black Lagoon. None of them ever returned. That was over twelve years ago, after the first sighting of the creature. Eight years ago, we send another team, this time three of the best men we ever trained. Three months later, one man of the three returned. The survivor had been able to produce a map, one with explicit details on how to get through the dangers to the Black Lagoon."

Van Helsing nodded. "Alright, so I get that this Bronson fellow now has the ability to turn invisible and get to the Black Lagoon… but what I want to know is why this man would want to go the Black Lagoon?"

The Cardinal shook his head. "There is now way of knowing for sure. There could be several guesses, every one as likely as the next. It could be that he wants to be the one to find the secrets of the accursed place. With his power, he might very well do so. But there is something else. Something unsettling about the Creature. I suspect that there is much more about both the Creature and Bronson than meets the eye." The Cardinal stood up straight. "Your job is to find Bronson, or eliminate him if capture proves impossible. Then you are to destroy the remaining serum and bring us back the map to the Lagoon."

Van Helsing stood up abruptly. "Alright, when do I start?" He started for the door.

But the Cardinal waved him back to his seat. "This task will be more difficult than you assume, my friend. You will need help on this assignment."

But Van Helsing shook his head. "You know me and how I work, sir. Partners only get in the way—"

"We do not!" said an affronted-sounding voice from the other side of the closed door. Van Helsing chuckled, and saw that even the Cardinal seemed to be repressing some sort of humor, by the way his lip twitched.

Van Helsing opened the door, and found Carl standing there, looking at the Cardinal with a shamefaced expression.

"Brother Carl," said the Cardinal, looking at Carl, "do you wish to join in this conversation?"

After a moment, a determined expression covered Carl's face. "Well, I bloody well ought to," he said indignantly, "considering the part I played in Transylvania. You know, Van Helsing, that if it wasn't for me—"

The Cardinal's exasperated voice interrupted. "Yes, yes, Carl, we know. Now, sit."

"But—"

"Sit!"

Quickly, Carl sat down, looking at Van Helsing hopefully.

"You will be taking me on this one, won't you… buddy?" asked Carl, looking very much like a poor puppy dog with his tail between his legs.

Van Helsing sighed. "Well, I guess this time I can bring you—"

Carl's face lit up.

"—if you promise not to bring anything that could blow us up."

Carl's face became indignant.

"What do you mean 'blow us up?'?" Carl asked in a huff. "Last time I didn't bring anything that could 'blow us up'."

The Cardinal then spoke. "Carl's help, as little as that is," with that comment Carl glowered at him, "will not be enough help. You will need more people on this one."

"Cardinal," replied Van Helsing, "the man is mortal. He's just a plain human. Not a vampire, not a were-wolf, not a warlock—"

"My granny could kill a warlock," uttered Carl under his breath.

"—Bronson is nothing that I cannot handle on my own. Last time I checked, I was able to kill a vampire and a were-wolf with only the help of two others."

"But this man is different. He…"

Van Helsing looked carefully at the leader of the Knights of the Holy Order.

"What is it, Cardinal?"

The Cardinal let out a small breath. "I went against Bronson a few months ago. We had first noticed him after he killed one of our nuns of the Order. We do not let things like that go unpunished. I, along with two others of the Order, found Bronson in a local bar…"

"And what happened?"

"He is dangerous, Van Helsing. In all my years in the Order, I have never seen a mortal who could move so fast. He killed both of the other agents in the blink of an eye, and had almost killed me. But for some reason I still do not understand, he let me live. It was almost as if… he knew who I was, and knew that leaving me alive to fear him was better than making a martyr to the Order."

"It sounds like he has a pathological need for attention," piped in Carl, but closed his mouth quickly when the Cardinal looked at him.

"There is something else, Van Helsing. If Bronson was like this before the serum, imagine what he will be like after. His already-fast reflexes and speed with increase, as will his insanity."

No one spoke for a long while. Then the Cardinal said, in a low voice, "Bronson may become a worse threat than that of Count Dracula if he is not stopped."

Finally, Van Helsing spoke.

"Who do you want me to take?"

Chapter 2

"Alright, so let me see if I get this straight," asked Carl, as he and Van Helsing moved from side to side in their cheap carriage. Van Helsing had said that they needed to save their expenses for the actual journey, but this decision didn't seem to make the trip any more comfortable. "We are going to look for two different people, both of whom used to work for the Order, right?"

Van Helsing, who was trying to get fully rested before they came into real danger, grunted.

"The woman's name is Wis— um, no, it is Wilheni… no that's not it, either—"

"Wilhelmina," corrected Van Helsing tiredly, not bothering to open his eyes. He suppressed a pitiful groan. The idea of traveling with Carl for the rest of the mission was starting to look bleaker than the final battle with Bronson.

"Ah, yes, Wilhelmina Murray, and the man's name is Jonathan Harker. These two were the best of the best in the Order for about five years, and both of them even led the first group to discover Dracula over ten years ago."

Van Helsing nodded, although the action seemed to be coming out of instinct rather than understanding.

"They even got married at one point, I remember. Oh, well, anyway, Wilhelmina Murray actually became a part-vampire after the Order's first encounter with Dracula, but she is on our side. Imagine that, a good vampire. Anyway, she became the best field agent in the entire order, even you, at least according to the Cardinal—"

Van Helsing was still nodding periodically, though he had long past completely stopped listening to the friar's ramblings. The situation was looking worse and worse by the moment.

Wilhelmina Murray… Van Helsing remembered hearing about her periodically since he joined the Order four years ago. He had never met her, though, because she had retired about a year before he had appeared on the Order's doorstep.

"— and so Murray is the foremost expert in the area of John Griffin and his research. She led all of the work and knows everything the Order knows about him. So that's why the Cardinal picked her, as well as the fact that two of the 'best of the best' is better than one.

"Anyway, then there is this Harker fellow. He was the agent that had successfully made it through the entire road and back to the Black Lagoon and drew the map. So now we are on our way to find them and bring them onto our merry task, though it will not be easy. Both of them have been retired for about four years now… or maybe five, I can't remember. Did I get… everything… right... um, Van Helsing?"

But Van Helsing was now sound asleep, right where he wanted to be. Carl looked at the sleeping form in front of him for a minute, and than finally shrugged and sank into his chair, pondering the mission to come.

London was very cold tonight. Wilhelmina Murray looked up into the sky, and could feel the chill of the wind against her face. Oh, how she wished she could transform her body and fly through that breeze! But she dare not. Not here. Not where she could be seen and identified. Her form would be seen by humans, and that she could not condone, unless the situation demanded it. She was not that kind of creature. She was not like her creator. Her creator… Count Dracula. Dracula would have relished the fear and horror produced by most humans that caught sight of him. He loved the power his victims handed him on a silver platter. But she was different. She would rather die. Never would she become anything like Dracula.

Wilhelmina (although she usually went by Mina) waved her raven-black hair to one side, as her hair blew softly in her face. She couldn't believe that it had happened so long ago. Ten years ago. It just seemed so recent. She turned from her balcony and looked at her house. This house had been in her family for thirteen generations. It was as much of a family heirloom as the ruby jewel that hung from her neck, held by a 24-karat golden chain. She put a quivering hand to it.

This was her most prized materialistic possession. She remembered it so well. Her mother, when Mina was a small child, was forced to sell the necklace to a local pawnshop to keep her family from starving many years ago. That was a horrible time. They had sold everything, even the house. Fifteen years later, Mina's family fortune had returned and everything had been regained, but the entire family given the heirloom up for lost.

Then it was returned to them. It had been a gift. Jonathan had given it to her on her 24th birthday… back then; they had known each other three years…

Jonathan… Mina shook her head sadly. She did not want to think of him. Not him. Anything but him…

But the damage was done. She could already see her ex-husband's face, the features that had been engraved into her heart. Features that were so perfectly chiseled, the mouth that curved up charmingly when he smiled, the heart that was so selfless, the mind that was as sharp as a needle, the eyes… the eyes that held a kindness, a tenderness, a love unmeasured whenever he had looked at her. Those same eyes of love could be filled with determination, determination with such strength that Mina remembered finding herself continuously doubting it was the same man.

It had been twelve years since they had met. Mina remembered it well. She had been twenty-one, full of ambition and righteous energy. She had met Jonathan for the first time at the Order.

The first thing she had noticed about him was his intense eyes. They had pierced her to the bone. Jonathan had smiled at her, introducing himself.

That was where it had all begun.

But these were the characteristics that had found their way into her heart, making her love him more and more every day… especially now that he was gone.

Their divorce… It had all been so pointless. Now that she looked back at it. It had all been for something that, now, she would have given to him gladly. Had it really been five years ago?

They ended up getting married on the fourth anniversary of the day they had met. It had been the same year that Jonathan had left on the mission to the Black Lagoon…

She could still remember how he had looked the day he had come back. He had changed into almost a completely different person. What he had seen in all the details she never found out… but she did know that every other member of the team had died on the mission.

Just another thing on the list she would never know about him.

If only she could go to him… tell him how much she still cared…

But the pride they both had held in their hearts was a fierce enemy indeed…

Then it was all gone… the mental picture, the tears, the weakness… it was all replaced by a grim resolve to forget the man that had made her life worth living… the man who had risked his life for her on their mission to Transylvania…

It was replaced with a grim resolve to do anything but remember. Throw herself into battle. Kill evil. Destroy all evil as she wished she wished she could destroy her own foolish feelings.

Mina found herself back into her house, sitting quietly on a wooden, hand-made chair. Another heirloom. At least, she thought it was. It was so hard to keep track of all of them.

She leaned back quietly. It was comforting to know that some things didn't change. This house would never change. It would remain for as long as she willed it. Even the smell remained the same.

If only she could share her feelings with someone. Someone like…

Mina let out a hiss. She would not fall into self-pity again. She had made a decision years ago. One that she couldn't take back if she wanted to… it was time to move on.

What would Jonathan think of you now? A part of Mina's consciousness sneered at her. Whining like a lost pup. You pathetic creature. You wouldn't deserve his love even if he did return to you. Not that he ever would. Why would he ever want you? You who spurned him at every turn. Tell the truth; would you want you back?

Mina had to shake her head. Despite the fact that she felt idiotic agreeing with herself, she knew she had to set these wayward feelings to rest. She needed to look at and accept the facts. She had made a mistake. It was too late to take it back. Now she had to lay in the bed she made for herself, no matter how uncomfortable it was—

Then she stopped her thinking. There was someone at the door. But it wasn't that someone had knocked. Not yet, at least. No, it was someone walking towards her house. She could hear their footsteps. Another gift from Dracula… or a curse, depending on how she looked at it.

There was more than one person walking towards her house, that much she was sure of. She listened again. Her ears could pick up the faintest quiver of a leaf or the lightest step. One of the two stepped with cautiousness and fear; each step moved with unnatural movements. This person was a man, and was afraid, at that. Stressed was probably a better word.

The other man… the other man puzzled her to the extreme. Unlike the other man, this one used slow, methodical steps, each landing with equal measure. This man knew what he was doing and where he was going. She listened keenly, as she picked up the conversation between the two men…

"You know something, now I'm not sure that this is a great idea," whimpered Carl, looking nervously around the deserted London streets.

"Relax, Carl," Van Helsing sighed, looking at Carl with the same look as the clerics from the Order, "No demonic stalkers are waiting for you here."

"How do you know?" snapped Carl, irritably turning to Van Helsing, "do you know every evil creature that lives in London."

"Carl—"

"Don't 'Carl' me, Van Helsing," cried Carl, bending down to pick up his clerical hat that had fallen to the floor in the wind, "I read; I know what evil lies in this country. Need I remind you about—?"

"No, you don't need to remind me about Mr. Hyde," Van Helsing commented dryly, "I remember him just fine without you bringing it up."

Van Helsing looked keenly at the house of the woman they had traveled to meet. It was a large house, one of noble blood.

"— are you and me for that matter, walking into a place where we have no idea what kind of pure, unadulterated evil is waiting for—"

Ignoring his friend (not for the first time), Van Helsing walked up the marble steps toward the two-door entrance. They both got to the door, and Carl immediately shut up. But as Van Helsing began to lift is hand to knock on the door, the door proceeded to creak open. Standing in the doorway was an attractive, young woman. Mid-thirties, if Van Helsing guessed correctly. Piercing blue eyes watched the two strangers carefully.
"Yes?" the woman asked, looking at the two curiously. Her tone was placid. Van Helsing knew she was suspicious of them. As she should be. She had never seen them before. But at least she was being cordial.

"Hello," said Van Helsing, tipping his hat at her politely. "Are you Wilhelmina Murray?"

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"The name is Van Helsing," he replied, and watched as the woman's eyes widened at the name of the most notorious murderer in Paris, "and this is Carl, a friar for the Knights of the Holy Order."

The woman's eyes turned to slits from the name of the Order.

"You two are from the Order?" she asked, now looking at both of them with distrust.

"Yes, ma'am."

She looked at them for a moment. Then she sighed impatiently. "Get inside before you getting mugged," the woman finally said, opening the door wider.

"Thank you," commented Van Helsing, stepping into to the woman's residence. Van Helsing and Carl followed the woman into a giant living room. The carpet was dark brown and covered every inch of the floor. They passed dozens of rooms; each with handcrafted desks and chairs, couches, and fireplaces. All of the rooms were larger than some peoples' houses.

After a few minutes of walking, the woman brought them to a beautiful room, filled with lovely furniture and windows. "Please sit," the woman said, gesturing to a group of three chairs sitting next to a hot fire.

Carl and Van Helsing complied, and the woman joined them in a chair opposite them. They watched each other over an oval desk.

The fire played on the woman's face, making her have an almost angelic quality.

"Yes, I am Wilhelmina Murray," she finally said, speaking after a long bout of silence. "But I don't know why you are here. I specifically told the Order than I quit."

"That is really not an option now," replied Van Helsing, "we need your help. We can't do this without you."

Mina smirked bitterly. "What could the Order possibly want so badly that they would ask my help?"

Van Helsing replied simply. "The serum of John Griffin."

Mina's eyes stared at Van Helsing, being sure that there must be some mistake. Her mind raced. Was it possible? After all these years… could the ghost of John Griffin's experiment return to haunt her?

"What do you mean?" Mina said, still using a candid tone. "I thought that the Order had the last sample to exist—"

"The Order did have the last sample," interrupted Van Helsing. There was no doubt in Mina's mind that this Van Helsing was telling the truth. He was dead serious.

"What happened?"

"A man in the Order who got greedy for his own gain."

Mina growled. "Let me guess. This greedy Order member was willing to sell secrets of the Order to the highest bidder."

"Exactly." Van Helsing nodded, seeing that his first notion of her brilliant mind was well-funded.

Mina thought about this for a moment. The implications of what this man was telling her were beyond description. Even though she knew that all humanity, no matter how they were raised and taught, had evil inside of them, she found it hard to truly believe that such a person would sell out the Order from inside out. The thought just seemed so absurd.

"Tell me more," she said. "Why is it that the Order forced you to come begging me for help…?"

"Well, I wouldn't actually call it 'begging'…" muttered Carl, but the other two ignored him.

"… When this problem seems to be one easily fixed by the Order?"

Van Helsing shook his head. "That is where the problem lays. It is not the simple fact that someone inside the Order sold the remaining serum…" His eyes seemed to blaze. "It is who this man sold it to."

"And who would this be?"

"What we know is small, but it is more than enough for a mission. The traitor, a man by the name of Wearne, stole two items from the Order archives."

"Two, but I thought you said this only involved the serum."

"As I said, the problem gets clearer as the story goes along," commented Van Helsing. "Wearne evidently was paid to steal these two items for a client, and he evidentially did what he was paid to do. He brought these items to a meeting point, where he was supposed to be paid in full by his client.

"But his client had another kind of payment in mind. As soon as the items were handed over, the client murdered Wearne. This client has been identified as Jack Bronson by the Order."

"If one of the items was Griffin's serum, what was the other item?"

"A map to a place called the Black Lagoon—"

But before Van Helsing could finish, Mina interrupted. Her eyes changed drastically, and she seemed to stare at him. "What did you say?" she asked.

"What part?" Carl asked.

"Did you say a map to the Black Lagoon?"

Van Helsing nodded. So now she knew that this case would deal just as closely with Jonathan Harker as with her.

"So now you understand that there is more to this case than just you. Jonathan Harker—"

"So you are going to go and get Harker to join in this little group?" asked Mina, trying to hide her eyes from the two men. Van Helsing nodded.

"There is much that we have to discuss," said Van Helsing.

Then Mina noticed that Carl looking at her from the corner of her eye. She turned to him, looking as serious as death. "Carl, I have a question."

Carl turned to her.

"Yes?" Carl asked.

"Do I look like 'pure, unadulterated evil' to you?"

Carl immediately turned deathly white.

"You— you— you heard that?" sputtered Carl, looking more embarrassed than Van Helsing had ever seen, even with Cardinal glowering at him.

"I take it that since you are from the Order than you know of my…" Mina seemed to be thinking of a good word, "… condition."

"So are you choosing to join us?"

"Indeed I am, Mr. Van Helsing," said Mina. "So I suggest we get moving. In the meantime, tell me everything about the mission."

"Everything?"

"Everything…"

Chapter 3

Everyone who lived in a radius of four blocks away knew that Jonathan Harker was an awkward man. A complete nutter, in some opinions. He was always alone, never going anywhere near the town. A paid boy from the village (Jim was his name) went back and forth to get the man's groceries or anything important he needed. When questioned by the neighbors, Jimmy had replied that he himself had never seen the man. He simply got a letter from Harker telling him what he needed, and where to leave it. Usually, Jimmy would leave everything on the front porch, and leave immediately. The fact remained that, for over three years, no one had ever seen the reclusive Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker looked down without comprehension at all the papers littered over his desk. His dark blue eyes swept over the random documents and maps, things that used to give the 36-year-old man pleasure, but now… now it only brought back painful memories of old times… times that were now long past.

Has it really been four years already? He shook his head in denial. It just seemed so recent, as if it had happened only days ago. He remembered it all with surprising ease. Sometimes he wished it was harder to bring the painful memories back to mind.

Jonathan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. His hand slowly slid from his nose and he twirled the end of his black mustache. He had only just let it grow.

Thoughts such as these were dangerous to him, he knew. Time to think meant time to remember… remember all of his field missions that he tried so hard to forget.

The look of terror on the vampire's face as Harker stabbed him through the heart with a silver stake…the infinite sadness of the female witch as Harker pulled the trigger, taking her head off…the endless screams of the dead that rang in his dreams forever; the screams of mercy, when there was none given…

Jonathan shook his head. He already knew where this line of thinking would go. He would not think about her. Not now. Not again. But if only that was the only thing he didn't want to remember. There were several things he remembered. Several involving murder, all of them involving the Knights of the Holy Order. The past actions that, when revisited in dreams, would make him awake screaming…

He couldn't bear to think of them. Maybe never… they, like the subject of Mina, felt like an open wound, while an invisible hand slammed into it again and again… never ceasing. It was an unending torment.

All his emotions seemed to slam into him all at once. Anger… Guilt… Despair… Horror… Love… Hate… all of the feelings he always kept inside threatened to brim over the surface of his mind. Threatening to overpower him, until finally, he was overcome.

For the first time in what seemed like years, Jonathan screamed. The gut-wrenching shriek was filled with every negative feeling in his body. Filled with hatred for everything he was, he wanted to throw something. Without comprehending exactly what he was doing, Jonathan picked up the portrait of himself, covered with glass, and threw it with all his might at the opposite wall. The portrait seemed to shatter in thousands of pieces, the sound booming like a cannon.

Then there was only silence.

Jonathan knew who he really. He hated what he had become. What the Order had made him. But most of all… he hated himself.

Breathing heavily, he looked down at the glass shards covering the floor. One of the shards, turned sideways on the wall, was big enough that he saw a reflection of himself. He looked carefully at what he saw. He had changed since he retired from the Order. He had lost a little of his top-performance physique and his tanned color was all but gone… but the latter was understandable due to the fact that he never left the house.

The figure that stared back at him through the glass was the same person… and yet completely different at the same time. It was like looking at a copy of himself gone horribly wrong. It wasn't that he was unclean or ill-kept… his clothes were still perfect and his hygiene was above-average compared to most. It was the way he held himself. It was as if the light had been sucked out of him, making him an icon of defeat.

Jonathan heard a deep, hysterical laughter. It was a usual laugh. Not something that a sane person did. He thought for a moment that whoever could laugh like that must be insane. But there was no one else in the house. How would someone get in…?

Then he realized that the laughter was coming from his own lips.

Jonathan began to pace furiously. He didn't want to stop moving. How far he had fallen from the highest in the Order to the lowest of common folk… it was laughable, now that Jonathan thought about it. No wonder he was laughing hysterically. It was better than breaking things.

Ironic how life is; on the day that he quit, the Order was about to promote him for his "outstanding work in the field."

Jonathan snorted at the thought.

Outstanding work in the field.

Of all the things they could have told him that day; that was the worst option of all of them. Who would want to get a promotion because of the deaths of so many? Those deaths being the exact reason he wanted to quit in the first place?

Jonathan plopped back into his desk's chair. He stared in contemplation at the place where the glass portrait had not moments ago been hanging in perfection. His eyes narrowed, his lips pursed. He sat thinking. His fingertips were pressed together, directly under his chin.

How many things would be different if I had taken a different step somewhere in my life? He thought. The thought intrigued him. What would have happened in life with just a slight movement to the left or right on his part? Would someone still be alive? Would someone now be dead? What secrets would have remained unsolved or forgotten? Quickly, the thought became maddening. Thousands of possibilities rammed into him. Maybe… if he had done things differently… Mina would still be his wife… and… Jacinta might still be alive… Jonathan shook his head again.

No, he mustn't think about her. He couldn't bear it again…

At that moment, there was a knock at the front door. Then again, this time a little harder. Jonathan looked at the door dourly. Who would dare come on his property and touch his door like that? All of his neighbors in the community knew not to disturb him… It had to be something important. Maybe someone was sick and needed help.

Quickly, Jonathan rose from the chair and walked briskly over to the door. His legs wobbled slightly and disorientation shook his mind slightly. Whoever this was had sure picked a bad time, with Jonathan just having a nervous fit and all that.

"Hang on, I'm coming," he growled, finally opening his door. Jonathan's eyes stared into the eyes of a stranger. Quickly, Jonathan's eyes studied the face, downwards, and than back up again.

It was a black-cloaked man. Thirties, or so. Certainly a rough exterior. A velvet fedora decorated the top of the man's head, where thick black hair slightly spilled out. Next to the man, but hidden slightly behind him, as a smaller man. This one had blonde hair and quite a nervous disposition.

After only a second of studying them, Jonathan knew that he had never seen either of these men before. That made them suspicious. He didn't like strangers. And most definitely not at his doorstep.

"Who are you and what do you want?" demanded Jonathan, looking from the one man to another. He felt the bulge in his coat jacket of the small revolver that he used to discourage any trespassers. Not that he planned to use it. Just an extra incentive in case some teenage ruffians planned on having a little fun on his property. Maybe a shot or so in the air to scare them off. But he had a feeling that for this fedora-clad man, it would take more than a sky shot to scare him away.

It never hurts to be prepared.

"Van Helsing," said the tall mysterious man, tipping his fedora in greeting slightly. He then gestured to the other man, "and this is Carl, a monk."

Then Carl moved to the left, and the sight behind him took Jonathan's breath clear away. It wasn't possible…

"And I believe that you two already know each other," said Van Helsing.

Jonathan stared into the eyes of Mina Murray for what seemed like forever. Unknown to him, Mina was doing the exact same thing. Both were having the mixed feelings of wanting to immediately embrace and kiss or pick up something heavy and hurl it at the other. Thousands of thoughts went through both of their minds. Things that they wanted to say; things that they knew not to say; things that would be awkward to say…

"Hello, Jonathan," Mina finally said; her face and voice impassive to her inner emotions, "it's been a long time."

"It's been at that," replied Jonathan, looking into the eyes of the woman who had stolen his heart so many years ago. It seemed so unusual that he had just an hour ago fantasized about what he would do if she was in front of him. Now that she was, his mouth seemed as dry as a desert.

Mina simply wanted to throw herself into Jonathan's arms and drown in his embrace. Although Jonathan felt the same impulse of action, he knew that it was no use. She no longer loved him; he could see it in her face. The unmistakable love that once shone through her eyes was gone. Gone as if it had never existed. Maybe for her, it had never existed. Maybe it was only wishful thinking on his part all those years ago.

Maybe she didn't want to be here with the two men in the first place… Then Jonathan thought about that for a moment. What were all these people doing here in the first place?

Jonathan coughed lightly. He moved his head sharply to the side, gesturing inside. "Come in," he said gruffly.

The others complied, and several moments later everyone was in Jonathan's living room. Jonathan was sitting in the chair that had been at the desk. He had taken it and put it in front of the desk, as to see his company better. Van Helsing and Carl were seated on the long couch, which could have seated all of them. Mina had chosen to stand near her companions, but a little farther behind them.

Perhaps to give herself some space between her and Jonathan.

"So, Mina, what are you doing here, besides catching up on an Order reunion?" asked Jonathan finally, looking at Mina just as coldly as she was at him. Two can play at this game, my dear, he thought.

Mina felt her heart fall into her stomach at the look Jonathan gave her. His eyes held no love for her; only impatience and bad memories. He didn't love her... She was too late. Mina could feel tears threatening to squeeze through the glands in her eyes. But she quickly pushed them back. I refuse to cry in front of him; she cried in her head. I refuse to show such petty weakness.

After a moment, Mina found her voice again. She was surprised by how calm and cold she sounded. The polar opposite of what she was feeling inside. "These two men are from the Knights of the Holy Order, Harker," she said, "and they need your help."

Jonathan's reaction was very much like that of Mina's. "Why would I want to help the Order? What would the Order want done so desperately that it would need to ignore my resignation?"

Van Helsing looked surprised at this, but only slightly. "You resigned from the Order?" Carl asked.

Jonathan chuckled caustically, though seeing his cockeyed smile again made Mina's heart flutter. "Yes, I did. On the same day that they decided to give me a promotion."

"Why did you resign?" asked Carl.

"For the same reasons that I would have gotten that promotion—" he turned and looked keenly at Van Helsing. "I can't say that I know all about you, Mr. Van Helsing. But I know that you are notorious for your vigilantism."

Jonathan saw something flicker in Van Helsing's eyes. Jonathan smiled ruefully. He knew it, too, thought Jonathan. Van Helsing knew what all other Order agents knew. Some might figure it out later, some already knew… but in the end, the truth would be known to every single person in the Knights of the Holy Order. The only thing different between me and all the rest of the agents is that I talk about the truth. Their either choose to ignore it or keep it deep inside.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Jonathan's eyes seemed on fire with the intensity he watched Van Helsing. "You feel the weight of each person you kill; you see their faces in your dreams every night…"

He stopped talking, simply thinking. Van Helsing refused to stare at him straight in the eyes, which was pretty much the same as an affirmation, in Jonathan's opinion.

"But I doubt that you came here for a trivial chat with a has-been. Please enlighten me; why would the ever-glorious Knights of the Holy Order want me to come back?"

Van Helsing threw a glance at Mina, who nodded once. It was Mina who spoke next. "Do you remember John Griffin?"

Jonathan searched his mind. Then he remembered. John Griffin was the scientist who had created an invisibility serum… a serum that ended up bringing about his death.

"Yes, I remember him. What does he have to do with this?"

"The only surviving sample of the serum was stolen from the Order's archives by a madman," said Mina, her icy countenance fully restored.

"I still can't see how this has anything to do with me," said Jonathan. "If I remember correctly, I had nothing to do with the Griffin case. That was all yours. So why is the Order involving me in this?"

"The serum was not all the man took," replied Mina. "He also took a map; one that if I remember was one you wrote yourself."

Jonathan said nothing. He didn't need to. He knew exactly what she was talking about. His eyes narrowed at nothing in particular. He stood, deep in thought.

"The Black Lagoon," he muttered to himself. The others heard him. "So that's the game, is it?"

Then Jonathan finally answered. His eyes aimed themselves at Van Helsing.

"No."

There was a moment of shocked silence. No one moved. Carl's face showed shock. Van Helsing looked as if he had suspected a little delay. Mina's face betrayed none of her emotions.

"No?" asked Carl, incredulous.

"Yes, the answer is no. I can't go with you." His voice was strong.

Mina spoke, her voice growing menacing. "Can't… or won't?"

"I gave up that life a long time ago, and I never want to go back."

"You are important to this mission," said Van Helsing, still not moving from where he stood.

"What do you need me for?" he gestured to Mina. "You already have Mina, one of the best. All you need is another map—"

"A map is only that; a map," replied Van Helsing. "And a map can do only so much. We need a living, breathing human being, one who has been through all these dangers and passed unscathed."

"Whoever said anything about unscathed?" Jonathan spoke so softly that it could have easily been missed. But all of the people in the room heard his words.

"You are also the only person to have ever seen the Creature and survived."

Van Helsing saw Harker bristle at the name of the Creature.

"Oh, I remember the Creature… the memories haunt me every day." Jonathan's words came out in a hiss. "It is a creature of nightmare. A creature without emotions or feelings. Those reptilian eyes bored holes into me as it systematically killed the others."

Jonathan let out a little laugh. It was a laugh filled with everything but humor. "It's rather funny, looking back at it. We didn't even know that the Creature's claws were poison-tipped until Deland fell over in violent convulsions…" He stopped speaking, brooding.

"As horrible as that mission must have been for you, it is the past," said Van Helsing. "This is the present. Others will die just like your partners if you don't help." Then Van Helsing continued, softy. "Believe me; horrible memories are better than having no memories at all."

"Wait a minute…" said Jonathan, as he seemed to not hear Van Helsing's latest words. "You mean you actually want to follow this madman into the Black Lagoon. Do you understand—?"

"You are a fool, Harker."

The sentence was said so low that it sounded as a whisper in the wind. But Jonathan heard it, as did Carl and Van Helsing. Jonathan turned around, and glared at Mina. She stood rooted to the floor, her hands on her hips in a feminine fashion.

Rage filled Jonathan's face. He looked almost ready to strike her. "What did you say?"

Mina glanced at him indifferently. "I said that you are a fool," she repeated, practically spitting the words, "and I mean it. Your folly could mean the death of us all." She glowered at him. "Now get up off of your lazy behind and actually start saving the world. And stop feeling sorry for yourself. It's unbecoming of your past reputation."

The former couple glared at each other with obvious fury. The mixed feelings they both held were hitting a boiling point extremely quickly. Both wanted to do so many things all at the same time that it was maddening. Hug each other, kiss each other, hit each other, spit on each other, bite each other… both negative and positive reactions seemed to pummel the two from all directions.

Van Helsing is right; I am the only person who gives them the best chance of success.

But another part of Jonathan's personality sneered. Why should you held any of them? They work for the Order, and you know from bitter experience how the Order works. Why give them another chance to hurt you?

It doesn't matter about me, the other part of his personality countered coolly. What matters is protecting the world from this madman and the Creature. And if that makes my life a little uncomfortable… so what? What's more important? Your happiness or peoples' lives?

He knew the answer. He knew who was right. And at that moment, Jonathan made a decision.

"Fine," he spit out, finally turning away from Mina with disgust, "I'll help you."

At that moment, a hysterical laughter filled the house, vibrating around the room.