Watch Me By Moonlight
Part 2
No gold. No gold ringed his eyes, no sign that supernatural strength surged through his veins, writhing in search of an outlet.
And even if there had been, what would I have done?
I still carry the stake he gave me, made of silver, a stake designed with one purpose in mind—to kill werewolves.
A stake given to me for one purpose—to kill Van Helsing.
When first he watched the moon, on the return trip from Transylvania, I thought he was searching the heavens for his lover, the woman that even his lycanthropic form recognized as a cherished mate, albeit too late for it to be of any good. The memory of those moments still haunts me, the sight of my companion, the man I have armed and bantered with for a decade, the man I was sent to keep alive, reduced to a snarling animal; the howl of grief that turned into a man's anguished denial, a denial that didn't become more coherent than 'no' for hours to come.
I shiver still as I remember that week, the nightmares of Dracula's castle, the stench of death and decay that seemed to seep with greater insistency from the stones as the hours since its masters demise lengthened. I can still choke on the doubt and hesitancy that consumed me as I searched for an exit from the castle, not wishing to call on the devil to give us wings with which to escape, unable to find Dracula's other methods of transportation—methods that I knew must exist, for otherwise we would die there, myself, Frankenstein's creation, and the exhausted and unconscious monster hunter that I had placed in the creature's arms for safekeeping, unable even to find clothes to cover the worst signs left from the transformation and the battle.
My mind finally shies away from the memories, seeking refuge in simpler pastimes.
If Van Helsing's new game is referring to gargoyles, then it's a true monster, and I can cite him dates and locations of appearances from memory.
If he truly means carnivorous stones that simply lie on the ground waiting to attack exhausted friars… then he's either making it up or cheating by remembering something from his shadowed past again.
His past… another one of the great mysteries that cloak my friend. If ever there existed someone who fit the description of an enigma wrapped in a mystery, it's him. I wasn't one of the people lucky enough to be on hand when he was found originally, and Jinette kept him under lock and key for weeks after, a fact that only increased our curiosity—a curiosity that had been piqued enough by the screams and sobs for forgiveness and damnation both that echoed from his chamber for the first two days.
I smile wryly at my memory of my first meeting with the monster hunter. I don't know how Van Helsing reacted when the Cardinal told him what he was to do—any normal man would probably have died of asphyxiation from too many paroxysms of mirth at the obvious insanity of the Order—but by the time he was sent to us to receive his arms he had already assumed the personality that has now made him infamous in the Order. Even at that early date, sarcasm and unwavering confidence were his first tools.
Unfortunately for me, sarcasm can be quickly lost in the void of youth and zeal, both of which I then owned in what should have been lethal doses.
I think his sarcasm and his humor are the only things that have kept him sane for this long—or what the Cardinal so lovingly refers to as "Van Helsing's unique version of sanity".
That is why it is his ability to laugh and banter that I watch so carefully on nights like these, not wanting to tread too far on unknown ice. So long as he responds to me with a smirk or a laugh instead of a curse or a blade, both of us will be fine. Once that humor is gone, though… once his ability to look around and find something ironic about the situation… once his ability to sense good, an ability I have learned to trust, is blunted by dissatisfaction with the world in which he lives…
They call him murderer everywhere he is recognized. Swords and guns have chased us from more towns that I wish to remember. More than once 'friends' have disappeared for a few moments and reappeared with the authorities in tow, a short plea filled with exquisite detail of how much they need the money or how certain they are of his guilt ready on their tongue.
If murder were not a damning sin, I would have killed my first man many leagues ago.
Van Helsing is no murderer, no matter what others or even he himself may believe. The things he kills are certainly no longer human, and yet each kill is ended with a prayer, a Latin blessing to speed the soul of the deceased not to Hell but to Heaven. Even if his blood is pooling at his feet or the alarm has been sounded that would see him first caged and then hanged, he refuses to move until the dead have been given their last rites and honor… albeit at times a somewhat slurred or very hasty last rite and honor.
I try not to shift restlessly despite the stone—sans teeth—that seems intent on taking a chunk out of my right side no matter how I lie. Even if my companion's eyes are focused on the heavens, I have no doubt that he hears every move I make. Van Helsing has spent too many years hunting and being hunted to let his guard down often.
Come to think of it, the only time I ever saw him with his guard truly down was when he didn't have the strength left to keep it up, and even then it was only when he was certain that myself and Frankenstein's creation were the only ones still breathing in the castle that he relaxed completely.
Too completely.
Try as I might, I can't seem to keep my mind from traveling down paths better left untrod. Van Helsing himself has said before that the past is often better left buried… a very ironic statement coming from the man who gathers the clues to his past with the same avid eagerness and practiced caution with which snake charmers harvest their wares.
Somewhere in the darkness a lone howl rises above the trees, above the clouds, reaching desperately towards the heart of the glowing white orb that has so transfixed my friend. My eyes open of their own accord and fasten on the dark-haired monster hunter. The changes in his posture are minute, barely noticeable. His head tilts ever so slightly, his breathing quickens, his chin rises as he leans forward, and for one panicked moment I can almost see the outline of the dark beast that dwelled within him.
For eons we are frozen in this tableau, both transfixed by the haunting beauty of that call, and I half expect my companion to open his mouth and call out an answer to the lone hunter. No sound issues from his mouth, though, and finally the wolf's call fades into the darkness.
Even after the normal sounds of nocturnal animals have reclaimed the night my eyes remain fixed on Van Helsing, as if sheer intensity of gaze could pry away his secrets.
"Carl?" The question is quiet, his own eyes still locked upon the moon, giving me the option of simply turning away and resuming my near-hopeless struggle with the rocky terrain.
"What do you hear when they call? What do you see up there that calls so strongly?" As soon as the words escape my mouth I will them back, not wishing to put him more on his guard, not truly certain that I want a response.
Van Helsing is silent, immoveable, another stone amidst stones, dingy darkness drawn by some irresistible grip to the light.
I lie down again, shutting my eyes with sullen purpose. If it kills me, I will sleep tonight. Van Helsing as much as said that he would trust me to watch his back when the exhaustion of fighting whatever demons continue to haunt him on these nights reaches its peak. To be worthy of that trust, I can't be ready to die of exhaustion myself.
For probably the first time in my life, determination actually wins out over Morpheus, and the varied shades of sleep begin to seep slowly through my mind. My breathing deepens and evens, until even the best hunter would think me completely lost from the world.
The voice is soft, coming as though from a great distance, but the words are crystal clear and sharp as razors.
"I see the one thing I've never had in all the centuries, save for a few moments as a snarling black monster. I hear the one thing the Left Hand of God will never have."
There is no sorrow in his quiet voice, simply a quiet resignation that sends a pang of loss echoing through my own soul.
"Freedom, my friend. I sense freedom."