Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story pertaining to the movie Van Helsing are the property of Stephen Sommers. This is an amateur effort. Infringement on copyright laws was unintentional. This story is for entertainment purposes only.


Chapter 4: The Hunter or the Hunted?

John C. Hamilton had one of the largest collections of ancient weaponry in all of England, although he had recently exaggerated and claimed it to be the largest in all Europe. He had good reason to boast about such a thing if one were to walk around his house, finding the walls of his magnificent ballroom decorated with some of the most extravagant pieces. He did not limit himself to one particular era or country. Hamilton preferred every time and every weapon as if each had a soul. He had katanas and sais from Japan, swords from France, and spears from Anglo-Saxon England that he treated with such high regard they were kept in his bed chamber and often had more of his attention than his beautiful wife did. They were never removed from the walls and polished daily by servants that he had handpicked and trained for the job. He could not trust anyone else with the collection.

When he had moved to England he had twenty or so broad swords, thirty thin bladed daggers and only a single axe. In the center of the modern world, his whole collection had grown exponentially, finally spawning over all eighty-seven rooms of his gorgeous mansion outside of London. Never once had a guest been allowed inside, and eyeing his collection with such intensity it caused his eyes to water, he decided that he would hold a grand ball to show the world that he did have the largest collection in all of Europe.

Hamilton was a wealthy business man, owning many factories in London that were not limited to a single purpose. His industry covered the ports to the south of London along the Thames River and deep within the industrial section of the city where imported raw materials were used to manufacture goods. He had enough money to make the arrangements for the ball in three days flat, including the tailoring of a beautiful gown for his wife, a new suit, and all the food and wine every port from France through to the Mediterranean had to offer. Within a single hour his house saw more visitors than most would see in a single lifetime. Servants ran everywhere washing the marble floors and polishing the mahogany columns in his foyer and around the grand ballroom. Every weapon was polished to perfection, blades gleaming so brightly it was like a thousand mirrors were hung around the walls of his circular hall. The floors were waxed until faces were reflected in them and shoes were slide across them easily. The kitchen constantly smelled of every exotic spice he could get his hands on, the smell permeating every room in the house. His wife began looking through old family jewelry she kept in the ice box, holding the valuable necklaces and chokers to her throat and sliding bracelets on and off her wrists while her maids complimented her mindlessly. Every piece looked spectacular on her. Every hair style was astounding whenever she wished it to be. Their smiles were as false as she was, always grinning whenever they felt the occasion called for it.

He had two hundred invitations made overnight, each out of thick black parchment with his family seal binding the flaps together. When opened a thin dusting of golden powder would tumble out and the words were cleared printed in white ink, the date, the time, and the place for their arrival. The invitations were mailed to nearly all the nobles and politicians and their wives. Hamilton could imagine each of their spouses running for the wardrobes and laying out every gown in their possession before they too were in front of their mirrors with their jewelry and ladies-in-waiting, testing and trying every expensive piece they owned, attempting to outdo the 'competition'.

It seemed to be luck that Gabriel arrived a day before the party. He traveled through the lower class of London to avoid unwanted attention in the late hours of night. The whole of White Chapel district reeked of vomit and ale, smelling of sweat and blood as the prostitutes on the street corners screamed and yelled, the men walking by and shouting things back at them. Laughing was heard from the entrance to every tavern as groups of intoxicated men and women staggered out and into the street, some with their mugs still hanging from one or two fingers on their hand. Gabriel pulled his bandana over his mouth, pulling it tight at the back of his head. It did nothing for the smell, but it kept his face covered just the same.

He moved through the lower class on his horse, watching the women on the side of the street modeling themselves against lamp posts to stay out of the dark alleys. Newspapers moved through the streets, all published with letters and pictures of 'Leather Apron' and 'Jack the Ripper'. He pushed past the crowds of women who were still intent on doing business, faced with the poster of his own face posted on the side of a brick wall. He found it fortunate that most had taken to vomiting and pissing on it than actually looking at it, and continued on.

The sense of evil was growing within him, and it was not just coming from all around him. He could feel the tightening of Morgan's Magick on his throat, and he knew he was getting closer.

The feeling of Magick was unforgettable to him. While evil was the feeling of control and domination, Magick seemed to fill his entire body with power and invincibility. It was as if he were out of his body and within her own, able to experience the force within her hands growing as her will commanded. He shook his head to clear it, dismissing the feelings from his own body but allowed them to exist around him, leading him like a trail directly to his prey.

The lower levels yielded to the higher class homes finally, and he found himself surrounded by the rich and powerful. Carriages were frequent, their white lanterns moving slowly through the night as the coachman maintained a comfortable speed for the riders within. He glanced about the street at the women in long dresses and petticoats, escorted by their husbands or men who courted them for their wives. There was a sense of comfort here, small but illusive. He felt as if he belonged there at one time or another. The homes all bore the same mark of relief that remained amidst the dark and sadistic forces of Morgan le Faye.

Gabriel followed his mind, the feelings of Magick growing stronger with every passing moment. He followed it like a trail of bread crumbs and each step lead him to a stronger sense of where he was growing. There were faint traces of electricity in the air, as if it were charged by an unseen force. The air itself seemed controlled on the street. Every breath of wind carried the scent of flowers and leaves that were uncommon for the area. The ground seemed enchanted. Every step caused small whisperings to come from the air around him up to the clouds in tongues he couldn't understand. Even as the rain started to fall it felt different, as if it fell by some will instead of by nature itself.

Well at least I know I'm getting close, he decided, continuing at his slow pace so he didn't miss anything. The voices were growing faster, some darting past his ears and hovering in front of his face for a moment before zooming off again, laughing in shrill voices. He reached for his gun, hearing the voices grow urgent and crazed, murmuring about him, saying his name in every language that they knew. They were flying off again but Gabriel did not follow.

"If you do anything that I tell you, Mr. Van Helsing, do not follow anyone or anything that sounds unusual. Faeries are devilish and nasty little creatures who would sooner take you to their world and inflict horrible things upon you (Carl shuddered as if he were only imagining what Faerie torture might be like) than help you on your journey. So whatever you do, don't follow any strange voices. Don't give your name to anyone or anything, whether it is physical or not. And watch where you step. Faerie circles can appear anywhere, and I'm sure they won't be far behind if you're dealing with their monarch."

He kept at his own pace, rolling his eyes at Carl's speech of faeries.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you had a bad experience with them Carl."

"Once again, Mr. Van Helsing, I read. I don't need any bad experiences although working with you has given me enough to last a lifetime."

He stopped short, the feelings reaching their peak when he arrived in front of the black cast iron gates. Gabriel looked up at the house, his heart nearly skipping a beat as he looked into the windows of a house he was sure he had seen before. Everything was familiar. The intoxicating smell of flowers from along the gates, the stone walls of the home coloured gray by age. The black trim and balcony looking out over the street welcomed him back to a place he was so sure he had been before and a place he was sure he would return to again.

The sensations of the faerie folk were whispering again. Every flower within took on a life of its own it seemed and the wind grew angry as the temperature dropped. It brushed over his face with a cold breath making his skin prickle. Gabriel dismounted, the wind growing stronger, warning him away. He had just enough time to yank his horse against the gate behind the high bushes of flowers before a second story window opened, the head of a small man peeking out and looking over the street, sniffing the wind.

"I can't see anyone my Lady."

"I can feel someone." A voice replied. The window shut again and Gabriel sighed deeply, looking around the corner and through the gate.

There were footsteps moving through the house, coming down the stairs. They were constricted by a heavy gown, he could tell by the pounding against the fragile wood. The front door slammed open, the wind catching it and causing it to crash against the solid frame of the house.

Gabriel peeked around the corner of the bush, finding his prey right where he expected to. The picture did no justice for her, seeing the way her black curls were caught by the wind and tossed around her head. Her eyes were so old and ancient and touched by inner Magick they held the light of the Fey themselves, and the brilliant deep blue of her irises was illuminated by her subjects. Her skin was fair and pale, almost corpse like if it were not for the make up she had been applying to give herself rosy and full cheeks and dark, gothic lips. She looked around the street, smelling him out, calling her subjects to her and asking them what they could see. She grinned sardonically to herself, pulling the dark blue shall tighter around her body and walked back inside, the wind calming to a soft, warn breeze again at her command. Van Helsing heard the door close and the footsteps return to the top of the stairs before he put the gun back in his holster. He was about to step out from the bushes when the window opened again.

The wind picked up, spinning and swirling playfully as it captured the object she held to it, dropping it down on the pavement next to him. The black parchment caught his eye and he picked it up carefully, finding the seal already broken and the notes inside read through previously. Added to it was a single piece of white parchment with black ink on it, written in her or one of her servants' handwriting.

"If you truly hunt me you will escort me tomorrow. I will wear black to match you."


Morgan le Faye had no idea what truly intrigued her most about her new pursuer. Perhaps it was the feeling she got from him, but she got that from most men. Even Accolon gave her that feeling in the beginning. She assumed it was the challenge he presented and the thought of being chased after once more by a man other than her servants and subjects. Either way, she enjoyed him, and felt as if she should keep him around longer than Accolon.

She did not watch him leave, knowing that he would eventually walk away. If he dared enter she would have killed him by the sword or by Magick. To her they were both as easy to wield. One just needed the right control.

Her interest grew as she dug through her wardrobe, pulling out her old black gown and slipping over the mannequin in her room. It needed some stitching and some hemming, something her Faeries could provide without much asking. They were set to work and quickly had every loose stitch mended and every lace at the back re worked. It looked new.

The wind told her the man was gone. She smiled, happy that she did not have to do away with him. He interested her now. It gave her another reason to attend the ball the following night, other than her first reason, the sword. Eighteen others lay on the round table in her bed chamber, all glowing with the same radiant blue as the lake she had thrown the scabbard into to spite her half brother. She ran her fingers along the hilts of the swords, admiring each for the craftsmanship put into them. Soon, she told herself.

Morgan left her bed chamber and walked down the hall to her private study, free from her servants and subjects for a few hours. She stopped thinking about her intentions of finding the last two swords she required. She was going to find out about her new enemy, just in case he too decided to betray her as Accolon did.

Accolon was weak from the beginning. She said to herself. But this one has power to his name. Morgan shut the doors with a snap of her fingers and moved to the theology books she collected, pulling one from the shelves and waving a hand over it. There was an immediate reaction as the book opened. Latin scriptures wrote the title at the top: The Left Hand of God.


Author's Notes: Carl will be returning by popular demand! I have worked it into the original plot, along with a few more characters from Gabriel's past. I am working with the plot device that he is the left hand of Christ, in case anyone did not assume that from the final line of the chapter. Thanks to all the suggestions people have been giving me! I will have the next chapter up in a short while!

By the way, Morgan le Faye refers to a former lover named Accolon at the end of the chapter. This is just a small tidbit of information for those who have not read one of the many books about King Arthur. Accolon was used by Morgan to try and kill Arthur. She stole Excalibur from her half brother and gave it to him. Accolon challenged Arthur and surrendered, telling him the entire plan before Arthur kills him (in the version I read. There are many others).

Also, on a final note, this is not a Mary-Sue. As enjoyable as it is to fantasize about Hugh Jackman, I promise that he and Morgan's relationship is purely based on her manipulative nature, and she wishes to seduce him and use him instead of love him. On the same note, Van Helsing's interest in Morgan le Faye will remain neutral since he is loyal to the Order.