Chapter Sixteen: Pain

That I should take comfort in the one beside me

That I should turn to you

Faint sounds filtered through to Carl before anything else. Muffled, they sounded like ghosts and phantoms carrying on conversation, debating, Carl thought muzzily, over what to do with his mortal body. He was sure he was dead.

Then pain broke upon him and he changed his mind. If dead people were allowed to feel this badly, then God wasn't playing by the rules— and Carl was quite sure that wasn't the case.

He must be alive.

The voices— were they real? Or imagined? He heard the growling as if of beasts, far too close for comfort, and the murmuring of devils.

He opened his eyes.

The world was black.

There was no light and he could not see.

Carl bit back a yelp of alarm, but could not stop himself from an involuntary movement. It was slight, but whoever was out there took note, and gave a low, evil chuclkle.

"The young man is awake—"

"I see that."

"Would you like to do the honors?"

"Thank you, no." The second voice was higher, and somewhat familiar, but in Carl's half- conscious state he couldn't identify it. "Can't we tell him what is going on? He must be confused."

They were silent for a moment, and then the first voice spoke, apparently acquiescing to the younger man's request. "Mr. Hampton," it began, and Carl moved slightly, surprised at the sound of his own name, "we have certain knowledge of an idea of yours— some sort of drastic— weapon, shall we call it? Certainly from the looks of the blueprints we have recovered, it is a device capable of great destruction. May I ask what you are building it for?"

Carl began to answer, but his throat was parched as a desert and creaked alarmingly before he managed a slightly defiant, "Ask all you like, but I don't see why I should tell you."

There was another pause, then the owner of the voice chuckled deeply and slowly. The sound made the hairs on the back of Carl's neck stand up. He strained his eyes, trying somehow to see through the weave of the blanket that covered his upper body.

"A head-strong one, I see," said the voice. "One would expect nothing less from a man who Tamerlaine Gentle calls a friend."

Carl stiffened. "Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"Relax, Mr. Hampton. You are speaking in time-honored cliches, a sign that you are truly worried, I suppose. You'll soon see her. In the meantime I have a proposition to put to you— concerning this invention of yours—"

Carl swallowed. "What is it that you want from me?"

B.R.E.A.K.

Van Helsing paced the floor, his mind working as fast as it ould.

Who would take Carl?

Why would anyone steal a friar?

Maybe they didn't know he was a friar. He'd been dressed in Van Helsing's ordinary clothes instead of his robes. Van Helsing thought, absurdly, that he wanted his extra trousers back.

What did that have to do with anything?

Hannah watched him as he stomped back and forth, muttering angrily to himself. My brother is missing. Good heavens, Mr. Vasn Helsing is angry— he looks so instense when he's upset, so very— I wonder if he'd permit me to call him Gabriel? Or even— Gabe— ? No, no, that would never do— But perhaps—

The voices in Van Helsing's head would not be quiet. They were jumbled, talking over themselves, confusing him. Then one arose over the cacphony— a feminine, quiet, heavily accented voice.

"Think, Gabriel, think."

The voices gradually took up the cry.

"Think, Gabriel! Think!"

He thought.

He thought he remembered—

"Mr. Van Helsing—" said Hannah tentatively.

"Quiet," said Van Helsing, in tones that invited no appeal. "I'm having a flashback."

Why would anyone steal a friar and a tablecloth?

He arrived at the Hampton house. The butler looked him over in a way he did not like, then went to inform Hannah; who appeared, automatically simpering at the sight of him, storming him with inportunities, exclaiming over his hat, screaming at his haircut, and generally making a nuisance of herself. He found his way to the dining room and threw the door open—

Carl had already risen to meet him, face flushed and gleaming with the pleasure of seeing his friend so unexpectedly, one hand out for him to shake— his fingers were black with inkstains—

—as was the tablecloth—

Van Helsing's eyes snapped open and he shouted wordlessly, excitedly; an unlooked-for side-benefit of this was that it startled Hannah so badly she dropped her cup of tea in her lap.

B.R.E.A.K

Carl had his eyes wide open, trying again to see through the cloth. "You must be joking," he said, horrified.

The deep voice laughed once more. "I never joke. I take it this is your initial refusal to comply?"

"Initial, and final. My reaction to what you suggest will not change."

"You say that now—" said the voice slowly. "But I will keep asking. I do not stop till I get what I want. Ever."

Carl bit his lip. The voice had turned menacing, threatening. Of the other voice, the one that perhaps might hold either pity or mercy, he heard nothing.

"And every time you refuse to do as I ask," the voice went on, "you'll regret it a little more."

When the pain in his leg, just below his knee, started, Carl couldn't stop a cry from escaping his lips. The voice chuckled as if at some deep pleasure, and the pain increased.

Carl twisted his body awkwardly, seeking escape or relief, but none came until, finally, he passed into unconsciousness, and a warm, welcoming dark.