Full disclaimer with the prologue. In short, not mine, not making money, don't sue.
Apologies for taking so long to update.
R&R please, let me know how I'm doing! If you would like to pass along comments via email, you can reach me at
For all of those who kept prodding. Thanks to you, I've gotten my focus back. And for Toto, who can claim Jezebel.
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Over a week ago, the Mary Margaret had steamed into Boston Harbor. The thoroughly modern city of Boston was bustling, crowded. From there, a train carried them away from the rollicking hills of the eastern seaboard and across the windswept plains of the Midwestern United States. Past forests and prairies, cornfields and sprawling green pastures. From snow-capped, purple-peaked mountains that gave to the stark red deserts that blended back into scrub forests.
They switched trains in Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, big cities that had been nothing but names on a map until now. There was no time for playing tourist; there never was, regardless of where the missions took him. For the most part, he and Carl slipped by the Americans in their big, busy cities with nary a glance despite the fact they were dressed quite peculiar.
The United States nearly had more railroad miles than all of Europe. As it was, they covered some 3,000 miles by rail. The train deposited them in San Francisco; having reached the Pacific, they could go no farther west. The remainder of the journey to Santa Helena took four days by horseback, heading north along the rocky coast.
It had been well over a month since he had left Rome. Five weeks, going on six, Van Helsing reckoned, based on the location of the sun. It was easy to lose track of the days when traveling.
As a country, the United States of America was still quite young. It was barely a hundred years old, an infant when compared to most nations in Europe. But the continent had been settled long before the first Europeans set up their colonies. The indigenous peoples were pushed out by the colonists, who won the independence to fight their own wars, expand their boundaries, claim more land.
In a way, it wasn't that much different historically from Europe.
Except, in the span of one hundred years, the American frontier had been conquered.
Like many Europeans, his knowledge of America came from trade publications that made it across the Atlantic, or snippets in the newspapers. They relayed tales of wilderness untamed, vast unexplored lands, deadly banditos, Indian raids, and wide-open spaces.
Reaching down from his horse, he lightly touched the strand of barbed wire. It ran for miles in either direction. "Wide-open spaces, indeed," he murmured to his horse as he dismounted.
The animal was content to munch on the scrubby grass near the fence line. Van Helsing looped the reins around the nearest post and then, using the post for balance, carefully scaled the wire fence. Through some miracle, he managed not to tear his coat on the barbs.
Within a few minutes, he had climbed a slight incline and stood on a ridge just above Santa Helena. He smiled, not smug but satisfied that his navigation had been precise.
His mind was on the mission and it was best not to tip off whomever he was tracking down. The presence of two Europeans in remote California would no doubt attract attention. The individual, or group, responsible for the deaths of the Holy Order's agents had to know someone would be sent after him, or them, and make the connection.
Van Helsing preferred to just stay off the main roads.
From his vantage point, Santa Helena was a far cry from the other American towns he'd glimpsed from the window of the train. It was a laid out with a single street running north to south. There were a half dozen buildings, the tallest being two stories. To the north, he could make out a concrete structure that dammed up the Cleary River, and the remnants of a mill, evidence that some sort of industry had once existed in the town. Squinting, he could make out homesteads scattered various distances around the town, like spokes branching out from a wheel. A few homes had smoke coming from the chimney - a sign of life - but most appeared to be abandoned.
Though Van Helsing could see no church or anything that looked like a mission, he recalled that Santa Helena had been founded by Jesuit missionaries in the 1830's. At some point over the past few weeks, Carl had mentioned that.
Carl.
It was then that Van Helsing realized that the friar had not yet caught up with him.
Van Helsing had ridden ahead, no more than five hundred yards out of the pine forest, to scout the path and confirm they were exactly where he thought they were.
Carl should have caught up several minutes ago.
He looked back towards the forest. The tree line was dark and silent.
Suddenly, the horse was no longer interested in grazing. The animal's black head was turned towards the forest, its ears pricked forward, alert.
There was an echo of hooves and, without warning, a rusty colored horse burst from out of the trees. It came towards him at a full gallop, its long strides eating up the distance between the tree line and the fence. Behind it was a sorrel pack mule, straining to keep up.
Van Helsing recognized it because Carl had picked out the chestnut mare with the ridiculous name last week in San Francisco, along with the black gelding Van Helsing now rode. Back then she had been docile but now her eyes were wild and she ran as if for her life.
The saddle was empty.
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Carl wondered if the awaiting mission would be as taxing as the traveling had been. He had been resisting the urge to ask 'Are we there yet?' for days, mostly because Van Helsing had threatened to leave him in the middle of the forest if he did.
Still, the phrase bounced around inside his head like a phonograph recording, driving him to distraction. He was so distracted, in fact, that he never saw whatever it was that spooked his unexceptionally passive horse.
One minute, the animal, which had been called "Jezebel" by her previous owner, was sleepily plodding along and the next, she was on her hind legs, thrashing at the air. Jezebel took off as though shot from a cannon, gone so fast that Carl didn't even see the trail of dust she left behind.
The irony of the horse's name was not lost on him.
Carl was a competent horseman; he would have been able to stay in the saddle, had he been paying attention. But, at the moment the horse spooked, Carl was thumbing through a dime novel he'd picked up in Denver. When the animal reared, he tumbled haplessly backwards, landing flat on his back, staring up at the black trees and patches of slate gray sky.
Volumes on American history the Vatican library possessed and Carl had perused most of them prior to leaving. He only had limited room and his laboratory supplies took priority over history books on his packing list. How better to learn about local culture than to read the local literature?
But he'd be damned if Van Helsing caught him reading something so...non-scholarly. He stashed the novel inside his robe.
Nothing appeared to be broken, so Carl picked himself up, working to disentangle himself from his duffel bag. He'd thrown the bag containing only bare trail necessities over his shoulder earlier in the day. The bag had broken his fall from the horse and probably saved him from more than a few bruises, but it proved even more fortuitous than that.
The pack mule carrying most of his gear had been tethered to his saddle. When Jezebel took off, the hapless animal had no choice but to follow. At the very least, he enough gear to get by until he met up with Van Helsing again.
It was a sound that got his attention, a sound in an environment previously devoid of sound.
For the past several hours, the forest had been growing quieter, as if it held something so secret that even the birds and the insects were careful not to divulge it. And, considering the mission they were on, that was probably not far from the truth. The closer they came to Santa Helena, the more still the forest became. No birds, no insects, no wind. That was most unusual.
It started so soft and low that it was impossible to tell how long the rumbling noise had been occurring before he noticed it. In an instant the sound went from imitating distant thunder and to like being beneath a bridge as a locomotive roared by overhead.
It was only a thunderstorm. Apparently, storms came on fast in America, much like they did in certain parts of Europe. And yet...the rumbling was beginning to take on a pattern distinctly like an animal's growl.
The shadows lengthened, consuming the forest. No sun made it through the canopy. It was dark, more like midnight than half past two in the afternoon.
His special lantern had been attached to the mule. Digging through the duffel bag, Carl searched for the candles he knew were there. Finding one, he pulled the cylindrical tube containing his "mechanical matches," of which he was particularly fond. It was relatively simple, in his opinion: percussion caps embedded in a thin strip of paper that ignited the wick soaked in petrol. He'd been experimenting with different ways of igniting the wick. Flint-lock was a preferable choice, but more difficult to work with, so far.
At any rate, it was a much better way to start fires. He flicked the case open and it ignited on the first try.
The candle burned brightly, in start contrast to the dark all around him.
It stood not thirty yards away, watching him. He couldn't see it clearly, for it seemed to be part of the shadows rather than hiding in them. Whatever it was, it was large, much bigger than the wolves that roamed the forests of Eastern Europe. Its features where undefined, as if it were being viewed through thick fog. The creature seemed to be more feline and Carl thought it might be a mountain lion.
The creature seemed to stare at him with green eyes that were more oval than round. The creature smirked. God, yes, its lips curled back over gleaming white teeth and it smirked at him.
He felt more than saw it tense, preparing to pounce.
Carl dropped the candle.