Carl was a little disconcerted by the reception they had received in Boxborough. It was too public for his tastes, and he had felt uncomfortably like a prize vegetable being shown off at the county fair. Absurd as the impression seemed on reflection, he decided it was the most accurate.
After all, traveling with Van Helsing meant certain things could be taken for granted. The hunter never received a warm welcome, and accordingly always maintained a low profile. Being so thrust into public awareness didn't sit well with Carl, and he knew that Gabriel would also be discomfited, at the very least.
The welcome they had been given was strange. While he expected a village composed entirely of members of the Order to be more informed about Van Helsing's actions, Carl had caught wind of some of the whispers floating through the air at the hunter's introduction. There had been awe, and wonder; emotions beyond the simple acknowledgement or respect the friar had anticipated. If he had to put words to it, Carl could only say that it was the extreme opposite reaction than what they usually endured. Even within the Vatican, Van Helsing was more likely to endure suspicion than encounter friendliness.
Yanking his mind from troubling thoughts, Carl mustered up a smile for his host, who sat down on the bench opposite him.
After the meeting in the church and Gabriel's terse message, the three had separated, following their respective hosts to their lodgings. Mr. Schoen was a recent widower, and his house still held traces of the absent feminine presence that he so obviously missed. There was more than enough room for both men to reside in comfort, though Schoen freely admitted that he was lacking some amenities that his wife had provided. Regardless, Carl had taken the hours between arrival and the elaborate welcome to bathe, eat and rest.
Evening had fallen, and Schoen had silently led Carl back to the meetinghouse. His home was one of many small abodes clustered haphazardly behind the General Store. Carl's attempt to draw the taciturn Mr. Schoen into conversation had yielded the information that most of the homes were located on small side streets behind the main town square. The Pardoes lived closer to the meetinghouse. Gabriel, on the other hand, was housed on the far outskirts of the town. If Hastings had wanted to divide them, he had done a damn good job.
"Thank you for your hospitality," Carl spoke to his host, uncomfortable with the silence between them.
He thought his words were lost in the bustle of celebration, but Schoen sat back on the bench, rubbing his neck. "Least I could do," he rumbled, looking as uncomfortable as Carl felt.
But the friar couldn't hide his perplexity. "Uh, how so?"
Schoen shrugged. "For all you've done for the Order. I'm glad to help."
"I was just doing my job." Carl easily dismissed the other's perceived debt.
Schoen's head jerked up. "No," he insisted, leaning forward. His eyes locked on Carl's, showing a frightening intensity. The friar was taken aback by the sticklike man's sudden animation. "No – you and your comrades have done so much for our fight. And now that you've agreed to help us -" One side of his mouth curled upward in a somewhat ruthless smile. "We'll be better prepared for the fight ahead."
"Fight?" Carl suppressed his alarm.
Schoen nodded. "Of course. We are always fighting against the forces of darkness, is it not the same in Rome?"
Carl shrugged, eyes wide. "Not – not quite," he managed.
Schoen flapped a weathered hand at him. "I admire your modesty. But we received word of the battle against the great demon that took place in the Holy City itself. Your triumph was cause for great rejoicing." Words flowed from the man in a surprising stream, given his previous tight-lipped tendencies.
Carl froze. "I'm – I'm glad to hear that," he babbled once his voice returned to him. "Thank you. I'm just going to – I'll just be – going – now – I'll speak with you later?"
Before the other could reply, Carl threw him a somewhat sickly smile, gained his feet, and nearly bolted into the crowd. Schoen's thoughts on the encounter remained hidden behind a blank visage, as he rose and made his way in the opposite direction.
It is a difficult thing to politely shove a path through tightly-packed crowds, but somehow Carl managed it. The hunter, however, was nowhere in sight. Thinking quickly, Carl pressed past the few people crowded up against the wall, managing to avoid those dancing in the center of the room by sheer luck. Spotting Lamar, he snagged the other's sleeve on his way by, and the two unobtrusively slipped out the door.
The sigh of relief that issued from his lips was a clearly visible plume in the cold air. The hunter, who had snuck out a little earlier, was lurking in the shadows by the corner of the building, well away from any windows. "There you are," Carl breathed. Still absently pulling Lamar behind him, he ducked past the windows to arrive at Van Helsing's side. "Have you talked to any of the townspeople?" he hissed immediately.
Gabriel raised a brow, a small smile quirking his lips. "Good evening to you too, Carl."
"Well, I have," Carl persisted indignantly. "And let me tell you, it was strange!"
"How strange?" Gabriel asked thoughtfully, abandoning his playful teasing. The hunter's hat was pulled low over his head, and he seemed at ease in the freezing temperatures outdoors. At least it had stopped snowing.
"Very strange," Carl emphasized. "I talked to my host – Jason Schoen, is his name."
"The tall, grey-haired man? A widower, from the look of it," Lamar pulled his sleeve irritably from Carl's grasp, but the auburn-haired man only rubbed his fingers together in a futile effort to keep warm.
"Yes. He seemed -" the friar paused, chewing his lower lip as he searched for words.
"Yes?" Lamar urged, leaning against the outer wall of the meeting house next to the hunter. He tucked his hands into his sleeves, wrapping his arms around his chest to stay warm.
"He was very dedicated to 'the fight'," Carl murmured at last. His use of air quotes did less to elucidate his meaning than he knew. Gabriel's look of patented confusion went unnoticed.
"'The fight'?"
"He actually used the phrase 'forces of darkness'," Carl burst out, his discomfort evident.
"That's trite," the Jerusalemite commented acidly.
Gabriel snickered.
"Who says that?" the friar demanded of his comrades.
"Someone very committed to a cause," Gabriel riposted seriously. "Did he seem . . ." the hunter trailed off, distractedly gesturing with one hand.
"Zealous," Lamar supplied. "Over-enthusiastic, maybe?"
"I just – I don't know!" Carl threw his hands up into the air, whirling away from them and taking a few steps away from the shelter of the building before turning back. "I don't know why I should be so – so -"
"Frightened?" Gabriel gently suggested.
"Yes! No!" Carl snapped. He rubbed his forehead distractedly, taking a calming breath. "Disturbed. It was very disturbing," he confessed, subdued. "It's just – he acted as if he knew what we do, what you do," he directed his words at the hunter, eyes firmly locked on dark, distant shapes he knew to be homes. "And instead of fearing it, he – he admired it. Glorified it." Carl cast a pleading look at Gabriel, silently begging him to understand.
The hunter frowned, the expression clearly visible to the others despite the hat pulled low over his face. "What I do," he stated very calmly, "is destroy. I destroy evil. People who do not know the truth have cause to fear me – but those who are aware of what I really do have even more reason to do so." He shifted uncomfortably. "I have come across those who adore the violence of it." Gabriel winced, the words coming slowly, with difficulty. "Oftentimes they didn't truly know what it was that we fight."
Carl shook his head. "I want to believe that is the case," he said steadily. "But Schoen knew about Beelzebul, Gabriel!"
The hunter's head shot up, and he fixed Carl with an urgent stare. "What?"
Carl shook his head. "No details, not even the creature's true name. Nothing of the Spear," he added with a sidelong glance at Lamar.
The dark-skinned man snorted derisively. "Rome did loose contact with the outer reaches of the Order for several days," Lamar reminded the others in his precise voice. "Such a breakdown of communications would be noticed even here."
Gabriel shook his head. "The communications between Boxborough and Rome have been sporadic for over a year, and decreased significantly last June. The cable between Boxborough and Acton broke down then, and hasn't been repaired. A few days' lapse of communication would go unnoticed here."
"Then how would they even know of the attack on the Holy City?" Carl wondered. At the others' lost expressions, he explained. "Think about it. You said it yourself, Gabriel. Even within the Order, missions are concealed; and that last would spur a panic the likes of which have rarely been seen."
Gabriel nodded in comprehension. "For word of that to travel across the sea, when even the attack itself should have remained secret . . . " he mused.
Carl recognized the glint immediately. "What is it?"
"I was just wondering," the hunter murmured pensively. "How is it that we receive almost no word of the goings-on in this little town, when the secrets of the Vatican are common knowledge here?"
Discomfited by the piercing question, Lamar shrugged. "In your own words, Schoen at least seemed more enamored of the violence than the Spear," he offered quietly.
"Yes."
"I wonder what Derek Hastings' reaction would be." Gabriel glared in the direction of the meetinghouse door. He obviously did not like the man; primarily because his first impression of the mayor was that he was supposed to. The silence prevailed for a brief time, but the hunter surfaced from his thoughts with yet another question. "Did either of you find out anything from your hosts about Warren Gray?"
Carl snorted. "According to Mr. Schoen, Warren Gray departed for home in Kent after sending off his last missive. He seemed happy to return to his home, and they haven't heard from him since. Lamar?"
Dark eyes staring into the night, the Jerusalemite sorted his thoughts. "I am staying with Kevin and Louisa Pardoe," he began. "They seem amiable enough. I did ask of Warren Gray. According to Mrs. Pardoe, Gray suffered with sickness much of the time he was here. Supposedly, he became ill during the voyage over Atlantic, and was unable to recover due to the harsh weather. She said that he was fevered much of the time, and seemed disoriented."
"This casts doubt on the information in all the reports he sent, if he was truly ill during the entirety of his stay here." Carl's troubled glance at the hunter received only a grunt in response.
"I do not know how far I believe that," Gabriel sighed.
"Why would you doubt her?" Lamar queried frankly, lines appearing on his brow.
It was the hunter's turn to be lost for words. Groping for something to say, he unfolded his arms from where they were crossed over his chest, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Instinct," he growled, shoving down his embarrassment.
Carl's expectant expression demanded elaboration.
"I don't sense anything . . . tangible," Gabriel proffered an explanation, knowing that Carl would understand what he was referring to. "I just have a gut feeling that I can't ignore," he shrugged, somewhat frustrated with his inability to put the twitchy alertness pervading his mind into words. "Already, a few things don't add up."
Lamar shrugged. "That was the most I could learn from Mrs. Pardoe. Mr. Pardoe – Kevin," he amended awkwardly. "Kevin was less talkative about the subject, though he essentially agreed with his wife."
Gabriel nodded thoughtfully, leaning back against the building's corner to stare into the dark sky. Stars speckled the velvety blackness like diamonds scattered on silk. "I spoke with Widow Austin," he began. "She remembered Warren Gray. He had been a frequent visitor to her house, especially after her husband's death in December. From what I could gather, Anthony Austin died in an accident; Mrs. Austin was too pained by the memory to speak of it, and Ben doesn't know the details." Something for which Gabriel was quietly thankful. Shaking his head, the hunter continued. "She didn't mention him being ill, but she didn't have a high opinion of him. Apparently, Gray persisted in asking her about her husband's death, professing to guilt for not being able to prevent it."
"If it was an accident, how could he have prevented it?" Carl vocalized, confusion evident.
Lamar shrugged. "Perhaps simply by being present?"
"Maybe." Gabriel's tone of voice indicated that he wasn't sure if he believed it, but he continued regardless. "He stopped showing up around the twentieth of January, and when the Widow went into town a week later, she discovered that he had departed for home. According to those she spoke with, at any rate."
Carl sighed. "This is going to be even more impossible than the search for that damnable Spear," he grumbled irritably. "At least then we had more to go on than hear-say and supposition."
Gabriel brooded over this for a moment. "We came here to find out what happened to Warren Gray," he reminded the others. "We need to continue to ask about him, but in a roundabout way. Try not to draw more attention than necessary."
"Of course," Carl agreed quietly.
Gabriel looked around them carefully, lowering his voice. "Also, there's something amiss in this town. Whatever it was, it's at the heart of Gray's disappearance. We have to find out what it is – but I don't want either of you to ask any direct questions."
"Why not?" Lamar challenged.
Gabriel shook his head. "Warren Gray came here searching for an answer. We don't know where he is now, and although we're in a group, we're still heavily outnumbered. I just don't want to raise any suspicions, especially if we're being looked on with respect right now. That's a protection that I don't want us to lose."
The hunter breathed a sigh of relief at the others' understanding nods. Lids slipped down briefly over hazel eyes, before he blinked and noticed that Lamar was shivering.
"Meet me halfway between the Austin home and the town, tomorrow at ten?" he offered, suddenly eager to conclude their meeting and return to the warmth.
"Sure," Carl chattered, ducking his head down under his hood.
Lamar could only nod.
They had been so absorbed in their conversation that they had disregarded the cold. Now, they paid the price, with frozen fingers and toes. As he shook out his fingers, out of the corner of his eye Gabriel saw Carl return to the meetinghouse.
"Aren't you going back inside?"
Lamar gave him a tiny, somewhat bitter smile. "No."
"Why not?" the hunter's curiosity got the best of him, but he kept all his attention directed outward as opposed to focusing on the man shivering at his side.
The moon was barely a sliver, almost impossible to find among the swiftly-traveling clouds. What little light reflected off the snow was from the stars, twinkling faintly down at them. It was very dark outside.
"My hosts are very accepting," Lamar's subdued voice surprised the hunter, whose every sense was strained to the utmost. "But I have heard . . . comments, from some of the other townspeople."
"Comments?" the hunter did not like the sound of this, and it showed.
"Derogatory remarks," Lamar murmured, a blush darkening his face. "The color of my skin gives some pause, here."
It was not wholly unexpected. The Vatican was a seat of incredible diversity, where the members of the Order worked tirelessly to maintain their opposition against evil. Everyone who arrived there, no matter their appearance, came with one ultimate purpose in mind. Superficial differences were ignored in the drive of that all-consuming goal. While what Carl had said led Gabriel to believe the people of Boxborough considered themselves as doing something similar, they were still in Massachusetts. The war between the states had taken place almost thirty years past, and some prejudice was understandable given the fact that the entirety of the town populace was pale-skinned. Understandable, but not acceptable. The slight angered the hunter, though he kept it in check.
"There was a man – others said his name was Ancell – who was very vocal." Lamar was anxious about anything that could rouse the townspeople against them – but he could not help what he was.
Gabriel frowned at the name. "I do not think it is the color of your skin that is most bothersome to Mr. Ancell," he said coldly.
"What do you mean?"
"The blacksmith has a quarrel of some sort with me as well, I believe," Gabriel admitted. "I haven't spoken to the man, but he addressed me with . . . quite a lot of anger. It may just be because we are strangers. He might be looking for a reason to fight," the hunter revealed his suspicions.
Lamar laughed bitterly. "Of course. I had forgotten that merely being different was reason enough for scorn, from some."
"Just so," Gabriel replied grimly. It was getting very late, and neither of them was warm. "Would you mind showing me where the Pardoe's house is?" he asked at last. "I want to know where you'll be, if I need to find you."
Lamar nodded knowingly. "Follow me."
In silence, the two men left the meager shelter of the meetinghouse, stepping full into the wind. Lamar shuddered convulsively, and picked up the pace so that he was almost jogging toward the row of stores across the street. Gabriel followed him through a narrow alley between a bakery and a seamstress', coming out onto a row of houses sequestered behind the main square proper. The homes were all small, the windows dark.
"The Pardoes are both attending the gathering tonight," Lamar spoke over the wind. "But they told me the location of an extra key, should I want to return early." The short man stretched, brushing his fingers over the top of the door, which he could only just reach. Something clattered onto the front stoop – the key had been placed on a ledge created by the molding around the door. Gabriel crouched, retrieving the errant piece of metal, and handed it to Lamar. The Jerusalemite lost no time in letting himself in. He bid the hunter a swift goodnight, barely understandable through chattering teeth, before firmly shutting the door against the cold.
Gabriel shook his head, chuckling a little. Long inured to temperature extremes through experience, the hunter pulled his hat down lower and ducked back into the cold and the wind, heading for the far outskirts of the town.
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I'm sorry about the increasing chapter length – while my personal goal is 2,000 wds/chap, I seem unable to keep it much less than 3,000 . . . oh well. The next chap may be awhile – between stray kitten hunting and graduation parties, I'm not looking at serious typing time until Sun. Thanks to trecebo for the suggestion about race . . . I hadn't considered it before, but it made sense when I thought about it, so I decided to incorporate it. SHOUTOUT TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! My pleas for feedback were warmly responded to, thank you all!
A quick answer to a question that's popped up a lot – no, none of my stories are posted on other sites, I do not have a personal website of any sort, or a yahoogroup or anything. Aside from ffnet and Microsoft Word, I'm shockingly computer deficient(Which is why any funkiness with ffnet gets me worked up, lol!). If enough people requested it, I could probably muddle through creating one (as I have oodles of free time after this weekend). What you see here is the fastest update available.