Carl woke struggling frantically, someone's hand over his mouth. He bit down, hard, but with inhuman speed the hand was gone. Sucking in a deep breath, ready to shout loud enough to be heard in Boston, he finally registered the voice that had been hissing in his ear for the last minute. The breath he had taken clogged in his throat, and he started to cough on his relief.
"Carl, calm down! Carl! It's me!"
"Van Helsing?"
The friar turned, to see the hunter pulling himself upright with a relieved expression.
"For a moment there I thought you were about to bring the whole town down on us,"Gabriel breathed. He steadied himself as he rose, and Carl blinked in sleepy surprise as the adrenaline drained away.
Pushing himself from bed, the friar glanced out the window and realized that the sun had not yet risen. "What time is it?" he asked hoarsely. The need to sleep was reasserting itself, and he grumpily ignored it. "How did you -"
Gabriel flapped a hand absently at the window in answer, and Carl noticed that it had been expertly jimmied, and opened from the outside. Shivering at the draft, he trotted over to shut out the chill wind.
As he did, Van Helsing lit a small lamp that stood on a tiny table, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. When he turned, Carl caught a glimpse of his face and the question was unthinkingly put forth. "And what happened to you?"
The hunter was sporting a bruise on one cheekbone, and several bloody scratches on his throat. His clothes, also, were much different than what he usually wore – dark brown breeches and a white shirt, open at the throat since it appeared to be a bit on the small side.
"I found something in the woods," the hunter began, and then briefly explained about the bodies and warding lines. Despite his care, Carl paled halfway through the tale, and looked quite sick by the time he was finished.
"Is that all?" the friar inquired faintly.
The hunter glanced uncomfortably away. "Not quite." He reached into his pocket and brought out the parchments he had procured, while relating the story of the fight to Carl.
"And you think that may have something to do with it," Carl stated, gesturing to the parchments. They had unfrozen, and Gabriel was using the edge of his sleeve to dab the damp packets dry.
"Not exactly," Van Helsing replied.
"Hmm." Carl came forward then, his inborn curiosity gradually overcoming his sense of disgust. "It's vellum."
"Yes," Gabriel murmured. Now that he was able to examine the cloth, however, it felt strangely thin and tissue-like, much more delicate than he had expected. For all its value, vellum was truly tough material, made from calfskin and able to withstand the ravages of time.
Unless this wasn't vellum, precisely.
With deep trepidation, he drew his fingers slowly away from the three packets resting on the wood, grasping Carl's wrist when the scientist leant forward for a closer look.
"What?"
"Don't. Just for a moment," Gabriel whispered, chasing a fleeting memory. He reached out and with gently laid two fingers against one of the packets, barely touching the surface as he stretched beyond . . . .
He was flooded with emotion, swamped by the raw pain and confused fear, overcome with a lethargy that wound sensuously through every thought. Strange, cloying apathy smothered every thought of self-preservation or resolve, wrapping his agony in strips of disinterest.
He pulled away with a muffled gasp. The warding lines had been nothing like this.
"What, what is it?" Carl hissed as the hunter stumbled back a step.
Gabriel straightened, snarled through clenched teeth, "The parchment was made from human skin." Carl went so white so fast that Gabriel pushed him gently to sit on the bed. "Most likely," the hunter continued grimly, "the skin removed from each individual was replaced inside."
Carl pressed the back of his fist to his mouth, groaning deep in his throat.
"But why?" the hunter brooded, approaching the table. "Unless . . . ." He used the tips of his fingers this time, carefully testing the creases in the packets, and he began to painstakingly unfold the first he had found.
He smoothed the sheet out over the wood, taking care not to pull the fragile parchment. Spiky, runic writing in orderly lines filled the paper.
Carl's eyes caught on a few figures here and there that looked vaguely familiar, but he could make nothing of it. "It looks like cuneiform," he said doubtfully.
"Close," the hunter murmured. Surprised, Carl glanced over at Gabriel to see the hunter's eyes flicking back and forth across the page.
"You can read it?" He was admittedly shocked.
"I can." Gabriel was absorbed in whatever he was pulling off the page, and Carl waited with poorly concealed impatience for him to finish. By the time he had done so, however, Gabriel was white to the lips and lightly covered with a sheen of sweat. "It's a binding," he said before Carl could ask. "In Old Persian. One of the three languages that the Behistun inscription is composed of."
"That's the second time you've mentioned it," Carl commented. "What is it?"
Gabriel shrugged. "It's not very important, really. It's something like the Rosetta Stone, but for the now-extinct languages of Elamite, Babylonian, and Old Persian. It tells the story of Darius I, and his ascension to power over the Persian Empire. I recalled it simply because the language was only recently re-deciphered." And for the fact that it was possibly the first written description of impalement, inaccessibly carved into the side of a mountain.
"Really?" Carl was intrigued.
"1838," Gabriel confirmed, eyes never leaving the parchment.
"So what does this say?" Carl asked, once again returning his attention to the paper. Out of the corner of his eye, the words had seemed to crawl hypnotically across the page, twisting and shimmering. He stared at the black lines in the golden light, almost daring them to shift before his view.
"It's a binding," Gabriel repeated, pushing errant black locks back from his face. "To contain something of great power – but I don't know what. Whoever wrote this muddled the translation, and took dangerous shortcuts in both learning and writing the language. But I daren't read it aloud. Even with the obvious mistakes," here the hunter pointed to several places in the script, "it still holds power."
"Dangerous shortcuts?" Carl asked warily. God only knew what that could mean.
"It's clear to me that whoever wrote this didn't know quite what they were doing," Gabriel explained crossly, glaring at the parchment. "It's exceedingly sloppy, and dangerously inaccurate, but coupled with the four other inscriptions and the sacrifice, it would have the ability to contain a being of considerable power. Most worryingly, though, is the fact that it's missing the seal."
"Seal?"
Gabriel took pity on Carl's confusion. "The true name of the sacrifice, and the true name of the being that whoever wrote this wished to confine."
"Is there any indication of who wrote it?" Carl knew the hunter would probably have told him already, but he had to ask.
"No. More importantly," Gabriel added grimly, "what are they doing?" He lifted the parchment carefully, so that the light shone through it as he examined it.
Carl noted some marks that didn't seem to flow with the writing on the page, and a thought struck him. "Turn it over!"
Without question, the hunter did so, and both men froze. The words that leapt out at them had been hidden in a fold of the parchment, but were easily decipherable to both as they were written in English. Two words, only. A name. Anthony Austin.
"There it is," the hunter breathed, the light of understanding shining in his eyes. "The seal on the binding. The name of the victim."
Carl turned horrified eyes to his friend. "A hunting accident? What were they hunting?"
"I wonder if that's what Warren Gray was trying to find out," Gabriel responded bleakly.
"Warren Gray . . . " Carl couldn't take his eyes off the remaining packets, the words coming faster, now, with fear. "He never reported back after January twenty-third, Gabriel. He disappeared – and we have only Mayor Hastings' word to the town that he returned to Kent. No one's heard from him since."
Gabriel was already reaching for another parchment, and the friar grabbed the remaining packet. "I couldn't get close to the eastern sacrifice," Van Helsing rapidly pointed out. "There must be one in the south, but I was attacked before -"
The first uncovered name meant nothing to them. He must have been a villager, but neither had so far heard of his death. "Henry Zimmerman," Carl revealed, dropping the parchment as if it was distasteful to touch.
The second, however, was far more familiar. "Warren Gray," Gabriel sighed, and the two stared at the name for a moment before the hunter reached out to turn all the parchments over. "What are you doing?" Carl's curiosity surfaced once again after a few minutes of silence.
Gabriel's eyes were flicking between the sheets, checking and rereading whatever was contained on the gruesome paper. Eyes remained fastened on the writing as he replied. "Just checking. Each of these papers was probably written by the same person, but all are different; some are more complete, more detailed, missing some of mistakes in favor of new ones." Gabriel wrinkled his nose in disgust. "This one," he tapped Henry Zimmerman's sheet. "And this one," the hunter indicated the one with Warren Gray's name inscribed on the back. "Austins' seems much rougher, even the writing looks – less practiced. I would guess a considerable amount of time passed between these. It would have to have been at least a month."
"A month? How long have these bodies been out there?" Carl hissed, abruptly remembering that his host slept one thin wall away.
Gabriel shrugged. "It's difficult to tell – all the bodies I saw were frozen stiff, and it was hard to tell how long they had been exposed to the elements."
"So, they could have been up since the beginning of winter, and we would have no way to tell," Carl surmised dispiritedly. He sat down again on the bed, having been pulled from it by his insatiable curiosity despite the hunter's obvious worry. He had come closer to passing out at the unspeakable revelations than he was willing to admit. "Oh!" With a sudden sound of surprise, Carl remembered that he hadn't yet told the hunter of the conversation he had overheard after the previous night's meeting. He was treated to a thoughtful stare as he finished recounting the tale.
"So, someone felt the warding lines being breached? More than one person. And they knew where to go."
"It certainly appears so." A yawn rose up, and was only barely stifled. Gabriel saw the motion, however, and began re-folding the parchments.
"I want you to keep these on you," Gabriel told him seriously. "Be on your guard, as well. We'll need to meet later, in the center of town, but if we're seen exchanging anything attention will be drawn to you that I would rather avoid, for now."
"You're back to the Pardoes', then?" Carl asked around a yawn, the last few syllables swallowed whole.
Van Helsing smiled. "Yes. With any luck, they're still abed."
Carl looked at the hunter critically as Gabriel tucked the parchments into a pocket of the friar's robes, which were neatly hanging on a hook behind the door. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
"Some," the hunter touched his head briefly, and Carl read the message in that.
"Unconsciousness is not rest," he responded tartly. "Are you hurt?" He could see Gabriel's obvious fatigue in the set of his shoulders, and the openness of his concern. There were shadows under his eyes and lines of weariness in the tight set of his mouth.
Gabriel brushed off his concern. "Bumps and bruises. I'll be able to rest at the Pardoes, for a bit," he soothed, moving to the window and lifting the latch.
"Shut the window before you go, would you?"
Gabriel heard the request as he slipped out, and carefully slid the window closed. He heard the latch fall into place on the other side, and making certain he left no obvious tracks, he slipped away through the town.
When he slipped into the Pardoes' home, he discovered to his relief that they were indeed still asleep. He had seen signs of life beginning once more, with smoke rising from chimneys and lights shining out into the dark, from other houses down the street.
He crept up the stairs and into his room, just as he heard faint voices from Mr. and Mrs. Pardoe's bedroom. Stripping quickly, he exchanged Anthony Austin's clothes for his own. He was almost fully dressed when someone knocked on the door, and Kevin Pardoe stuck his head in. "Good morning," he grunted genially. "Sleep well?"
Gabriel threw him a brief smile, nodded.
"Breakfast will be on shortly," Pardoe informed him, before closing the door and clumping down the hallway.
Gabriel tugged down his black shirt before pulling on a dark grey sweater almost identical to the one he had been wearing the day before. Feeling somehow safer, he made his way, panther-like, to the kitchen and seated himself.
"Tea?" asked Mrs. Pardoe cheerfully as she bustled about with plates and food. "Chamomile," she decided upon looking at him.
"Thank you." Gabriel was somewhat at a loss on how to deal with such forward hospitality, and the best he could manage was somewhat surprised acceptance.
"I make my own blends fresh," Mrs. Pardoe proudly informed him as she put a pot on to boil. "Grow the herbs myself, year round."
"Louisa," Mr. Pardoe interrupted, saving Gabriel from having to come up with a response. "Is there any more of that strawberry preserve?" He gave the hunter a discreet wink, and a small smile.
"No, dear, we're out," Mrs. Pardoe replied, placing a cup of tea in front of the hunter, her husband, and herself. "Most of the other people in town buy their coffee from the General Store," she spoke to the table at large. "But I've always preferred tea, especially in the winter. Now, Kevin, would you like me to pick up another jar of preserve today?"
The tea, like all the food Gabriel had eaten so far at the Pardoes', was strongly flavored, almost overpoweringly so. He sipped more for politeness' sake than anything else. Mrs. Pardoe turned her attention to her husband then, who mentioned to Gabriel that he was senior Projects Manager for Boxborough's business with the Order, and that he was meeting with Carl later in the morning. The hunter nodded and answered in all the right places, increasingly wishing for the meal to be over. It was half an hour later before the three bade one another affable farewells, and went their separate ways.
Gabriel left the house with several goals in mind. He was sidetracked, however, by the smithy. As he passed, under the dim of the hammers keen ears heard a lowly voiced comment, followed by rude laughter.
Faster than thought, a circular spinning Tojo blade whipped through the air, and the sound of a hammer falling to the ground was the only noise heard. Ancell was neatly pinned to the wooden wall of the smithy, for the blade had neatly snagged his clothing and caught him fast, barely scratching the skin beneath.
A few shocked whispers from onlookers made their way to Gabriel's ears, but he ignored them.
" – so fast!"
"Where did the blade come from?"
"I believe," he stared evenly at Ancell, a steely glint in his eyes, "that you said something to me?"
Ancell couldn't rip himself free – sharp edges rested perilously close to his throat and nearly half the blade was firmly embedded in the stout smithy wall. But his eyes promised retribution, glowering hotly at Van Helsing.
"No?" the hunter demanded, glancing over at the dumbfounded apprentice. Luke Rosenthal's face was puffy, his nose looking as if it had been broken recently. "You should be more careful," Gabriel said softly, but it was impossible to tell which of the two men he was speaking to. It might have been both.
Reaching out, he pulled his blade free from the wall effortlessly, to the obvious chagrin of the blacksmith. Turning his back, the hunter began to walk away. The few watchers began to breathe again.
"Coward!" Ancell spat, and the ringing shout through the street caused all, Gabriel at the foremost, to freeze in their tracks.
He turned abruptly on his heel to face them. "Coward?" the hunter asked, almost pensively. And then he did something no one expected – he laughed softly. "Who is the coward? The man who walks away from a fight? Or one who takes affront at the mere presence of another, who attacks someone barely half his size, and instead of justly finishing the fight, throws him into the millpond like a scrapping child?" he hurled the words derisively at Ancell, whose face reddened visibly by the moment. "No," Gabriel murmured. "I am not the coward here."
He turned to leave, and got two steps before he felt a presence behind him. Whirling with incredible speed, he caught the blow aimed at his head and twisted brutally. Ancell's face crumpled in agony as bones were pressed nearly to the breaking point; he moved to hit the hunter with the opposite hand. And found the same blade that had nearly killed him moments before a hairsbreadth from his throat.
"Next time," Gabriel breathed, staring Ancell down, "I will kill you."
"You will wish you had never stayed your hand," the burly blacksmith snarled, complete hatred sloughing off him in waves.
Gabriel merely snorted, raising a brow, and pushed the man away. Ancell stumbled back, nearly tripping, as he cradled his right wrist. Bruises were already rising on the flesh. He plodded slowly back to the shelter of the smithy, panting in pain.
When Gabriel turned around, the blade had mysteriously disappeared from wherever he had summoned it, and the gawkers on the street were carefully avoiding his gaze.
No one hindered him as he traversed the street, eyes following him until he rounded the corner and was lost from sight.
(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(
Well, now that things are starting to happen, I thought it might be a good time to let all my readers know that at the end of this week, I'll be leaving on a 7-day vacation. Ch. 20 is in the works, so whether or not I get all that lot up and posted before I leave is really up to you. Review, let me know!