"Beppe, see to those horses!" Fabian ordered. "They're making me nervous."
Beppe wondered at the fact that the horses were all that made the stable master uneasy. Even from the paddock, he could hear the demonic creature's terrible roars and the crack of the whip as they beat him down.
"Easy girls," he soothed the mares. They stamped and pawed nervously, but the youth's presence calmed them some. Beppe had fed and brushed them since infancy delivered their foals. He was part of the herd.
"I wish they'd just leave him be," he thought aloud. "Maybe then he wouldn't shout so."
"Don't be a fool, boy. That bestia broke out twice already. The men have to wear him down. We'll all be safe once he's good and broken."
Beppe had been there day Marcello and his band dragged the monster into the village. Fabian complained when they converted his barn into a prison for the beast, but Beppe had been honored. He rushed about, gathering what the men needed: chains, torches, and food, glad to do them any service. They slipped him a coin, promising him that they would all be rich before long.
Now, they hardly noticed him, and Beppe was secretly glad. He'd gotten his fill of the monster after the first few days, and the brutality of Marcello and his men sickened him more than the creature's grotesque appearance.
A storm rumbled off in the distance and Beppe groaned. The mares were skittish enough as it was.
"A fine night, boy, isn't it?" Beppe jumped, and turned to find Marcello leaning on the stable fence. He nodded in hurried agreement, though Beppe shivered and the night sky was dark with clouds.
Marcello worked the pilgrims. For a price, he and his men would protect them from bandits and highwaymen. Few folk anticipated a need for protection in the peaceful Italian countryside. Marcello and his men took great pains to convince them otherwise.
"Yes, a fine night indeed," he repeated. The first flash of lightning tinted the distant sky and Beppe shivered. "Fabian!"
"You need me to stand watch tonight, signore?" A few of the village fathers had already been recruited to guard the creature.
"If you could; my men keep getting too close. The bestia smashed Gino's face in and now, the damned fool can't breathe straight."
"That's the fifth man since you brought him here," Fabian said uneasily.
"My men are brainless but you, my friend, are a quick-witted sort." Marcello clasped his shoulder, his voice oiled with camaraderie.
"I know enough not to shove my head in a demon's mouth I suppose." Fabian rolled up his sleeves and followed Marcello into the barn. From within, a thunderous roar followed a prelude of cracking bullwhips.
Beppe remembered a stallion he once saw. The horse was magnificent, held his black head high and proud. For three years, it roamed the countryside, going where he pleased, eating what he would until a Marcello and his men captured him. Marcello declared that the beast would be his own and set about trying to break it. The stallion would not comply. It had tasted the wild and would not go back, so Marcello beat it to death.
… … …
Frankenstein's back was scored with whiplashes, his face cut and his eyes swollen closed. A web of chains bound him to the floor and restricted his breathing. He had two bullets in his chest and a high fever. He couldn't remember the last time he had been fed or tasted clean water. And for the first time in his life, he felt truly murderous.
Two men entered the barn. The first, he recognized by voice: Marcello. Frankenstein glowered.
"It's only a matter of time before I escape, and when I do…" his voice was hoarse from yelling and his bruised face made it difficult to speak.
"You'll tear me limb from limb, burn the village, and kill us all to a man," Marcello recited. "It's old, bestia." There was an iron poker hanging out of a potbellied stove. Marcello slid it out, and held the glowing point in front Frankenstein's face. He did not flinch.
"Take a look at me," the he laughed bitterly, and the laugh faded into a weak cough. "Do you think a few more burns will make a difference, a few more scars on my tattered hide?"
"Let's find out, shall we?" Marcello slid the red hot tip through the chains pressed it against Frankenstein's neck. Frankenstein gritted his teeth. He would not make a sound, he told himself, and he would show no signs of pain. But the hot iron bit into him. He gasped and groaned and the acrid smell of burning flesh filled his nose. White light blinded him and he roared. He tried to pull away, but the iron was wedged between the chains and he only jammed it harder against his skin.
Then, in one fluid motion, Marcello drew the poker back and struck Frankenstein's face. He jerked back, the chains digging into his side, tearing into his wounds and choking his throat.
Marcello struck him in the side, and then across the chest. The blow landed on the bullet wounds and Frankenstein collapsed. The pain was inhuman.
"Most would say immortality's a gift. You survived those," his boot collided with Frankenstein's side. "I suppose a demon can't be harmed by mere bullets, though chains seem to hold you well enough. I'll tell you right now, bestia, you're going to wish those shots killed you. You're going to regret the day hell spawned you."
"Only the day it spat you out—" The iron slammed between his shoulder blades. Frankenstein knew that his retorts would only increase the pain and enrage his captors, but pride overruled good sense. He braced itself for the next blow, but it did not come.
"One of my men found something, bestia, found it on the ground where we caught you. Does it look familiar?"
Frankenstein could not see through his swollen eyes, but heard the faint clinking of a jewelry chain. Even blinded, he knew that it was a cameo necklace, the image of a woman in white porcelain on a pale red background, held on a golden chain. Rage gripped him, and nausea from the pain.
"G-get your f-filthy h-hands off of it." Frankenstein's rage turned inward. He hated himself for his own weakness and because he could not wrap his hands around Marcello's neck and strangle him.
"No, I think I'll keep it. I know a wench in San Calisto that would roll me good for it."
"You're not fit to touch it," he spat.
"And you are? Did you steal this from some woman, bestia? Did you tempt her to your bed and then kill her after, and keep this as a trophy?"
"Shut up!"
"Was she good, bestia? Did you enjoy her? Did she scream? Did she scream when she saw your ugly face?"
"Do not speak of her!" The world was spinning and Frankenstein was not sure if he faced up or down. Marcello was laughing. He heard the bullwhip sliding across the dirt floor, heard the crack of it before it struck him.
A shadowed figure moved into position on the rafters above. He studied the men below—there were seven. The three closest to the captive carried themselves like professional brutes, drawn to their full, intimidating height. The two men at the door, on the other hand, were uneasy. No doubt they were just villagers, caught up in the frenzy of hate and anger. The final man, the one taunting the creature, was obviously the leader.
Carefully, the figure chose his shot. The beam vibrated as he shifted his weight, and he waited. His hand would have to be steady. A bead of sweat dripped from his forehead, down his neck, and onto his hand. He ignored it, and pulled the trigger.
Marcello dropped to his knees and slumped forward. Before he touched the ground, Van Helsing put a dart in each of the two men standing behind him. The third brute fired three bewildered shots into the air before he was felled by a tranquilizer.
Two of the remaining three dropped their weapons and fled. Only Fabian remained. The old stable master clutched his gun his chest.
"Who's there?" he shouted, "Show yourself!"
There was a thump behind him and he turned. Lightning flashed and illuminated a pair of green eyes: the last thing he saw before the dart pierced his skin and sleep overtook him.
Van Helsing shoved the dart gun back into his jacket. There was a set of keys hanging on the wall and he grabbed them.
"You're in bad shape, my friend," he grunted, lifting the mass of chains and shoving them aside.
"Van Helsing?" he rasped.
The monster hunter forced a smile. The last shackle fell away. "Can you stand?"
Frankenstein nodded and lifted himself a few inches on shaky arms before collapsing.
"Easy," Van Helsing coaxed, "Just take it easy."
But Frankenstein tried again, forcing himself to his knees before stumbling forward.
"He took it," he said, still struggling to get to his feet. "The bastard has it. The filthy …"
"Easy, you're going to hurt yourself."
"No, I have to…" he groaned and fell hard.
"I'll get it, alright? Just stay still." The monster hunter scanned the ground. What ever Frankenstein had lost had better be in the barn. They didn't have much time.
"What am I looking for?"
"A necklace, red on a gold chain. Marcello has it."
Lightning sparkled off of something in the hand of the man he had pinned as the leader. Van Helsing kicked him over and pried the necklace out of his fingers.
"A gift from a lady friend?"
Frankenstein shook his head and reached up for it. Van Helsing handed it to him and he held it tight, drawing his fist to his chest.
Van Helsing whistled and the Transylvanian stallion trotted into the barn. He stepped over the bodies daintily, hardly batting an eye. In the distance, Van Helsing heard voices.
"Come on, we have to get you up."
Frankenstein nodded and tried to stand once more. Van Helsing put his shoulder under the giant's arm and hoisted him to his shaking feet. Frankenstein leaned on the horse for a moment then let Van Helsing shove him up. Leaning forward, he rested his head on the horse's neck, breathing heavily. Van Helsing mounted up behind him and urged the horse to a slow walk, heading towards the door at the back of the barn.
The voices grew louder outside, and the front door swung open. A mob of people stormed in as Van Helsing urged the horse to a gallop.
One man raced past the crowd and drawing his gun, fired at them. They were out of range. Van Helsing could hear a stream of Scottish curses as they rode out of sight.
A/N: rewritten a fourth time, now with 20% less gore.