Hybrid

Helsing lay in his bed quietly, staring blankly at the stone ceiling in the bare and drafty room. He was exhausted, but sleep refused to come while his mind was so occupied in thought.
What purpose could someone possibly find in cross breeding a human and a werewolf? Of course, approximately 70% of science’s progress had been more for ‘the could’ rather than ‘the should’ of a situation. Perhaps this scientist, obsessed with the possibilities and proving his colleagues wrong was one of the genius’s of the world that got caught up in the same system of thinking, where sometimes even logic or reason could not interfere. Just what was it like to be born part werewolf? Were they human? Was that what it was like for them every day? A walking keg of gunpowder just waiting for a fuse? Killing him would probably be yet another mercy in that case. But without the use of silver it was going to be difficult, and he obviously was good at survival having lived all this time with only two reports making it here. Helsing would have to talk to Carl in the morning and see what he may have hidden up those baggy sleeves of his.
He turned his head to see the bright sliver of the crescent moon rising just above his window sill. He could remember like it was yesterday when he feared the full of the moon more than that of death, and how he had been right to do so…
Involuntarily, his mind wound back in time to a dark castle, the moon full and brilliant as the sun in the sky. His body on fire from the changes back and forth from man to wolf, and wolf to man again and again, fighting Count Dracula, his true form just as ferocious as the gruesome thing he himself had become. How they fought beyond reason or heroism, but of rage, of blood. For Blood, something in their beings that drove them together that felt so naturally familiar like acting out a forgotten battle from long ago. Teeth, claws and the berserk need to kill, the vampire was defeated, and the black wolf howled in its triumph. A new smell comes to it just before a voice calls a name unknown to it.
“Gabriel!” He swung around to see her, standing still with something in her hand, her hopeful dark eyes staring into his, but without concern or thought, he lunged upon her, driving her into the wall when a painful thing stabbed into his side. He grunted, stopped, shook, and his yellow eyes turned from blood lusting, to human. He howled again, this time in pain: a wrenching, agonizing and unmerciful knife of grief stabbed into his now human heart as he shrunk back into a man. The howl melted into broken sobs as he stood holding the woman he loved, beautiful, forgiving, and dead in his arms.
Without being aware of it, Helsing drifted into fitful sleep. He saw the pyre he and Carl had burned Anna’s body on. He saw the sunset as the rays of the sun peered in radiance through the clouds over the water of the ocean. He remembered he had seen her face that day, standing amongst her gypsy family, happy. She now sat before him. She looked alive again. He had this dream many times, and he knew this too was a dream, that she was with him again, like the nightmare at Dracula’s den had been the dream, and this was reality.
She was sitting upon a flat rock in the forest. Her black hair was cascading down her back and stood out sensually against her white corseted gown. She turned her head and gave him a small smile as she looked at him concerned.
“You’ve gotten thinner,” she said.
He sat down next to her. Seeing her even in a dream always felt like a chain slowly being drawn tighter across his chest, but better this than her not being around at all.
“I eat,” he said, “its just that monk food and rations aren’t always the most hearty of foods.”
“And you haven’t been sleeping,” she pointed out.
“I sleep enough,” he said, and then added a little shyly, “I sleep to see you.”
She smiled, her black eyes slightly sparkled. He looked at her dress and smiled, "I don't think I've ever seen you in white before."
"Not much point," she said. "When you're out to kill vampires and werewolves, it wouldn't be practical to wear white."
He scoffed until it turned into a full out laugh.
"What?" Anna demanded.
"You," he said between breathes, "you, practical? The first time I ever saw you was in a tiny corset and boots with heels longer than those swords you collected!"
She rolled her eyes, "But they weren't white, were they?"
His laughter quieted, and then his look became dark. "I don't suppose it would be at all possible for us to stay like this forever?"
She bit her lip and shook her head. All he did, all he could do, was nod and avert his eyes. She slowly raised her hand and gently brushed a lock of his hair from his face. He sweetly pressed his face toward her hand until she brushed and lightly cupped his cheek. He could swear he felt the heat of her hand, though in his mind he knew he didn’t, his heart didn’t care.
“I miss you,” he whispered, those simple words sending a ripple of vulnerability shaking the foundation of his emotional control.
“I miss you too,” she sadly replied. She removed her hand and stood, walking a few paces from their seat. The sun made her gown glow almost angelically. Helsing wished to follow, yet he could not force his limbs to move. “I wish I could tell you that this will be the night you’ll recover much needed rest,” she said, “but I’m afraid tonight is not the night.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, confused. In the distance, he thought he could hear a bell ringing. Once…twice…thrice…
“It’s time for you to wake up now.” The ringing became louder and louder. Her voice became dizzying. “Wake up, Gabriel, wake up…”…
“Wake up, Gabriel, Wake up! Senior Helsing! Wake up, please!”
The urgent voice and the clash of the door hitting against the stone wall jolted Helsing awake to a sitting position in his bed. The ringing in his dream had been no dream, but the warning bells of the church, and there Brother Romeros stood, shaking and wild eyed in panic and excitement.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded as he fetched his boots. He usually slept fully dressed, and this was no exception.
“There is an intruder in the lair. He had incapacitated at least six Brothers and was heading for the scroll room. I was sent to fetch you immediately.”
“Have you shut off the area?” Helsing threw his weapon’s sack on the bed and rummaged through it, removing various objects. His spin blades, knife, net gun…
“Yes, and the Brothers have armed themselves in preparation to go in and fight the intruder with you.”
Helsing strapped on his pistols, pulled on his coat, loaded it with all his weapons and was ready to go. He led the way as Romeros tagged along closely behind him. The Monks were in a frenzy as they gathered weapons and met outside the scroll room.
“He just went in there,” Carl was one of the few with weapons waiting for orders. “We wanted to wait for your command first.”
“No one is going in there but me,” he cocked his guns, one in each hand. “You will all stay here 20 feet from the door. This is a stone hallway, and if he should get past me, your jobs will be to stop him. But nothing foolish; it’s not worth your life. Now back up, everyone.” Everyone did as he said, as he slowly opened the door. He noticed the lock had been broken, not picked, and that could only mean that whoever was in here was strong. But even the strongest men could be beat by bullets.
He made sure the first thing through the door was his pointed guns ready. He closed the door once inside and warily looked about. He had never been in this room before, since there hadn’t been much point. Though he could read many languages, he didn’t do much in the way of reading; areas of that practice had always been something more along the lines of what people like Carl did. It was dank, dark and crowded. Only a few square windows ran along the west wall, and under them are round tables covered in books and scrolls. In the back were a dozen shelves of different sizes packed to full capacity of written works. To the east wall wasn’t much different, but only more shelves and no tables. In the moonlight and streetlight from outside, they shined through the windows to leave square splotches of light on the floor, but the rest of darkly quiet and still.
He searched with his eyes, darting this way and that, his ears perked for the slightest noise. He couldn’t see anything of the intruder, but he could feel the eyes of someone watching him, waiting. Helsing stepped slowly, his guns still pointed. His head jerked to the right when a creak came from the shelves. Sure enough, a single piece of paper fell gently to the floor. He walked in that direction, moving out of line only to make way for the chairs and stacks of pages on the stone floor.
There up against the shelves was a worn leather bag with a drawstring at the top, only it wasn’t shut. Inside he could see that there were a number of bound scrolls peaking out. As he neared it, the feeling of watchfulness became intense, sending the fine hairs on his neck on their tips in alarm. Whoever he was, he was near, and he was behind him.
Helsing swerved around, his intention was to trap the stranger and give them a chance to get through this peaceably, but instead he got an alarmingly swift series of kicks that knocked his weapons out of the line of the target. The deviant crouched to the ground only to use their leg to twirl around and knock Helsing’s feet off the floor, sending him crashing down on the hard stone. He felt the air stir as the dark clad intruder run past him. Helsing scrambled to his feet, as his aching back protested. Before he could take site with his gun, the stranger lifted the side of one of the text cluttered tables and literally tossed it in the air, causing a blizzard of papers flying in a noisy and blinding dance. Through the chaos, Helsing could make out the black figure grabbing the large pouch of scrolls and leap to the sill of one of the windows out to the street. Helsing quickly took aim, using the will of concentration to fade out the falling pages, and fired.
A sharp cry of pain sounded from the window. The bullet had hit its mark: the left hand that had held the sack of scrolls. Now the sack fell heavily to the floor as the last of the paper now lay quietly. The now wounded burglar jumped from the window and bent to retrieve the bag but stopped when the end of Helsing’s gun rested a mere centimeter from their temple.
“Leave the scrolls, and you can go ,” said Van Helsing slowly. The masked vandal didn’t move, so he repeated the bargain again in Italian, in case he didn’t speak English. The street light shone softly on the black cloth of the mask and head cover the intruder wore. Helsing searched for the eyes in the opening slit of material, and found that the skin that was revealed had been painted black, and the eyes were looking downward toward the bag. For a moment, he wanted to think that he would surrender, that this would be it for now, but he saw that the painted eyes were not lowered in submission, but were shifting slowly with intent. Helsing tightened his hand, ready for an attack. He had not expected it to come as the form of a nearby fallen chair being kicked into his chest, throwing him backwards into the wall. The force forced the air from his lungs and the gun went off in his hand. He saw the thief had grabbed the bag and was running toward the chamber door. He shot four shots at him until the gun went empty and the vandal swung open the door. Light poured into the room, and from the hall Helsing heard an Italian shout, translated to “There he is! Fire!” and an explosion of sound and the smell of gunpowder erupted within the peace of the church.
The deviant lunged back inside the room as the bullets flew, the massive oak door protecting him from the assault, but not from Helsing. Van Helsing drew another gun, this time its execution was not a bullet, but a net. He fired and as though it was sifting through drying cement, time slowed. The small bundle flew open and came falling towards the thief, whom in response threw the pouch of scrolls directly into the on coming net, causing it to wrap around the sack and fall to the floor. As it landed, the stranger came running at him in a black blur. Helsing shot the remaining net in the gun at him, realizing too late that at this close of range the net wouldn’t have time to unfold, but simply hit the attacker in the chest as a tight ball. It only surprised him more when the thief moved to the right and used their left hand to knock the bundle to the side as it finally unraveled itself on the floor. Helsing mentally cursed as he evaded a swift punch and kick to the face. He blocked a backhanded swing, but then felt a quick and painful pressure to the back of his knee as the assailant’s leg hooked in and pulled down, sending Helsing’s left knee hard to the stone of the floor. Helsing grabbed his revolver but before he could use it the attacker grabbed his hand and gripped it tightly in a painful twist, forcing his hand to open and drop the revolver. The stranger took position behind him and wrapped their left arm around his neck; circulation and air was instantly cut off. Helsing fought for air as he tried to stand and throw the stranger off, but they stood firm as he weakened. He uselessly thrashed until the edges of his eyes began to darken, but then he reached with his free hand for the left hand of the thief, and drove his thumb into the raw bullet wound. This awarded him with a feral growl of pain and the release of his throat. He gasped for air as a hand still on his jacket twirled him around to face the black molded body. What met him was a crash of a fist into his face and an excruciating blow to the groin.
Helsing groaned in agony as the intense pain of his nerve endings were lit on fire and he once again was out of breath. He just barely managed to stop the furious knee aimed for his face by grabbing hold of it mid kick. It hurt, but he figured he couldn’t be in much worse pain at the moment. He situated his leg so his calf caught the vagabond’s foot and jerked it forward so he landed backward. Helsing scrambled to turn the stranger over before he could react, and then proceeded to subdue the fighting arms and legs. The legs were pinned by his own, and he had one arm trapped behind their back and the other above their head. He wasn’t entirely certain what to do now, and he was having difficulty getting his breath back.
“Ready to give up?” Helsing said between his teeth. In response, the struggling thief beneath him cracked the back of their head against Helsing’s forehead. As the instinctive tears filled his eyes, momentarily blinding him and relaxing his grip, the vandal managed to release their arm and pry a leg free to roll them both over on Helsing’s back with the attacker still in his arms. Now having Helsing under them, the stranger lifted both legs extended over Helsing’s and their heads. In one bold and powerful move, the stranger kicked both legs into the air with enough velocity to lift both him and Helsing off the floor and for the intruder to land upon their feet. Still in one solid movement, the black burglar flung their entire upper body forward and stilled, but the momentum forced Helsing to fly over their head and crash head first into a shelf of text hard enough to tip it over and knock the two behind it down with him.
Now, bruised, broken, but thoroughly pissed, Helsing weakly attempted to get up from the rubble of broken wood and millions of pages. He looked to the spot where he had been thrown only to see it empty and a window open. He shifted his gaze to where the sack had lain, but it was gone. The deviant had taken it, net and all.
“Carl!” Helsing bellowed as he struggled to get up, a shy trickle of blood falling down into his eye. “Carl!”
The door opened heavily as Carl and several others came pouring in with the yellow lamplight. Carl’s attention was for a moment distracted by the catastrophic state the library was in, but then turned it back to his wounded friend.
“My God, Helsing are you alright?” He and many more came to Helsing’s rescue, while the rest looked upon the tragedy that had become their room of ancient text.
“No, she got away,” he wheezed as they helped him to his feet.
“She?” Carl asked confused. “You got a look at her then?”
“No, follow me outside. She went out the window with a sack of scrolls.”
As quickly as they moved and as hard as they searched, there was no sign of the intruder’s tracks. Helsing cursed under his breath until Carl ordered him back to the church where they could get him patched up. Helsing nodded and let them guide him back.
He was sitting upon a cushioned cot in the infirmary next to the herb garden as a Sicilian monk named Raoul treated his wounds. They told him he was lucky that the injuries he sustained hadn’t been more serious. His arm had been almost dislocated and his ribs were heavily bruised but had suffered no breaking from the fall into the shelves. His groin still throbbed but he knew that would pass, but they gave him some ointment for the swelling on his neck and his eye. The most serious thing he sustained had been the injury to his head, which surprised the healer quite a bit because he would have expected a wound in such a place to be much more dangerous, but the bleeding had stopped long ago and the skull was intact. Helsing only told him that for whatever reason or another he didn’t bleed very much, and if he did it usually would stop soon without assistance.
As the healer applied some soothing ointment upon his ribs, the Cardinal came in followed by Carl.
“Are you alright?” demanded the vexed Cardinal.
“A little sore, but I’ll be fine,” Helsing replied, his voice straining painfully.
The Cardinal turned to the healer. “How is he really?”
The healer shrugged, “From what he told me, I would have expected much worse. I’d like to keep an eye on this bump on his head, but besides that I think all he really needs is a few days rest as his bruises heal. And I do have an ointment or two for him to apply to them to promote faster healing.”
The Cardinal nodded. He then took a stool and sat facing Helsing. “Are you alright to speak for a moment?”
Helsing nodded, “Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“The brothers tell me that, from what they can see, there are some scrolls missing.”
“Yes, five, perhaps six or seven,” he replied.
“By tomorrow afternoon or such they will report which ones are missing,” the Cardinal paused for a moment. “What can you tell me about this sacrilegious jackal?”
Helsing didn’t answer right away, but took a sip of the water for him by the cot. “Very strong. The door to the library had been forced open, and that’s not easy to do. I was thrown around like a luggage sack, also not easy. Fast as well, and extraordinarily nimble. I’d say determined, resourceful and…ethical.”
“Ethical?” the Cardinal’s eyebrows perked, “An unusual word I’d use to describe someone who just stole six or seven scrolls from the very heart of the Catholic Church.”
“Perhaps, but were any of the monks seriously hurt?”
He thought for a moment, “No, they all had been either shoved out of the way or given a bump on the head.”
“Exactly.”
“But Gabriel, what of you?” interjected Carl, “Look at you, you may have been killed.”
“When we first fought, I was only in the way. This thief only wanted to leave with the scrolls, but I kept interfering. Then, when I proved myself truly a nuisance, then things became a little more violent. Even then, I don’t think the idea was to kill me.”
“Not even the bruises on your neck?” accused the Cardinal.
“No,” he replied simply.
“Why?”
“Because, with that kind of strength, it would have been much easier to just break my neck instead of strangling me.”