The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing (2 page)

“You’ll do fine, Jane. You are a Van Helsing,” her grandfather reminded her proudly, patting her arm. “Just don’t forget the holy water,” he added.

She nodded, going over her father’s grand scheme in her mind. After attracting the Earl of Wolverton’s attention, she was to maneuver him into an empty room, where she would attack. She was then to pool her resources: pouring holy water on him and liquidating the earl. Jane shuddered. She would have to remember to step back so that the melting pieces of vampire wouldn’t splash her costume. In the murderous schools of nineteenth-century real estate and vampire hunting, Jane had learned that location was everything.

These thoughts churning in her head, Jane grudgingly made her way down the stairs with her grandfather. On the last few steps, Ebenezer Van Helsing finally noticed where they were, the ladies and gentlemen swaying and whirling before them, adorned in everything from Louis XV costumes to demon garb.

“Why are all these people dressed so queerly?” he asked, perplexed.

“It’s a masquerade ball, Grandfather. Remember? That’s why I’m dressed like Cleopatra and you’re the Grim Reaper,” Jane reminded him calmly. She knew how he hated a fuss when he forgot things, or when he went off into one of his many flights of fancy. And despite the embarrassing things her grandfather did and said at times, Jane loved the crusty old man. Sometimes she adored him more for his imperfections. To her, the slightly off-center septuagenarian was a breath of fresh air in the live-and-let-vampires-die atmosphere of her home.

“Yes, I am the Grim Reaper. Quite appropriate for me. If I were one of those sneaky vampires, I would be running scared right now,” Ebenezer bragged. “Yes, quite appropriate.”

“Quite,” Jane agreed, patting his arm again. He had been quite the vampire hunter in his day, slaying the infamous Nosferatu, Lugosi, Lee and Langella. However, age had taken its toll, and the sun had set on his glorious nighttime heroics. Which was another reminder that Jane was on her own tonight. She could not count on her grandfather for help, for she did not want to endanger him; and her brother was in Austria, and her father was at home with a raging case of gout.

Her grandfather, monocle in hand, surveyed the guests, as he pointed out a colorful costume here and there. Many of the outfits looked authentic, with a few demonic exceptions.

Ebenezer shook his head. “Humbug!” he said.

Jane, curious as to what had made him use his favorite epithet, glanced over at her grandfather. He was looking at two young bucks dressed as devils.

“Ignorance is never pretty, even if it is not their fault,” he said.

Jane knew only too well that in the real-life world of vampires and shape-shifters, there was an unwritten law that the less said by those in the know to the rest of the world, the better. What mortal person in his right mind would want to learn the truth of many otherworldly creatures? Who wanted to know that the big bad werewolf really had eaten Little Red Riding Hood’s grandma, and that Sleeping Beauty’s prince was a vampire? Run-of-the-mill mortals were just too insecure to react with any sanity about the supernatural world. And thus you saw problems like the one capturing her grandfather’s attention now. Obviously these two young men attired like demons, with their scruffy-looking tails and red pitchforks, knew nothing about Lucifer’s strict rules.

“Hell might be sulphurous, and it might be unbearably hot, but a dress code is still a dress code,” Jane agreed with her grandfather’s unspoken criticism. “King Lucifer can’t abide disheveled subjects. And these young bucks know nothing about Hell. Where are the ink stains on their devilish little fingers? Devils always have an ink stain or two on their index fingers from drawing up all those contracts!”

Her grandfather nodded wisely. “And I’ll be deuced. Demons never carry pitchforks anymore. Lucifer certainly wouldn’t call these the Devil’s own. He would burn them to a crisp if he saw them dressed as such pitiful little beggars.”

“I know. Lucifer would never accept such an… agricultural mode of dress. And no self-respecting devil would ever have a tail so unattended-looking.” Jane shook her head. “Alas, they’re tails we can never tell.”

Ebenezer sighed. Then, spotting one of his old vampire-hunting cronies entering the card room, he said, “There’s Gellar Buffyton!” And with those words he was off, hurrying to catch up with his old friend and leaving Jane alone to review her options.

After careful consideration, she recognized that she had none. Not with recent developments. Two days ago, her father had found out that the diabolical Dracul, who had used an alias since his infamy spread across the world, was none other than the celebrated rake Neil Asher, the very stylish Earl of Wolverton—the man Jane was now after. It was amazing that he’d hidden in London for as many years as he had, especially with the Van Helsings, the scourge of vampire-kind living there as well.

Gleefully, her father’s network of spies had told the major of their astounding discovery. They had been so excited by their sleuthing, Jane was surprised they hadn’t shouted their discovery from the rooftops of London. The celebrating spies had even written a poem for the occasion, which Jane could recite by heart now, since her father had made her memorize each and every word. She whispered it, prepping herself for her mission like a good officer prepping his troops before war:

“Oh, you better watch out. You better not die. You better not doubt, I’m telling you why. Dracul is coming to Town! He’s making a list, and who knows who’ll be first? He’s going to find out whose blood will slake his thirst. Dracul is coming to Town: He bites you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. So hang the garlic in your bedchamber, get a cross for goodness’ sake. Dracul is coming to Town!”

She sighed. “It’s not Shakespeare,” she admitted. But she would give credit where credit was due. Finding Dracul was the most sought-after honor her father’s employees could hope to achieve. Besides dispatching the monster, of course.

Yes, everyone who was anyone in the field of vampire-slaying wanted to be the one to put an end to this most heinous and debauched undead of all time. He was a creature so perverted and deranged, he’d let his three brides feed on children while he himself feasted on young virgins, terrorizing them before he took their life’s blood and their maidenheads. He was evil to the core, a vampire who had never run tame, and who knew nothing of the quality of mercy.

And Jane was to dissolve the dissolute Dracul tonight, or so her father had ordered. It would be a major achievement, and would place Jane in the gloriously elite ranks of all the other Van Helsings. This was what her father sought: his daughter’s destruction of the Prince of Supreme Evil. But Jane only wanted a cup of hot chocolate, a good novel to read and her trusted dog, Spot, by her side.

Sighing softly, she regretted again that life was never quite what one expected. But then, death probably wasn’t either, she decided as she watched a guest stroll by in a black robe and with a sickle in his hand.

Taking a deep breath, she forced her chin up and straightened her back, pushing her gloomy thoughts away. She was about to put her father’s strategy, Operation Petticoat, into effect.

Actually, she thought as she glanced down at herself, it was a bad name for the operation, as she had no petticoats at all. In fact, she felt almost naked as she inspected her Cleopatra costume, tailored by Miss Elizabeth Burton. The gown’s material was a shimmering green that clung to Jane’s body while baring her right shoulder and arm. The left side of the garment had a rich golden wrap attached, hiding the deep pocket where Jane had stashed her flask of holy water. It was a costume designed to entice, yet to hide what needed to be hidden. The outfit had been specified by the major, her father, after he’d reviewed military tactics and decided to use holy water as the instrument of destruction for the Prince of Darkness. That decision had been reached after the major had painstakingly discussed in vivid detail with Jane the misstakes of her last two vampire slayings, and how this time everything would go just right.

To complete the outfit, Jane wore on her upper arm two golden serpentine bracelets. A dark golden mask covered most of her face and, to her relief, her freckles. A long black wig hung silkily down her back. In truth she looked like another woman, which gave her confidence. But, she reminded herself, “Though a daffodil may want to be a rose, it will be a daffodil even if it can somehow change its petals.”

Still, she was in fine looks tonight. Earlier, when she had inspected her reflection like a general inspects his troops, she had decided she did look rather enticing. She felt almost mysterious, and attractive enough to be a seducer of Anthonys and Caesars. She hoped the subterfuge would work, and that she would be able to lure the lusty Earl of Wolverton into a secluded room. Once there, she would then do her duty, hoping not to actually have her virtue or life compromised by the earl’s legendary appetites.

Jane took a deep breath. It was going to be quite a messy night. Especially for Count Dracul, alias the Prince of Darkness, alias the Earl of Wolverton.

“Impatience
is the hobgoblin of little minds,” Jane reminded herself, scanning the crowded ballroom. As of yet, the Earl of Wolverton had not put in an appearance. This left Jane to ponder if the posthumous prince was out having a midnight snack while she was stuck pretending to be the Queen of the Nile. At the rate the night was going, she would have been better off having herself rolled up and delivered to the earl in a carpet, as the real Cleopatra had done with Julius Caesar. After all, Jane just wanted this whole unpleasant business over and done with as quickly as possible. Then she could go home and be privately sick.

“Humbug!” she groused. “Can’t a vampire be counted on to cooperate just a tad? All he has to do is show up and be wooed. I’m the one who has to do the hard part—playing a wanton woman.” It would not be an easy role for a lady who’d never even seen her brother’s mistress.

Playing with the pocket of her gown, Jane continued to scan the ballroom. She noticed a tall man dressed in a knight’s costume. His mask hid his face and hair, but the chilling blue of his eyes struck her strangely, with both menace and an air of foreboding. The knight was whispering to Lady Veronique—a French widow with few morals, or so it was said. The lady was wearing a half-mask of gold with a gypsy costume.

Jane shuddered, wondering who the black knight was, and at her strange reaction to him. But a few seconds later both he and Lady Veronique were gone, the black knight escorting the notorious French widow from the room, and Jane felt relieved that they were gone.

Again she scanned the room, and suddenly her face lit up in a smile. It appeared that Clair Frankenstein Huntsley had arrived in London a day earlier than expected!

In spite of her apprehension and dread of the messy task ahead, Jane knew that the new Mrs. Huntsley was bound to improve her humor. Clair was one of her few close friends, since friendships were hard to form and maintain as one of those mortals living on the boundaries of the supernatural world. It was a hard life when one couldn’t tell others much about oneself, unless one’s friends were also familiar with familiars, werewolves and vampires. Even now, from her bosom friend, Jane still had many secrets bound by Van Helsing blood oaths that couldn’t be repeated to another living soul unless they too were vampire slayers.

Yes, without Clair, Jane’s life would have been much lonelier. Fortunately for her, her friend had burst into her life like a raging thunderstorm. Blithely and in her very unique manner, Clair Frankenstein had mischievously opened Jane’s eyes to the absurdity of English society and their part in it. From early childhood the two girls had shared laughter and—in later, more mature years—light despair at the various eccentricities of both their families. Clair didn’t care that Jane wasn’t a beauty of the two. Clair didn’t care that Jane was a round peg trying to fit into a square hole. Clair didn’t care that Jane had yet to live up to her family motto; A vampire a day is the Van Helsing way.

Of course, the girls were very different in some ways. Clair was a Frankenstein, and Frankensteins rarely cared about anything not directly related to their studies of supernatural monsters. Jane’s family just staked them, make no mistake about it. Clair would say, “Every vampire tells a story.” Jane would say, “Watch where you stand if you don’t want to ruin your gown.”

And now too, Clair Frankenstein was a Huntsley, since she had recently married Baron Harold Ian Huntsley, whom she called Harry whenever she was angry or very merry. Quite appropriate, the Harry bit, Jane mused, since Clair’s husband was sometimes the hairiest thing in London.

Jane giggled, watching Clair converse with two gentlemen who were dressed as a sheik of Arabia and a Roman centurion. Clair herself wore a shepherdess costume, complete with crook.

Jane laughed louder, saying to herself, “Only Clair would be outrageous enough to dress as a shepherd when she is married to one of the biggest wolves around.” But then, Clair had seen the sheep in wolf’s clothing that was the baron’s good nature and kind heart after he’d fallen in love. Jane had heard many a rumor that Baron Huntsley was one of the biggest rakes in London before he met Clair, but he’d fallen head over paws for her. Now his wolfish tendencies were reserved for full moons.

As Jane strolled toward Clair, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of the green-eyed monster, jealousy. Less than a year ago her friend had been involved in one of her usual supernatural research projects, trying to prove scientifically the presence of vampires and werewolves in London. Clair had not known with any certainty if monsters were lurking in the city’s graveyards and doorways, but had set about proving it. And Clair’s comedy-of-errors experiments had yielded results she hadn’t expected: marriage to the man of her dreams. Well, to the werewolf of her dreams. And Jane was jealous of her friend’s happiness.

It was lucky, for Jane and Clair’s friendship that the Van Helsings only hunted vampires and occasionally, demons. Werewolves and other hairy shape-shifting creatures were off-limits. Not one of Jane’s antecedents had ever harmed a shape-shifter—not with the skeletons in the Van Helsing closet. A fact her mortal-purist father discouraged having disclosed was that the great monster-hunting Van Helsings had werelionesses for both a great-grandmother and a great-aunt. This ancestry Jane took great pride in. Just as she was proud that neither of her feline relatives had ever run tame, and that they lived their lives exactly as they wanted, walking on the wild side of life with their mates.