AWOO: Chapter Five
In which Angela the werewolf huntress meets someone unlikely who might be able to help.
Chapter 5
Angela Martin woke up, her head pounding, and assessed her situation. She sat on the wet concrete with her back propped up against her car.
For some reason, werewolves and their allies never killed her, even when they caught her, and they never turned her over to the police. It didn’t make any sense, but she didn’t really want to complain about it.
She’d been hunting wolves solo for a few years now, and she really wished she could find other hunters, pick their brains a little, figure some stuff out that didn’t make any sense about the supernatural monsters that were her quarry. But years of searching in both the light and dark online networks of the world had yielded only a faint trail to follow, and she hadn’t been able to follow it far. This Robert Vincent character wasn’t wrong about the problem of just shooting him in his apartment. How was all this supposed to work?
She gritted her teeth and forced herself to stand, willing her consciousness to hold. Stars swam in her vision, but she leaned against the car and steadied her breathing.
She fumbled with her car door, opened it, and sat down in the plush confines of the old Volvo. She put her hands on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. Her headache started to subside. She looked at her watch and was glad to see she’d only been out a few minutes.
Should I go back and finish the job? Whoever had beaned her on the head might still be there. She remembered the strange vision - had she been attacked by some kind of robot?
She patted her shoulder holster.
Well shit. Of course he took the gun.
Something to worry about later. First, she had an appointment to keep.
She pulled into the parking lot of the shitty motel that was to be her rendezvous point with someone she still wasn’t convinced was real yet. Angela was sure she’d walk in there and find a lonely teenage cosplayer with pimples and a terrible plan.
She walked in and took a right, headed toward the restaurant. At a booth in the back sat a man with a shock of white hair floating above a balding scalp, a pronounced nose, and a white goatee carefully manicured into a perfect triangle. That matched the description he’d given her.
“Angela Martin,” she said as she approached the booth. The man stood and shook her outstretched hand.
“Steve Helsing,” he said.
“And…that’s your real name?” she asked, feeling immediately stupid.
“You are a werewolf hunter, and yet you cannot fathom that other monsters exist, or that stories might be true?” asked Helsing.
“It’s just…it’s a lot, ok?” she said, scooting into the booth opposite Helsing.
“Miss Martin…may I call you Angela?” Helsing asked.
“Angela’s fine.”
“Very good. Call me Steve.”
“Thanks,” said Angela.
The waiter came over, and she ordered an Irish coffee with an extra shot of Irish. It was a little early in the morning, but it had also been a very long day already. The waiter gave her a look but nodded and whisked himself away.
“As I told you in our previous correspondence,” said Helsing, “My ancestor stalked the monster named Dracula, finally ending the fiend’s reign of terror after a great battle. He was also friends with a struggling writer named Stoker, who begged my ancestor for the right to write the story. My ancestor agreed on condition that the story be labeled as fiction. Quite honestly, Stoker didn’t write most of the book – after all, the book is made of diaries. Stoker just changed enough of the names and some important details to make it fiction.”
“Somehow, that makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard today,” Angela said.
“Indeed. In any event, my ancestor vowed that his bloodline would continue the tradition of fighting monsters, in the shadows, while never revealing to the greater ranks of humanity that the monsters were real,” said Helsing.
Angela nodded. Then she cocked her head. “Wait. Stoker changed names and details, but not your ancestor’s name. Why?”
“I know not,” said Helsing. “Perhaps he wanted to give the book an air of possibility – put a real name in the story that could be found and wondered over. At least, that’s what my grandfather told me when I asked him the same question. Of course, he was still more than a century away from the Dracula story, but…” Helsing ended this with a shrug.
“So why tell me all of this?”
“You’re not as isolated as you think,” said Helsing. “In fact, I’ve been watching you for some time. You’re one of the best hunters I’ve seen.”
“I am? That’s…that’s not great,” she said.
“You do have a natural talent. Don’t sell yourself short,” said Helsing.
“This morning I left my back open and got knocked out. Woke up sitting on wet concrete. Let my quarry talk me out of shooting him immediately, instead of just shooting him immediately. Let him take my gun.”
“Did you see who attacked you?” asked Helsing.
Angela frowned. “I mean, only for a second, I think.”
Helsing leaned forward. “He didn’t, perhaps, look like a robot, did he?”
Angela blinked. “Yes,” she said, remembering the metallic face she’d seen just before she passed out. “As absurd as that sounds. How could you know that?”
Helsing nodded. “He’s someone I’ve had my eye on for some time. His name is Clyve, and he seems to act as some kind of, shall we say, monster helper. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but let’s just say…watch out for that one,” said Helsing. He fiddled with his phone and then handed it to Angela. She saw pictures taken from a distance of a guy who clearly had half a metal face.
“Yeah, that was the guy.” Angela handed Helsing back his phone.
Her drink arrived, and she gulped at it. The heat – both the hot coffee heat and the Irish heat – scrabbled its way down her gullet, slowing her heart rate and her breathing.
“But here’s the reason I wanted to meet you now,” said Helsing. “I think you can help me with something, and in return, I can help you net your wolf.”
“What do you need help with?” she asked.
“Stalking a vampire,” said Helsing. “Right here in Portland.”
Angela blinked and stared. Something that had been sort of abstract knowledge in her mind became certain truth.
“Vampires are real. Of course they are. You just told me you’re…who you are,” she said, gesturing stupidly at the man sitting across from her. “Shit,” she added.
“Yes,” said Helsing. “Eloquently put.”
“How do we…stalk a vampire?” she asked.
“Are you sure you are up for it?” asked Helsing.
“My sister was torn to shreds by a werewolf two years ago. Now you’re telling me vampires exist. If I live in a world full of literal monsters, I want to be part of making them dead. Or like, really dead.”
“Very well,” said Helsing, in the way that only serious characters in stories and movies said, ‘very well.’
“And you’ll help me get this wolf?” she asked.
“Without question,” said Helsing.
“Ok then, you have a deal.” Angela tossed back the rest of her drink.
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