Salt and Iron

By Tam MacNeil

James van Helsing is the youngest son of the famous monster-hunting family—and the family’s big disappointment. He’s falling in love with Gabe Marquez, his oldest friend and son of the family the van Helsings have worked alongside for years. Things get even harder for James when he becomes what he and everyone else despises most—a magic user.

He didn’t mean to evolve into such a despicable person, and he knows using magic is illegal, but there’s nothing James can do about it, no more than he can stop himself from loving Gabe. Just when things can’t seem to get worse, he and Gabe are called to help nab a network of magicians who are changing destiny. Not just any destiny, but the destinies of the van Helsing and Marquez families. James foresees a terrible fate, one in which monsters emerge from the cracks, along with his dark secret. And that’s when people start to die.

With thanks to Casey Blair, Ian Llywelyn Brown, Sarah Olsen, Sandy Skalski, Beth Wodzinski, and to the whole crew at VPXVI, who were and continue to be relentlessly wonderful.

REPORTER: HOW
does it feel to be a member of such a famous family?

James van Helsing: Well, it’s a privilege that I’ve thought a lot about. I mean, growing up with a name like this is like living in a history lesson. You sort of discover that everybody knows about Grandpa van Helsing, because of the stuff that happened with Dracula, and that’s always the first question people ask. [Laughs] But the fact is, we’ve been monster hunters as long as there’ve been records. Any time I look at a text on magic or on monsters, there’s a… a, you know, a grandma or a great uncle or somebody saving the world.

Reporter: That sounds like a lot to live up to.

JvH: Yeah, it is. But… I’m up for it.

Reporter: Are you?

Abe van Helsing: Of course he is. He’s a van Helsing. It’s in his blood.

[Laughter]

JAMES TURNS
off the TV. He’s never liked watching himself but does it anyway, whenever there’s a thing about the family on, and always when it’s him. Sort of like penance. He usually has a drink when he’s watching. It makes it easier to bear the stupid, stumbling comments, the ramblings and lost threads, the jokes that aren’t funny.

He upends the last dribble of whiskey into his glass, wondering as he does if it’s going to make any difference now, considering the little bit left and the state of him. He drains it anyway. Another drop in the ocean.

Then he heaves himself to his feet, head somehow both heavy and light, hands as unwieldy as balloons, and gets himself over to the bathroom to relieve himself and have a squint in the mirror.

“Let me tell you about James van Helsing,” he tells the reflection, working the slack tie around his neck into an untidy knot. “First thing you need to know is don’t trust that guy. He talks big and he’s got a big name, but he’ll always let you down. Not like the big brother, Abe. Abe’s a solid guy. You need something done, you should probably go to Abe.”

The knot is wrong. He has to undo it and retie it. Should be able to do this blind. Knows he’d maybe overdone it with the whiskey but hadn’t thought he’d had quite that much to drink. He laughs a little at his fumbling hands.

“Second thing is, look at that kid. I mean, look him in the eyes. Even he doesn’t believe it. If he wasn’t sitting there with Abe he’d’a run away like a… like a….” He’s got the knot sorted out but forgets what he was lecturing his reflection on.

Someone knocks on the door to the bathroom. This is
his
place, and nobody’s supposed to come in here. This is where he lives. It rankles, but the knock is quiet and respectful. So it’s probably not family. If it was family, the door would have just banged open against the tile, even with the risk of a mutually embarrassing pants-down interruption. The only people who’re polite enough to knock are the staff.

“Don’t be shy,” James calls, “there’s a party going on in here.”

The soft
snk
of the door handle turning. Rob stands just outside. He’s in his suit and tie too, so the reporters are probably starting to trickle in for the announcement. “You got a sec?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe. “Your mom’s asking for you.”

“Yem,” James says. It was supposed to be
Yeah, no problem
, but it didn’t work out like that.

Rob squints at James. Rob’s been with the family a long time. He’s probably about five years older than James is, which makes him Abe’s age, or near enough as makes no difference. But he looks older. Lines make furrows at his mouth and crease his forehead like a newspaper. His nose is pretty much flattened, as if somebody once used it to polish a floor. Maybe that’s what happened. Sometimes the sidhe have a hell of a sense of humor.

“James,” Rob says quietly, “are you shittered?”

“Yeah.” No point in lying. “Too drunk to see Mom, that’s for sure.”

Rob sighs and pretends to pick something out of his eye. “Okay.”

Nonplussed. Takes a fair bit to faze Rob. He’s not in charge of a team of sidhe hunters for nothing. Not like James, who trades on name. Rob’s actually got the chops to do the job. Any job, it seems.

“Okay. Well. When did you have your last drink?”

James smiles.

Rob frowns.

“Oh, c’mon. Makes me charming.”

“Makes you front page news,” Rob says, shaking his head.

If James wasn’t so drunk, he’d probably be ashamed. But he is, so he’s not.

“I’ll go get some coffee. And I’ll tell your mom you’re in the shower. The press are here, James,” he adds in an undertone.

“Why’d’ya think I had a couple drinks?”

Rob sighs. “You stay put. I’ll deal with your mother. Make sure you can stay on your feet for the announcement.”

“Don’t worry about me. I got it under control.”

Rob glowers and slips out of the room again.

James takes another look at himself in the mirror. If Rob can tell from a distance, he is definitely too drunk for this.

He splashes a little cold water from the tap onto his face and drinks a cup of it out of the glass he keeps by the sink. Then he takes a big breath and uses the exhalation to settle his shoulders, and he calculates.

A shower means a thirty-minute reprieve, plus another fifteen where he could conceivably be getting dressed. Between the time and the coffee he’ll be settled. Press conference in an hour. He’ll be on the mellow straights, not the alcohol high by then. He’ll be calm and relaxed and charming. He won’t be such a goddamned embarrassment. Probably.

“WELCOME BACK,
darling,” the madam says when she sees him.
Bonnie
, James reminds himself, brain struggling a little to crank up to speed.
Her name’s Bonnie.
She puts a glass in his hand. He’s a regular and he’s got an account he always pays, and she knows how to treat the good customers. And damn is he glad to see her. Glad the press conference is over. Glad he’s here and not there.

He salutes her with the glass and drains it and smiles. That’s easy. The booze makes it easy to smile and to joke and to look all at ease. Which is what he was supposed to be doing, since his mom and dad were announcing Great Uncle Abraham was stepping down from the day-to-day running of the Firm. Big shoes to fill. Will maintain the family mandate and keep the city of New Glamis safe. No large-scale changes likely to be made in the near future. Excellent working relationship with the justice system. Welcome meetings with interested parties. Blah, blah, blah.

Fifteen minutes of talking, half an hour of mingling, standing in dress shoes, sweating under the wool suit jacket, feeling thirsty and bored, a faint smile fixed on his face, fresh talking points rattling around in his head. Not that anybody asked him any questions.

And thank God for that. He’d escaped out a side door as the press conference was wrapping up. He even got Yuko to drive him down here. (He’s drunk, maybe more drunk than he meant to be, but he’s not stupid. Knows better than to take one of the cars in this state. God, it’d be all over the news. And then, phew, fire and brimstone from Dad.) And he’s feeling better than he has all night, actually, so the smile he gives to Bonnie is genuine. Mostly.

Okay, maybe not mostly. Say, 30 percent genuine. With 20 percent habit and 50 percent booze and, well, various other recreational psychological enhancers. He’s not really sure what he took, but one of the guys on staff gave it to him. If anyone asked him what it was, he’d have to think about it pretty hard. But nobody’s going to ask, because he’s here. Ah, here.

Bonnie Nettle, a pretty woman with a notorious sting. Bonnie Nettle knows his type, and she knows a good account when she sees one. She smiles right back at him and says, “I think I have just the thing for you.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, turning on the smile he uses for judges and senators and big-money donors. “Am I starting to get boring, Bonnie?”

She twists her mouth and raises one eyebrow at him. “I’m just getting zeroed in on what you like,” she says. “It’s how we serve you better.”

He snorts and covers his mouth and nose automatically, as if he’s still at the press conference, but he’s not, and Bonnie grins her pretty, gap-toothed grin and leans back a little in her brown leather boots.

“Cutie,” she calls through the parlor, as if that could possibly be somebody’s real name. But someone does turn. A young woman, lean and willowy, short, black hair combed in a sort of marcel wave, brown eyes lined with kohl, the dark blue swirls of some big tattoo showing on pale brown skin. Most of the tattoo is hidden by an ironed white dress shirt and sharply creased black dress pants. Wonderfully androgynous. Bonnie’s pegged him perfectly.

“Cutie, come here and meet Mister—” Bonnie meets James’s eyes. “—let’s call him Mister Bourbon.”

“Mister Bourbon?” James asks.

“You are drunk as a skunk, sweetie pie,” Bonnie answers. “I’m calling you Mister Bourbon tonight.”

He shrugs. “Your house, your rules,” he says, and she laughs like it delights her.

Then she holds out one big arm, catches the young woman around the shoulders, and pulls her closer. She glances at James, a silent question. He nods back, feels his face already hot, already blushing as all the blood in him starts rearranging where it wants to go.

“Cutie, this is Mister Bourbon. He’s a nice man, pretty regular, has a type.”

Cutie smiles at him. “Do you? Am I it?” She’s definitely a pro.

“Maybe,” he answers. “I want your mouth and then your puss, if that’s what you’ve got, in that order,” he says. “Pretty vanilla. You okay with that?”

Cutie looks at Bonnie. “Looks like he might be my type too,” she says.

“Why don’t you two get to know each other a little,” Bonnie says, disentangling herself from Cutie. “You let me know if I’m getting close to what you like, Mister Bourbon.”

“I think you’ve got me figured out, Bonnie.”

She smiles. She didn’t need him to tell her that.

Cutie nods at him and slides her arm through his. “You don’t want to stay down here, do you?” she asks.

“Not even a little.”

“Well come on upstairs, then, Mister Bourbon, and let’s get to work, you and me.”

He goes up the stairs with her. It’s a grand old house that used to be a sugar magnate’s mansion, and now it’s a brothel. Some of the rooms are still huge and open. The ballroom’s still there, but it’s full of green baize-covered tables and there’s a heavy redwood bar at one end. Some of the other rooms, the library for one, have been changed over to purposes that he figures the original architect could never have imagined.

Cutie takes him to one of the small rooms, furnished pretty simply. There’s a bed, a TV, a big mirror that’s probably a two-way, with a heavy red curtain draped over most of it. It’s a service room. Nobody lives here and there’s no personal stuff.

“You want to tell me what you like, or do you want me to see what makes you moan?” Cutie asks.

“I like option B,” he says, hands already at his belt. “Hey,” he adds as if it’s an afterthought, “is it okay if I call you something? A name?”

“Call me what?”

“Gabe,” he says.

“Gabe?” Cutie echoes. “Like the angel Gabriel?” She laughs. “I’ve been called worse than that, Mister Bourbon. You can go right ahead and call me that if you like.” She pauses then and smiles faintly, crooked. “You look like that guy who’s always on TV, you know? What’s his name. Van Helsing, the younger one, though, not the older one.”

It steals away the numb pleasure of the booze and the pills and the
this
, whatever it is. So he does what he does when things cut close. He laughs. “Yeah,” he says, “I get that a lot. He oughtta pay me to use my face or something.”

She laughs. “And what do you want me to call you?”

He shakes his head. Her voice will ruin it. “Don’t call me anything.”

“Well,” she says, shrugging, sliding her hands down James’s hips, “I was raised to believe it’s rude to talk with your mouth full. So I guess I better fill up my mouth, then.”