Hunting in Bruges

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “Because,” I said, pointing a fry at him. “You sound more like Sherlock Holmes than Van Damme.”

  Ash laughed. That typical carefree, devil-may-care look was back on his face.

  “Yes, but I’m not as stuffy,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow. No, he wasn’t stuffy at all, but he was just as eccentric as the fictional detective.

  He may sound like Sherlock Holmes, but I had to wonder if Ash had Romani blood. Dark, shoulder length hair and thick brows framed even darker eyes and full lips. Compared to the close-cropped, utilitarian, military style haircuts of most of my guild brothers, Ash’s hair was practically sinful.

  Sitting askew atop those glossy locks was his tattered hat. His neck was wrapped in that garish scarf, and he wore a short, tailored, pinstripe vest over a charcoal gray dress shirt. The shirt was tucked into a pair of black pants that were in turn tucked into a pair of supple leather boots. Sprouting from his vest pocket was a hairy thing that may have been a fur hanky, or a dead rat, and a chain that was quite possibly attached to an honest to god monocle.

  “Stuffy is one adjective I wouldn’t use to describe you, though I can think of a few,” I said.

  “Dashing, handsome, adventurous….,” he said.

  I shook my head. Not even close, buddy.

  “So if you’re not a local, why are you here?” I asked.

  “I was going to University here,” he said.

  “Was?” I asked.

  I wasn’t all that surprised that Ash was a drop out. He didn’t really seem like the kind of guy who sat through long, boring lectures. Plus, they probably wouldn’t allow him to wear his hat.

  “Yes, things…didn’t work out,” he said, a frown flittering across his face so fast, I could have imagined it.

  I understood all about life throwing curveballs, but most people had a home to go back to, a family to fall back on when things didn’t work out. The fact that Ash was here in Belgium made me curious.

  “Are your parents mad about it?” I asked.

  He looked so sad, I was sorry that I’d asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. He swallowed hard, eyes downcast. “I haven’t had a chance to see them. I was trying to go home—that’s why I was on the train—but I found that I couldn’t leave the city. I had to return to Bruges. It was as if there was something I still needed to do here before moving on.”

  “Well,” I said. “I’m glad for my sake you were on that return train. I would have missed my stop, for sure.”

  “I’m glad too,” he said, lifting his head. His eyes traced my lips, and I cursed inwardly. Did I have mayonnaise on my face? I blushed, feeling the fool, but he smiled. “If I hadn’t been on that train, I never would have met you.”

  I fidgeted with my napkin, finally crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the empty frite bag. I wasn’t good with compliments, and I was even worse when it came to relationships with guys my age. My friend Jonathan was the exception, and we’d gone through hell before finally settling into a comfortable pattern that didn’t trigger his werewolf hormones or send me flying at him with fists and blades.

  Flirting put me on the defensive. I’d grown up believing that I wasn’t worthy of love. It was easier to wall my heart away from the hurt and loss that came from caring about anyone other than myself. I’d been doing it for so long that when Jonathan—dear, sweet, handsome Jonathan—had professed his love, I threatened him with decapitation if he spoke of it again. Then, when he was finally treating me like a friend, I’d kissed him for no reason.

  By Athena, I was broken.

  But there was something about Ash in that moment that made me wish there was superglue for damaged souls and broken hearts.

  I pulled one leg up onto the bench and rested my head on my knee, the fabric of my jeans cool against my cheek. I snuck a glance at Ash, wondering what it was that made him so special. None of the other women walking by gave him a second glance.

  I shook my head. There had to be a logical explanation for a stone cold Hunter acting like such a fool. Maybe it was the lingering effects of being in a city swarming with swan maidens. Like I needed another reason to hurry up and complete my mission and get transferred out of this city.

  I pulled my eyes from Ash and scanned the square. Tourists loitered taking pictures of the buildings that rose from the dark gray cobblestones like elaborately frosted wedding cakes.

  “So, what are these buildings?” I asked, waving a hand. “Are they famous, or something?”

  “Aye, those buildings to the left are the Brugse Vrije, the Liberty of Bruges, and the Civil Registry,” he said. He pointed to an archway that was part of a squat, white, renaissance building bedecked with golden statues and red and gilt trim. “That archway leads into Blinde Ezelstraat, or Blind Donkey Alley. They say that back in the days when a mill stood there, the townspeople put a blindfold on the donkey to save it from the tedium of walking in circles day after day.”

  I frowned, thinking that I’d rather be aware of my surroundings, no matter how tedious, than be blinded from the truth. Poor donkey.

  “And the taller building?” I asked.

  The adjacent building had a pointed roof and turrets that reached to the heavens. The pale gray stone of the façade was broken by tall, arched, Gothic windows and dozens of somber statues.

  “That’s the Stadhuis, one of the oldest town halls in Europe,” he said. “It’s still used as a city hall, though it’s open to the public most days. The building doubles as a museum for the tourists.”

  “What’s inside?” I asked.

  If it contained an old armory, that might be useful. Fighting and killing weren’t the only skills the Hunters’ Guild taught its initiates. I knew a thing or two about requisitioning weapons in a pinch.

  “Some old documents and the hall itself,” he said. I wrinkled my nose. Maybe not so useful. “Hey, don’t knock it. The hall is bloody gorgeous.”

  I shrugged.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, already scanning the Burg for something that might aid in a hunt.

  My breath hitched, body going still. Crouching in a dark corner of the square was a building made of dark stone that seemed to swallow the light and embrace the shadows. Now that seemed interesting. Two towers rose above the building and as I stood to toss my trash in the bin, and brush away frite crumbs from my lap, the bells cradled in those towers began to toll.

  “And the dark building in the corner?” I asked, my boots already carrying me across the cobblestone square.

  “That is Basiliek van het Heilig Bloed, the Basilica of the Holy Blood,” he said in a soft, almost reverent voice.

  I grinned, my right hand reaching up to stroke the necklace of fangs beneath my dress. Finally, something useful.

  Chapter 8

  “The living impaired were rarely sentient, often just an imprint of emotion left behind like an unsightly blood smear.”

  -Jenna Lehane, Hunter

  “So tell me more about this blood,” I whispered.

  We hadn’t yet entered the basilica, but there was something about standing within its shadow that demanded respect. We spoke in hushed voices, ignoring the tourists who cast us peculiar looks. I could only assume that the furtive looks were due to Ash’s unusual fashion sense.

  “The basilica has in its safekeeping a phial containing a cloth with drops of blood from Christ Himself,” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “How could Christ’s blood end up here in Belgium?” I asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “There are holy relics throughout Europe, many with fascinating histories, and the story of the blood is no exception,” he said. “Some say that Joseph of Arimathea collected the blood from Christ’s body on the cross. Later the Sangreal, Holy Blood, was placed in a rock crystal phial and sealed with wax.”

  “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain how this phial of blood ended up in
Bruges,” I said.

  “I’d explain that, love, if someone would stop interrupting,” he said, eyes squinting in amusement.

  I folded my arms and sighed.

  “Fine, I won’t interrupt,” I said, rolling my hand for Ash to get on with it.

  “During the 4th crusade, Constantinople was sacked and the phial and other holy relics were taken by Baldwin I,” he said.

  “Wait,” I said. “Who’s Baldwin I? European history isn’t my strong suit.”

  The only details I recalled from European history were those I’d learned during Hunters’ training. But we’d been schooled on the events that were pivotal to the supernatural world, not much else. Mundane history never interested me all that much.

  “Baldwin I was the first emperor of Constantinople,” he said. He smirked like I should have known that, and I bit the inside of my cheek. “Prior to becoming emperor, Baldwin had been Count of Flanders and so when the Holy Blood came into his possession, he enlisted the Knights Templar to carry the phial back to his home in Bruges. The basilica here became the repository for the Holy Blood. To this day the relic is venerated daily, with many people making long pilgrimages to touch the blood. There’s even an annual procession in which the phial is paraded throughout the city and events from the city’s history are reenacted.”

  “People touch the Holy Blood?” I asked.

  I wasn’t squeamish. I’d spilled plenty of blood since becoming a Hunter. But I had a hard time believing that the church would allow tourists to handle a precious relic.

  “The touching is mostly symbolic,” he said. “It’s more like touching the aura of the blood by placing your hand on the other side of a glass barrier, but it’s no less powerful.”

  I had my doubts about the authenticity of this supposedly holy relic, but I’d seen enough magic to know better than to discount it completely. Whether by design or belief, some objects held great power.

  “When do they allow tourists to touch the blood?” I asked.

  “You’re in luck,” he said. “That’s what those bells were for, calling the faithful for the veneration of the blood. Shall we go in?”

  “Since I’m here, I might as well,” I said.

  I shrugged and fixed my face into a bland expression to hide my interest, and followed him into the church. Once inside, I slowly climbed a spiraling stone staircase, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light. If there was magic at work here, I’d need to be on my guard.

  At the top of the stairs, we stepped into a large, open chamber with high ceilings that echoed every wail and moan of the tormented ghosts that fluttered through the rafters. I stiffened, body going still. Places of religious worship were often peaceful, a sanctuary from the spirits who walked the earth.

  Not here.

  I couldn’t be sure if it was a geographical anomaly, or a situation unique to the basilica. Either way, it was clear that something was terribly wrong with the spirits of this place. I took a deep, steadying breath and forced myself away from the stairs, and the exit.

  I tried to discreetly catch the attention of passing specters, but they drifted past without a word. They seemed only capable of unearthly wailing, their faces frozen in perpetual torment.

  I shook my head, and proceeded to ignore the room full of ghosts. If they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk to me, it was best to ignore their tortured cries. They were probably completely unaware of my presence anyway. The living impaired were rarely sentient, often just an imprint of emotion left behind like an unsightly blood smear.

  Having tried to communicate with the ghosts, I turned my attention to the basilica itself. A large, stone basin stood to my right, filled with water.

  I went to the stoup, dipped my hands in the holy water, and made the sign of the cross. I hadn’t grown up with much exposure to religion, but the Hunters’ Guild was an offshoot of a militant religious order and, though the Templars hadn’t existed for centuries, our Guild traditions were intertwined with ritual.

  I wondered idly if the Guild’s illustrious forebears really had carried Christ’s blood from the Holy Land. If so, why had they brought such a powerful relic to Belgium? Was it due only to the emperor’s influence, or was there more to the story? I could think of more than one monster that might want to control, or destroy, the phial and its contents.

  Holy Blood—I didn’t even want to consider what vampires would do with such a treasure. Thankfully, unlike the dead flickering around the room, the undead cannot enter holy ground.

  They also have a severe allergy to holy water.

  I reached inside my jacket and twisted the cap off a metal flask. With the restrictions against bringing fluids onboard aircraft, I’d had to leave Harborsmouth without my usual supply of holy water. Never one to miss an opportunity, I proceeded to fill my flask and an empty sports bottle from my backpack.

  “Got something against vampires?” Ash asked.

  Damn, he was quiet—when he wasn’t talking. My hand shook, spilling some of the water.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Is there some other reason for stealing holy water?” he asked.

  “I’m not stealing it,” I ground out between clenched teeth.

  “My mistake,” he said. “So why then are you borrowing holy water?”

  “Because it’s holy,” I said. Asshole, I mentally added. I would have said it out loud, but I didn’t fancy being struck by lightning, or stabbed with a knitting needle. I gave the old ladies on a nearby pew a wary glance, slipped the bottle of holy water into my bag, and took a step away from the font.

  “Right, then,” he said. “And vampires?”

  “What about them?” I growled.

  “Are you a fan?” he asked.

  Candlelight flickered, making the shadows dance around us, and a chill ran up my spine. Something glinted in Ash’s eyes, but whether it was mirth, curiosity, or deadly seriousness, I couldn’t tell.

  “No,” I said. “Not. A. Fan.”

  “Funny,” he said, leaning back to admire the ceiling. “I thought all American girls liked vampires. Think they’re glittery and all that rot.”

  Rot, was right. Beneath all that glittery, swoon-inducing glamour lays the decaying body of a hungry, long-dead predator.

  “I’m not your typical American tourist,” I said.

  “No, love, you’re certainly not that,” he said.

  I shook my head and strode down the center aisle of the church, putting distance between me and Ash’s teasing voice. I hurriedly took a seat in an empty chair, the caning squeaking in protest. I needed a moment to think, to process what I now knew of the situation here in Bruges, away from Ash’s incessant, inane chatter.

  Damn, I missed the meditative quiet of my training sessions. Back in Harborsmouth, I slew monsters, but that didn’t mean my life was chaos. I had a routine; run, spar, weight train, practice my kata, clean and check my weapons, and go hunting.

  So long as I didn’t deviate from the routine, things ran smoothly. But here I was in Belgium, floundering like the wailing ghosts overhead, unable to find peace, even in a church.

  Ash came and took the seat beside me, hands folded in his lap.

  “So, love, are you going to touch it?” he asked.

  A smile twitched his lips, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “You better be talking about the blood, or I’ll be spilling some of yours, church or not,” I said.

  He lowered his voice and leaned forward, “I’d like to see you try.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant try to touch him, or try to attack him. Not that it mattered. Ash licked his lips and smiled, but I just rolled my eyes. Damn him for being such a pain in the ass.

  If I wasn’t going to get any peace, I might as well go touch the Holy Blood and get it over with. I went back up the row, passed the group of old ladies who were all scowling at me as if I were here to tangle their knitting, and went into the side chapel to my left. There was a short wait and I fidgeted with
the strap of my ski bag, reading the Latin inscription on the wall.

  Sanguis Christi, inebria nos. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.

  I swallowed hard, wishing I could draw my sword. This city gave me the creeps.

  There was one creature that became intoxicated from drinking blood, and I didn’t want to think about what would happen if a vampire drank from this particular relic. Would a vampire become more powerful? Would they transform into a new breed of monster? Or would a vampire spontaneously combust from imbibing such a holy draught?

  I held onto that last scenario. One could hope.

  When the red velvet rope was lowered, I climbed the steps and bowed my head. I dropped a few Euro coins into the collection box and placed my hand against the thick, bulletproof glass that encased the Holy Blood. The glass was cool against my palm, but warmth filled my chest.

  Images flashed through my head at lightning speed, taking my breath away. Frank’s leer, the smile of my mother’s ghost, the victims of rogue vampire attacks their bodies drained and broken all played through my mind at breakneck speed.

  I gasped, taking a step back. This was no fake. The Holy Blood was real.

  But even with such a powerful relic in its possession, the humans of this city were dying. It’s hard to fight what you don’t understand. The local authorities were woefully unequipped to fight monsters, but someone needed to put a stop to the killing.

  The monsters couldn’t be allowed to win.

  I wiped hot tears from my cheeks, and renewed my promise to myself and to my Guild. I was here for one purpose.

  Protect the innocent.

  Chapter 9

  “Hunters don’t break their promises.”

  -Jenna Lehane, Hunter

  I lit a candle and surreptitiously wiped my tears.

  “What did you wish for?” Ash asked.

  “It’s a prayer, not a wish,” I said, blinking away the last of the tears.

  “Same thing,” he said with a shrug. “Did you lose someone? Is that why you’re crying?”