An Evensong (open post for hammer_helsing)

[dossiered]

Alani is the last one awake, listening to Bucharest sleeping around her.

Blood oozes sluggishly through the dressing pressed to her side.

Solomon was the last one to finally give up and get sleep. He hummed half-remembered folk songs in his old-man baritone as he dutifully checked and re-checked the hoard of Mossad equipment in the safehouse. Mischa and Sinclair drilled in hand-to-hand until exhaustion crept in on silent feet and took them both down. Renaud retired with the Dossier. It's for the best; Alani's hand still stings from when she struck him full across the face.

She sits cross-legged on the floor staring unseeing at her laptop screen. The news feeds are a blur of light in the darkened safehouse. She rubs her eye with the heel of her uninjured hand, trying to focus. The words still blur a moment later. Bucharest sleeps around her. The world spins on.

(Somewhere on the rooftops of Bucharest, a sample of her blood remains spattered across the stone. Her fingerprints remain on an empty crystal drinking glass in a nightclub. Fibers from her shawl cling stubbornly to the joints of a drainage pipe.)

(The eyes of EDOM remain fixed on Bucharest. Dracula's minions still haunt the city like a waking nightmare.)

She shivers. Tugs her jacket on. A walk in the cold night air will clear her head. A walk around the block before sleep.

Comments

[dossiered]

Escaping was not easy. A desperate flight across the rooftops of Bucharest in the middle of the night took every scrap of training Alani ever had back in MI5 just to make it clear. And even then, it wasn’t without blowback.

She brushes one hand across her shirt and winces as it comes back with blood on her fingertips.

“He was toying with us. Like we’re just- toys to him.”

(The glassy look in Renaud’s eyes will haunt her to her dying day.)

Her mouth tastes sour. She staggers, winds up leaning against a light post for support. The night has been a long one. Life is no longer as clear-cut and simple as it was a month ago.

[hammer_helsing]

He moves then, putting his case down in front of her, and fishing inside, ultimately taking out a carefully folded handkerchief in a small wooden box.

"That is what he does. Killing you is not the power he craves - but the corruption of your souls, your degradation. Death is merely a grace note come the end of it, to him."

He pauses a moment, letting her inspect the clearly dry handkerchief.

"I'd like to see your wound, please, because we're of no use to each other if you bleed out in the middle of the road. This handkerchief is imbued with waters from the shrine of Rita of Cascia, latterly known as St. Rita. It will heal you."

He leaves unsaid the corollary to that - it has to be used by someone whose faith is very strong. But his is - it's hard not to, when you know with certainty that there is indeed a God. If nothing else, the night creatures busily trying to corrupt or undo creation are proof enough.

"She also has lesser-known associations," he added, moving towards her, "such as being a patron of seemingly lost causes."

Apt, he thinks.

[dossiered]

Alani’s chuckle is utterly without mirth. “Not filling me with confidence with that ‘lost causes’ thing, sir.”

It feels like a lost cause. Outgunned, outnumbered, harried like the fox running from a pack of bloodhounds, and all they have to show for it is... a packet of old letters, a heavily-annotated file, and a flash drive full of stolen medical information.

And, of course, enough waking nightmares to fill a lifetime.

She hesitates for a moment. Just a moment. Then, gingerly, she pulls up the hem of her blouse. The attempt at medical care is passable, more akin to a soldier patching up a friend rather than a doctor treating a patient. Blood has seeped through the gauze and left a red smear across both skin and fabric.

“Gunshot,” she adds lamely after a moment. “Probably meant to incapacitate instead of kill.” The implication is unpleasant.

“...They wanted me alive.”

[hammer_helsing]

"Faith, Miss McNiven. You must remember that. In yourself, and your compatriots, if nothing else. Hold onto that, no matter what. Keep that ember alive. Just because a cause seems lost does not mean it can't be found again."

He nods at her explanation, looking carefully. Bullet likely still internal. All to the best he has the handkerchief, then. Otherwise he'd have to extract it, and he doesn't trust his hands to that sort of delicate procedure anymore.

"As I said, degradation and the destruction of the soul. What good is simply killing you, after all? Now, hold tight. I can't promise this won't hurt."

And then the handkerchief is applied. He closes his eyes, muttering a silent prayer. And the sensation of burning will spread across the wound site, lancing out in different directions suddenly. He presses it into place, a hand moving, snake-like, to her shoulder to keep her from pulling away. It will hurt, considerably, for the better part of thirty seconds.

But when it's done, and the bloody handkerchief is pulled away, all that will be left is a small scar, as if it had been there for years. And a deformed bullet, sitting in the middle.

[dossiered]

It hurts like hell.

She doesn’t scream. She bites down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Thirty seconds feels like a lifetime. It isn’t until the pain ceases that she allows herself a brief yelp in response. But the proof is there: a faded scar, a bloody handkerchief, and a badly-deformed slug from a 9mm handgun. She stares, blinking.

Looks up at his face.

Then she laughs low in her throat. “That’s one hell of a trick.”

The bells peal. Fifteen minutes past the hour. She cocks her towards the sound as it echoes through the darkened streets. As soon as it fades, she turns back to Van Helsing with a grace expression on her face.

“Listen, Dracula’s not the only one with boots on the ground. I do t know if you knew that, but we’re talking pros. Lamplighters.”

British.

[hammer_helsing]

He carefully folds it again, putting it into a pocket for disposal. The bullet he offers to her, either for a souvenir or to toss away - whichever she wants.

"Not really a trick, but one of many tools in the fight against evil."

But he nods, reaching into a jacket pocket.

"Then no time to chat, right now. Here." He hands it over, bending with a sigh to retrieve his case. "You'll find instructions there, on how to escape Bucharest unseen. In essence, a chicken truck. But the driver is trustworthy." His grandfather owed Van Helsing his life, after all. "From there, the rail lines will get you as far as Luxembourg."

He tips his hat to her.

"Meet me in Cherbourg in a week, at the address listed there. Oh, and make sure to destroy that note, hmm?" 'Address' was a misnomer - manor was more like it. But the upside to lurking in France was there were old buildings simply everywhere, that nobody ever thought to pay attention to.

One week. Should be enough time for her to convince her fellows, whether she comes alone or with them.

"If you're wondering why," he said, as he started to turn away, his face shaded by the street light, "I'll say this: there are many secrets I have to share with you. And between us, we will destroy Dracula forever. A good night to you, Ms. McNiven."