Hunting in Bruges Page 3
The man’s chubby face paled. He stammered something under his breath, shook his head, and the wide-eyed tour group pedaled away like I was a crazy bitch. Whatever, maybe they’d think twice before hogging the bike trail again.
“Bloody tour groups,” Ash muttered.
He retrieved his hat, brushing off dirt and pine spills. The fabric held the distinctive imprint of a bike tread. Maybe now he’d lose the fedora. That ridiculous hat had seen better days.
“Looks like it’s time for a new hat,” I said.
“A new hat?” he asked. With a flick of his wrist, he knocked out the worst of the dents, fluffed the purple and lime green feathers, and set the dusty hat on his head at a jaunty angle. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“The feathers for starters,” I said. “Are there even birds with feathers that color?”
“A bird, no,” he said cryptically.
I grit my teeth. In my experience, evasion was second only to lies as an admission of guilt. Some girls might find mystery seductive, but I just saw it as a puzzle to crack, possibly with my fists.
Of course, even if it turned out he was wearing an endangered species on his head, I’d get in trouble if I killed the guy over what kind of feathers he had stuffed in his hat. And there’d be paperwork. I hated paperwork.
“So what’s the story behind that hat anyway?” I asked.
“I’m making a fashion statement,” he said with a shrug and a cocky smile.
If that statement was, ‘I’m colorblind’ he was doing a bang up job. Not only did the lime green and bright purple of the feathers clash, but it actually hurt my eyes when combined with the puke green scarf he wore around his neck.
“And why does it look like someone went after it with scissors?” I asked, gesturing at a series of jagged cuts along the brim and a hole big enough to put my thumb through.
When it was clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, or get rid of that hat, I sighed and started walking again. I was beginning to regret my decision to let Ash tag along, but I had to consider my mission. There was a monster taking the lives of innocent men and women in this city. If Ash could help me get my bearings, and fill in some of the local history, putting up with his annoying personality was a sacrifice I was willing to make.
“Come on,” I said. “I have to be at the Schuttersgilde Sint-Sebastiaan by seven. If we hurry, you can show me around the city.”
Ash tilted his head and paused, leaning forward. He eyed me from head to toe, lingering on the ski bag strapped to my back.
“You’re an archer then?” he asked.
“Why do you ask that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. He dressed like a fool, but looks can be deceiving.
“Because the Schuttersgilde Sint-Sebastiaan is Dutch for the Archers’ Guild of Saint Sebastian,” he said. “People either go there for archery or for tours of the building. I assumed since you’re carrying something the length of a bow, and you’re going there so late in the evening, that you must be the former. Unless they’re throwing some kind of party. If that’s the case, I want an invite.”
Leave it to the Guild not to translate that important tidbit, but once I mulled it over, it made sense. I could see the benefits of using an archers’ guild for our local headquarters. Hunters could walk around the property in plain sight, armed with bows, and no one would suspect a thing.
It also gave me a great cover story.
“There’s no party,” I said. “I’m there for a tournament.”
“So you are an archer then,” he said, a smile twitching his lips.
“I’m not bad with a bow,” I said.
“I thought so,” he said with a nod. “You look like the competitive type. I bet you win every tournament.”
“Something like that,” I said, noncommittally.
Ash wasn’t the only one with secrets. He had the origins of his mysterious hat, and I belonged to a secret society that hunted and terminated rogue paranormals. Okay, my secret was much bigger, but I was telling the truth about being good with a bow. There were plenty of monsters back home who could have vouched for that fact, if they’d lived to tell about it.
“Come on then, love,” he said. “We better hurry if I’m to show you Bruges in one day, though I wager this won’t be our only time together while you’re here.”
“I doubt that, Ash,” I said, shaking my head. “This isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m here on business. I don’t have time for hanging out.”
I was a Hunter. I didn’t have time for a social life, and this sure as hell wasn’t a vacation, but I had a nagging suspicion that Ash was right. I wasn’t getting rid of him that easy.
Chapter 6
“Vampires may turn to dust when killed, but one thing remains behind—their fangs.”
-Jenna Lehane, Hunter
I ignored the clop, clop of horse hooves on cobblestones and the rattle of carriages. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard or seen things from another era, but I had to admit that the ghostly sounds fit this medieval city.
Bruges was a city frozen in time. From the cobblestone streets to the building façades and stone bridges that arched across a network of canals, walking in Bruges was like stepping into the past. No wonder the monsters liked it here.
Immortals dislike change. Human tourists may come here for the novelty, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this place was a hot spot for ancient fae and centuries old vampires. For the long-lived, Bruges would feel like home—if home included some very large waterfowl.
“What’s with all the swans?” I asked.
There were dozens of swans swimming in the canal and lounging on the grass verge to our left. I imagine the scene probably seemed idyllic to most of the city’s visitors, but I let out a heavy sigh. The feathers of at least half of the swans shimmered.
Bruges was home to a flock of swan maidens.
Swan maidens, both male and female, were shapeshifting fae. Like the selkie, their saltwater cousins, the swan maidens’ ability to change shape is tied to their skins. I scanned the banks of the canal, spying a cluster of feathers at the base of a tree.
At least one swan maiden walked amongst us.
I chided myself for not reapplying faerie ointment once I’d landed in Belgium. The ointment I’d put on in Harborsmouth had worn off, leaving me blind to faerie glamour, but TSA rules restricted liquids on board the plane. I’d packed my ointment with my sword, not thinking I’d need it so soon.
I was wrong.
My fingers itched to tear into the ski bag strapped across my back, but I left it for now. There was no easy way to get into the container without risking someone seeing my sword. I’d gather what information I could from Ash until I could find a private place to retrieve the faerie ointment.
At least swan maidens are relatively harmless. They give off pheromones that fill humans with feelings of love and contentment, but as far as mind control goes, that’s nothing. Some Hunters speculate that it’s a defensive mechanism and I’d have to agree. The love not war vibe they were pumping out was pretty damn strong.
I blinked and focused on Ash’s words.
“In a revolt against Maximilian of Austria, the people of Bruges captured Maximilian and his advisor, Pieter Lanchals,” he said. The feathers in Ash’s hat fluttered with his broad hand gestures. “The townspeople made Maximilian watch as they tortured Lanchals for two days.”
Ash was animated, but he didn’t seem affected by the swan maidens’ pheromones. At least he wasn’t staring at me with goo goo eyes. Probably because the pheromones just amplified the fact that he was in love with himself. He certainly liked the sound of his own voice.
“Does this really have anything to do with swans?” I asked.
“I’m getting to that,” he said. “Right, so Lanchals was tortured for days until finally, he was beheaded.”
He pulled a finger across his throat, eyes rolling back as he flopped his head to the side, but sadly his hat defied gravity, staying on his head.
“Lanchals’ head was put on a pike out on the Gentpoort, one of the city gates, for all to see,” he said. “It would have been a bloody mess and when Maximilian got free and regained power, he didn’t arse about. He threatened the entire city with a curse.”
I leaned forward. Now that sounded interesting, even if Ash had seemed to forget we were supposed to be discussing waterfowl.
“A curse?” I asked.
Ash nodded excitedly.
“The name Lanchals means long neck and the man’s family crest was a swan,” he said. “So Maximilian threatened that the city must keep swans in the canals of Bruges for all eternity, or face the consequences of the curse.”
“What consequences?” I asked.
Ash shrugged.
“Don’t think anyone ever wanted to find out,” he said, gesturing to the gaggle of swans.
Sounded like Pieter Lanchals was a swan maiden, and Maximilian had found a way to protect Lanchals’ flock from the superstitious townsfolk. I cast the birds a wary eye, not liking the numbers, but at least the swans weren’t all fae.
Not all of the birds shimmered or moved with unearthly grace. A swan with plain, white feathers waddled across the grass and hopped inelegantly into the canal. Ripples spread out from the swan, bringing my attention to the dark waters.
The canal was wide here where it connected to Minnewater Lake, separated only by the lock gate. I stared at the murky water, imagining bloated human bodies choking the surface. How many more innocents would have to die before the killer was caught?
I grimaced, turning away from the canal, and starting to walk down the cobblestone street. If the killer was undead, we might see more bodies tonight. Now that was a cheery thought.
My hand went to the necklace I wore beneath my dress. Chicago, Milwaukee, Harborsmouth, Harborsmouth… I mentally listed off the locations of sanctioned vamp kills, each one corresponding to a pair of fangs on my necklace.
Vampires may turn to dust when killed, but one thing remains behind—their fangs. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, all except for the fangs. Not only do vamps leave their fangs behind, but as their bodies deteriorate to dust the fangs retract and shrink.
No one knows why, but I had to thank Fate. The necklace I’d strung gave me something to hold onto, a constant reminder of what I’d lost and what I was willing to do in return. I had no patience for rogue vampires. If I discovered that they were behind the recent killings, I’d show them no mercy.
I could always use a new addition to my necklace.
I rubbed each fang, like a macabre parody of a rosary. Click, click, click. A grim smile tugged at my lips. The vampires of Bruges better say their prayers.
“Jenna, look out!” Ash yelled.
I jerked my head up, mouth falling open even as my body responded to the threat. I spun and somersaulted onto the grass verge to my left, narrowly missing being run down by a horse drawn carriage.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered, spitting out a piece of grass.
I’d been so mired in my thoughts of revenge that I’d mistaken the horses and their carriages for ghosts. But there was nothing spectral about the two thousand pounds of muscle, bone, wood, and metal that had come barreling down the narrow street.
“Sodding hell, you alright?” Ash asked. “You look a right mess.”
I clenched my fists, knowing one “long neck” I’d like to strangle. Of course I was a mess. I’d nearly been run over.
“I’m fine,” I said, trying not to bare my teeth at the man. “Guess it’s just not our lucky day.”
“Think I’d rather take my chances with the bloke on the bicycle,” he said, shaking his head.
He had a point.
“For once, I agree with you,” I said.
“Well, while you’re in an agreeable mood, let’s grab you a pint,” he said. “There’s a pub there on the corner.”
“I don’t drink,” I said.
Alcohol was a quick way to lose your edge in battle. Plus, I didn’t need another impairment. Seeing ghosts was proving to be plenty dangerous.
“Not worried about your age are you?” he asked. “You’re not in the States anymore, love. Legal drinking age is sixteen in Belgium. You look young, but I daresay you’re older than that.”
“I’m twenty,” I said, meeting his eyes and daring him to argue. “I just don’t like to drink.”
I did look younger, which was something I often used to my advantage while hunting. It was often beneficial to be underestimated by your opponent. Plus, there were plenty of monsters that preferred their prey young. That came in handy when I needed to play the role of bait.
But with Ash’s eyes on me now, I suddenly wished for the curves that no amount of training would add to my body. I shook my head and frowned. Why did I care what Ash thought?
Damn swan maidens.
“Lunch then,” he said.
My traitorous stomach growled, but that didn’t mean I’d go wherever Ash wanted. I wasn’t being led to some den of iniquity that happened to serve up food.
“Fine, but not a pub,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I know just the place,” he said.
Chapter 7
“Fighting and killing weren’t the only skills the Hunters’ Guild taught its initiates.”
-Jenna Lehane, Hunter
“You can’t visit Belgium without trying the frites,” Ash said with a wink. “There’s a law.”
We were standing in the market square, aptly named Markt on my map, which was located in the very center of the city. Ash had led me to one of two food trucks parked in the shadow of a stone behemoth, but I didn’t have a chance to ponder the beauty of the bell tower. I was too busy wishing I’d settled for eating at a pub.
“Frites are fries?” I asked, nose wrinkling at the smell of hot oil.
“Not going to start in on how your body is a temple, are you?” he asked.
“I’m in training,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
It wasn’t a lie. If he thought I meant training for an archery tournament, rather than keeping fit to chase down monsters, that was his mistake.
“No reason not to indulge now and again,” he said with a wink.
“Let me guess, you’re one of those people who can eat anything you want and never gain weight,” I said.
“Naturally,” he said.
“Well, I’m not,” I said through clenched teeth.
“You could stand to gain a stone, love,” he said. “There isn’t a gram of fat on you.”
“That’s the idea,” I said, shooting him a nasty glare. The bastard thought I was too skinny? He was lucky I hadn’t gone for my sword.
“Come on, live a little,” he said.
I never wanted to stake a human so badly in my life, but Ash had a point. I couldn’t let my past rule my life, and being more casual with my eating habits would help me blend in while working undercover.
I swallowed hard, stomach twisting, but I refused to let the memory of Frank make we weak. I lifted my chin, meeting the man behind the counter’s smile.
“Okay, I’ll have an order of frites,” I said.
“With mayonnaise,” Ash said. “Trust me, it’s good.”
“And there’s that law,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Exactly,” he said.
The guy behind the counter raised an eyebrow, but I just shook my head.
“Fine, frites with mayo,” I said, giving my order.
At least Frank never ate his fries with mayonnaise. An image of his ketchup stained t-shirt filled my head and I shivered.
“You cold?” Ash asked. “Come on. The Burg will be less windy.”
I handed over a few Euros, grabbed my frites, and followed Ash across the street. This time I looked both ways, careful not to get run down by one of the many horse drawn carriage
s. I rubbed my neck as I waited for my turn to cross. I still couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been.
Wind howling at our backs, we left the market square. Ash turned up a narrow side street, filled with pedestrians and lined with chocolate shops. I might have caved in and visited one of the heavenly shops, adopting Ash’s live a little outlook, if I wasn’t immediately hit by a wall of stench.
“Oh, god, what is that?” I asked with a groan.
“What?” Ash asked, slowing his steps. “Are you alright?”
He moved closer, eyes darting to shadowed doorways.
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “You can’t smell that?”
“Oh, you mean the sewers,” he said, visibly relaxing.
“How can you stand it?” I asked.
The street smelled worse than rotting ghoul guts.
“Sorry,” he said with a shrug. He waved a hand at his face and grinned. “No sense of smell.”
I grimaced. Some guys have all the luck.
“Well, I guess that comes in handy in a canal city,” I said, realizing the high water table must be contributing to the sewage overflow.
“I guess,” he said, a wistful smile flitting across his face. “But I do miss the smell of chocolate.”
We passed the chocolate shops and found a bench facing into another cobbled square. The Burg was smaller than Markt and ringed on three sides by tall buildings that blocked the wind. The buildings had elaborately carved façades, but I was too intrigued by Ash’s comment to pay them much attention.
“So, you weren’t born without a sense of smell?” I asked.
He fidgeted with his scarf and I dipped a fry in mayonnaise, wondering if I shouldn’t have pressed him for answers. This wasn’t an interrogation.
“No, I lost it…in an accident,” he said, looking away.
I wanted to press further, but he shoved his hands in his pockets, focusing on a small dog that was barking across the square. There were three carriages lined up, waiting for tourists, and the dog was jumping back and forth, teasing one of the horses. We watched the dog in silence while I ate my frites.
“So, why are you in Bruges?” I asked, finally breaking the silence. “I take it you’re not a local.”