A/N:: I, a mere peon in the feudal kingdom of Hollywood, lay no claim to Steven Sommer's masterful creations. I loved nearly everything about the movie, save for the fact that a little red vial wasn't shattered as I so dearly hoped….

Spoilers:: Haven't seen it, don't read this. This starts shortly after the movie.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: After Dracula's defeat, Van Helsing and Carl are charged with the defense of Transylvania. When mysterious deaths start deep in the countryside, they find themselves facing an evil more heinous than ever before. Not to mention a pesky ghost of an old 'friend' that's decided to tag along, hinting that Van Helsing might not be as free of the moon's pull as he thought….

Dying to Belong

By Severitus

It had been nearly a month since the death of Dracula. Frankenstein castle once again stood empty and abandoned, the high turrets scorched by lightning and fire, the great windows gleaming in broken shards. And now, almost a year to the day after that evil building had been emptied, Fortress Valerious, its counterpart in so many ways, now stood just as empty and silent. The people of the village had left it empty for the moment, mourning its emptiness just as they mourned the last of the Valerious Clan. Soon the Fortress would be claimed by the Teski clan, distant cousins that roamed the northern countries. But until then, not a priceless rug was stolen, a piece of silverware slipped up a sleeve, or a twelfth century gilded broadsword graced with so much as a shadow of a human being. And Gabriel Van Helsing wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

On order from Rome, both he and Carl were to stay in Transylvania until the monster population had been as close to eradicated as possible. With the extinction of the nation's previous defenders, it was now helpless, and Rome wasn't about to let the region fall into darkness. Carl was less than happy about the order, but Van Helsing couldn't bring himself to really care one way or another. No matter what his past sins had been, it seemed that he was destined to the life of a murderer. He'd slain Dracula not once but twice, killed Velkan and Anna Valerious, and so many more monsters and people throughout the decades that he couldn't even begin to remember them all. But this last…it had hurt the most. He'd never allowed himself to care for anyone as he had for Anna. He had never stayed in one place long enough, and his life was always too dangerous to even consider accepting another person into it. But Anna…she had seemed so strong. Subconsciously, at least, he had thought he had finally found someone that could survive in his world. She, a woman who's entire life had been spent fighting evil, struggling to find a way to make the one kill that would save generations of her family. And now this death lingered with him like none before, because he had cared for her, and he had killed her. Late at night he could still see her face just after she'd died, in those moments when his body had been monstrous but his mind had returned. She'd looked…happy, almost…as if she'd finally found something she'd spent forever searching for. And she had, in a way.

Dusting the misty rain from the brim of his hat, Van Helsing rose from the battlement he'd been resting upon high in Frankenstein Castle. He'd spent the past few weeks traveling back and forth between both it and Fortress Valerious, too disturbed by memories to stay at one or the other consistently. To Carl he'd used the excuse that he was simply keeping on the look out for more monsters, which wasn't entirely untrue. He had slain quite a few in the past few weeks. They had been mostly Changelings and the Walking Dead, with a stray Forest Sprite or two with a penchant for nastiness. With Dracula's death most of the greater evils in his service had disappeared from the area, gone in search of new masters to serve. And vampires, though still in existence, had been reduced to nearly one third of their original number according to Rome. Werewolves roamed the woods as they had for thousands of years, but without Dracula's influence they stayed to the deep woods and kept to their own business. These of course were the Natural werewolves, those who, according to Carl, were no different from regular wolves save that their bite spread the curse of Lycanthropy to humans. Good reason to avoid them, but not to kill them.

Boots scraping on chips of stone littering the stairs beneath his feet, Van Helsing descended into the darkness of the castle. The moon was rising outside, not quite three quarters full but bright enough to cast strong shadows through the ancient trees. The grappling gun clanged dully against a silver stake in one coat pocket, echoing loudly in the empty castle. Faintly there was the sound of the wind whistling through a high tower, and the distant sound of old laboratory equipment groaning under its own weight, but that was all. Many people would have been terrified to walk alone through the old castle, with only a scant few torches to cast aside the malignant darkness. Van Helsing had seen worse, and found it comforting in a way. And these days he didn't need much to see by. While his senses weren't as strong as they had been during his brief stint as a shapeshifter, they were still abnormally powerful. The moon had left its mark on him in more ways than one.

            The wind picked up, rattling shutters in some distant part of the castle. Something about it sounded strange though, and Van Helsing paused, ears straining. It came again, and he could have sworn that it sounded like a voice…a voice diffused from far away. Shaking his head, he passed it off as nerves and too much time spent lingering in the past. Nevertheless, he slid one Tojo blade into his hand and popped out the blades, unwilling to take any chances.

            Nothing appeared out of the gloom on the way to the Spartan bedroom Van Helsing had claimed as his own. The wind had even died down again, and there was no sign of the passing of anything aside from time. Sighing heavily, Van Helsing sheathed the Tojo blade and slumped onto a lumpy old mattress, tossing his hat onto one bedpost. Maybe all he needed was sleep.

--

            The first report came two days later. Two people dead, in a village five miles east of Fortress Valerious. Apparently the villagers had decided to trust him somewhat, as they had willingly brought him news of the attack. They wouldn't, however, give him any details on it…they said something about it being too horrible to speak of. Van Helsing didn't like the sound of that, especially since it meant he'd have to go and see it firsthand. And so, the day found he and Carl riding a winding forest trail towards a tiny excuse for a town. Carl was doing a poor job of reading while riding his horse, pausing every now and then to lead the animal back onto the path again.

            The inn where they finally pulled to a stop was smaller than most homes, or at least it looked that way from the outside. The roof was thatched and badly in need of repair, with sagging beams and rotted hay that looked as if it wouldn't even discourage a leak. The rusted sign hung out front proclaimed its name to be the 'Stag's Head Inn,' and was quickly explained by the large deer skull mounted above the door in grim welcome. Evening was fast approaching as they tied their reigns out front of the inn, the horses thankfully dunking their heads to the waiting water troughs.

            The inside of the establishment looked as if it hadn't been inhabited in years. Thick layers of dust covered everything from the floor to the stubby candles than sat in sconces on the wall. In a far corner of the room, an old man with a hunched spine and very few strands of dirty white hair clinging to his head stood staring at a painting on the wall. It looked to be of a young woman with long, dark hair, and was the only thing in the room absent of dust.

            "Er…excuse me…." Carl began, but stopped when the old man turned and gave him a glare that would have outdone Dracula himself.

            "Tourists no doubt…nobody respects the old country any more…" he grumbled just loud enough for them to hear. "Well what do you want? A room? Directions to some broken down castle so you can go searching for myths and legends?" The old man said, his watery blue eyes narrowed beneath eyebrows that had more hair than his head.

            "A bit of both if you please, sir. We'll be here two nights, and we'd like to know the way to Kensington House," Van Helsing bit out in reply, and Carl gulped, staring from one to the other as if trying to decide which was the greater danger.

            "Fine. Head west down the main roar, first left you see. Can't miss it. And pay me when you get back, I don't take money from dead men." With that said, the old man turned back to the painting.

            "Well, I guess we'll be on our way then," Carl muttered darkly, and they turned right back the way they'd come.

            Kensington House was right where the Innkeeper had told them it was. For only the second structure in the small village they'd seen so far, it was in stark contrast to the inn. It was a huge, two story structure that all at once blended perfectly with the surroundings, while being in entirely the wrong country. It's design held none of the region's typical architecture. It was startlingly British in design, right down to the few drying Tulips lining the walk. From the road, it looked like the perfect little country home, where nothing could ever possibly be wrong for its near happily ever after appearance. But, as they rode closer, Van Helsing caught the faint scent of something on the air that put him on instant alert. Old blood, the same smell that lingered in the corners of Dracula's Castle, and even Fortress Valerious. When they were within ten feet of the house, they saw the first of it. In a trail from the door down the white-washed steps were huge, bloody footprints. There were spots of dried brown speckled all across the porch, and a thick trail smeared behind the footprints, as if something heavy had been dragged.

            Carl looked reluctant to get ay closer to the house, but Van Helsing showed no hesitation in hopping off his black mare and tying her to a porch post. The horses snorted softly and pawed at the ground, nostrils flaring nervously.

            "Van Helsing…what are you doing?" Carl asked, finally joining Van Helsing on the porch. The latter was kneeling near the footprints, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

            "What have you got that's consecrated?" Van Helsing asked suddenly, and Carl stuttered for a moment before scurrying back to rummage through one of the saddle bags.

            "A few crosses, holy water, two short daggers and…er…one pair of brass knuckles." Van Helsing raised an eyebrow at the last, and Carl laughed nervously.

            "It was just a whim, really…could be useful…and what monster would expect it?"

            "Right. Bring them, and one of the crucifixes." Van Helsing rose and trode unconcerned over the footprints, and swung open the front door as if he'd been expecting it to be unlocked.

            "Why? What are we after?" Carl asked nervously, clutching the silver crucifix to his chest with shaking hands.

            "Gargoyle," Van Helsing muttered absently in response, his eyes adjusting to the darker interior. It smelled much worse inside. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and death, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. His mouth watered, something deep inside hungering, and he swallowed thickly past it.

            "Gargoyle?! But they never leave the cities! They're tied to the place of their creation-"

            "I know that Carl. But nevertheless I know a Gargoyle's work when I see it. Messiest bastards I've ever come across when killing," he said, and Carl closed his mouth with a snap, his eyes growing wide.

            "Messiest? Van Helsing, what do you mean by messiest? What if it's still here?" Carl struggled to catch up to Van Helsing, who'd already taken off down one dimly lit hallway.

           "It's not, and it won't be back." Van Helsing paused before a door, the wooden floor stained deep red with blood. He pushed open the door, and stopped. At one point it had been a study, decorated with careful skill and obvious reverence. War memorabilia was strewn everywhere, from medals mounted in frames to certificates and even a uniform of the British Royal Army carefully pressed and displayed on one wall. A shiny, standard issue rifle, carefully oiled, lay on the floor, and a quick flare of his nostrils told Van Helsing that it had been fired. But now all the careful decoration was ruined. Blood soaked the floor wall to wall, was spattered on the walls and ceiling, pooled in the seat of the wing-backed chair set before a desk. Great slash marks shredded through half the uniform, had flung framed medals to the floor and gouged chunks of white plaster to the ground like pure snow in the scene of carnage.

            Carl let out a startled yelp and fled out of the room, and Van Helsing could hear him wretching out in the front yard. Turning with one long, sorrowful look, he turned to the next room. It looked to have once been a sewing room, though the set of paints and canvas propped in the corner looked to have seen more use than the old sewing machine set in a corner, covered with a knitted shawl. A single white glove lay on the floor in the center of the room, the cuff just barely stained with splotches of dark brown. Sighing heavily, Van Helsing turned and headed for the front door. He didn't need to see any more, it all spoke of the same thing. A husband and wife, killed by a gargoyle. On his way to the front door, he paused at table pushed up against one wall. It was filled with picture frames of all shapes and sizes, mostly showing the same three people. A man with graying hair in a British militairy uniform, a woman in a light blue gown and bouncing brown curls, and a young girl, just an adult in the last of the pictures. She looked a lot like her mother, but her eyes were never smiling, and in every photo a large, silver cross was plainly visible at her neck.

            "Carl, there was a daughter," Van Helsing stated as he exited the house, coat flaring as he mounted his horse in one fluid motion. Carl was already mounted and ready to go, and turned suddenly.

            "What? I thought there were only two deaths reported."

            "There were. I checked the house, it was only the husband and wife that were killed. We need to find out where the girl is," Van Helsing said, and flicked his reigns. Both horses took off down the road, straining against the reigns to get away from the house as quickly as possible.

            The sun was setting when they made it back to the inn, the long shadows of the pines spread across the ground like the stripes of a jungle cat. There were lights beginning to shine from deep in the woods…candlelight from the houses hidden so deep in foliage that only by night could they be found easily.

            The Innkeeper was standing on the porch when they returned, holding an old brass lamp out in front of him like a night watchman on the harbor. His grizzled face stood in stark relief in the lamplight, eyes just two dark shadows in his skull.

            "So, you're still alive. Find what you were looking for, did you?" he asked, holding the door open as they lugged in their bags.

            "What happened to their daughter?" Van Helsing asked without preamble, following the man down one short hallway, puffs of dust rising from the rotting carpet.

            "Oh, a quick one are you? Well she up and disappeared the night of the attack. We all assumed she was taken by the thing that killed her, or she just up and ran off after the attack. Wouldn't blame her if she had." The old man stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall, and kicked it twice. On the second strike, it creaked open, and he thrust the lamp at Van Helsing. "Leave your money on the desk. I wouldn't advise going outside, but there's a pub five minute's walk down the trail out back if you're hungry." The old man turned and crept back into the dark, white hair gleaming in the lamp glow until he disappeared into some unknown portion of the Inn. Carl turned to Van Helsing with widened eyes, and nodded his head toward the exit.

            "Are you thinking what I am, Van Helsing?" he asked.

            "If you're thinking that we got a warmer welcome at Castle Dracula, then yes." Van Helsing gave a grim smile, and tossed a bag into the open doorway. "But on the bright side no one's tried to kill us yet." Carl grimaced, and pulled the silver cross out of his bag and clutched it to his chest.

            "And if they do, I'm blaming you Van Helsing. You know you're never supposed to say things like that!" Van Helsing only laughed, and shoved the friar towards one of the empty cots in the room.

-----End Chapter 1---