Alex Van Helsing The Triumph of Death - By Jason Henderson Page 0,29

out in the 1880s. As a man in his twenties, Abraham had met John Polidori, who had started by faking his own death in 1821 and hunting Lord Byron. By the 1850s, Polidori was gathering vampire hunters and sharing information around the globe, starting a network of agents in the field and writers who were paid, coerced, recruited, and seduced into seeding information into literature. By the time of the Dracula affair at the end of the 1800s, Abraham was in his late seventies and John Polidori was long dead, finally actually dead. But what Alex had never understood was that Polidori and Van Helsing had coordinated their efforts on occasion with witches.

“Yes,” Astrid said. “But even Abraham didn’t have the power you have. The gift belonged to Abraham’s first son before he died. That’s the last one we know of.”

What? This was all new information for Alex. There had been other Van Helsings with the abilities he was developing? He felt a rush of excitement and relief. “This is incredible,” Alex said. “You know about my obscure uncles.”

“We find you very interesting.”

“Great! So what happened to my…” Alex tried to do the math. “Great-great-great-uncle?”

Astrid looked up as though reading through a file floating in the air. “Abraham failed to find anyone who could help him with the powers he was developing. The boy went insane and died in a mental institution in the 1870s.”

Alex paused, then mumbled, “Oh.”

Astrid quickly changed the subject. “So, do your friends know about you?” she asked. “Minhi seemed to get really serious when you started asking about the painting.”

“Yeah.” Alex nodded resignedly. “They do. I tell them pretty much everything.”

“So you hate to say what’s in your head but you talk a great deal.” Astrid smiled.

“It’s not like that.” Alex brightened suddenly. “Sid is a genius when it comes to vampires. He catches things that the Polidorium can miss. Paul is a rock of support. I need him. And Minhi is…”

Astrid studied him, reminding him again of a curious bird. “A mind like a trap.”

“She’s also a kung fu master,” Alex added.

The young witch smiled. “You’re very protective of them.”

“I don’t know if protective is the word, I—they took me in.”

Astrid shook her head. “Alex, you have such a destiny,” she said. “I don’t think you realize it. And I just wouldn’t want to see you throw it away.”

Alex rose. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t know you. I’ve worked with Sangster and the Polidorium for months, and they trust you, so I’m following their lead. And I’m not trying to be hard on you. But it’s not as easy for me to trust you. Minhi and Paul and Sid—they’re like family to me, and I do trust them. So I have no idea what you mean when you say I’m throwing my life away, but listen: It’s my life.”

He turned abruptly and went to his seat, wrapping his jacket around him. He needed to sleep.

“Okay, but I think we should talk some more about Bruegel,” she offered, ignoring his outburst.

He shook his head and closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this right now. “Just get some sleep, Astrid.”

CHAPTER 10

The Prado Museum in Madrid, a vast, light gray palace lined with columns and plants, well-manicured lawns, and trees, had three entrances. The first, Puerta de Goya Alta, was for tourists. The second, the Puerta de los Jerónimos, was for groups, and the third, Puerta de Murillo, was for reservations and guests. At six A.M. on Tuesday morning Alex found himself in Spain going in the third way. They had four hours before the museum opened.

Alex, Astrid, and Sangster left Armstrong reading in the Spanish-loaned van at the curb in front of the Atocha Metro stop and crossed the busy avenue in front of the museum at a run. As they neared the Puerta de Murillo, Alex could hear morning birds calling in the trees, and he could see a man in a suit walking down the steps to meet them.

As they approached, Alex whispered to Sangster, “So they’re actually going to let us look at it?”

“It’s a favor from the government.”

“Do you guys have agents in every government?”

“Not an agent, in this case,” corrected Sangster. “A friend who owes us a favor.”

“Buenos dias,” the man said as he approached. He was tall, with silver hair and glasses and a neat mustache. Alex had the vague sense that they’d seen him before. They stopped in the shadow of the columns before