I grab the chair he indicates—a wooden one that looks like it can’t support much weight—and drag it over, sitting in it cautiously as he shoves cotton swabs and antiseptic at me. I get to work helping him.
He’s gently stitching up a wound on one arm and I’m dabbing rubbing alcohol on one on the other when he asks, “So why’d you sneak out and come to fight the al?”
I purse my lips. I don’t really want to have this conversation.
“Y’know. Stubborn and reckless. Like my irresponsible parents.”
Something flickers across his face. He finishes up the stitches.
“I shouldn’t have talked about them like that. Riley and Samson.”
I glance at him as I grab a bandage. He’s moving on to stitch up another gash, this one on his chest.
“Don’t get me wrong. They were stubborn and reckless, and you are too. Irresponsible … not so much.” He sighs. “What was that business with the classroom?”
I shrug again without answering.
“Was it Piers Dagher? One of his lackies?” He’s looking at me this time when I glance up at him, and I quickly get back to bandaging his arm. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ve noticed them giving you a hard time. That Dagher kid—he’s a lot like his father. Ambitious. Full of himself.” He grunts and winces as I start applying antiseptic to a different wound. “A bully.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I want to.
“Chip on his shoulder, though, that kid. Failed the trials last year. His dad probably gave him hell for it. Doubt he pays much attention to the kid.”
Well that explains a lot.
I look up at Helsing’s face. He’s frowning in concentration as he carefully pulls the needle through the skin on his chest.
“You done with that wound?”
“Just about.”
“When you are, go grab me another beer from the fridge,” he says.
I finish bandaging up the wound I’m working on and then get up, heading into the kitchen. I open the fridge and peer inside. It’s mostly beer, but there’s also some moldy cheese and some almost-empty bottles of hot sauce.
“Do you have an actual bottle opener?” I call to him, reaching for a beer.
“Just bring it in here.”
He’s removed his shirt and moved onto stitching up another gash on his chest when I reenter the room, but he pauses, needle dangling from the partly-stitched wound, to grab the beer from me. He opens it on the edge of the workbench with one hand and takes a long draught.
I return to my chair and move onto one of the cuts on his leg. I notice he’s got jagged scars crisscrossing his torso, all in various stages of healing. A few look so old they’re almost gone, while others look so fresh they could have been made just weeks ago.
“Why didn’t you like my parents?” I ask.
He grunts. “I reckon I do give that impression. I did like them, actually. Damn good monster hunters, hell of a good team.” He laughs. “You dressing my wounds like this reminds me of your mother. They had a cabin like this,” he adds. “Near Riley’s sister’s house. Trish? She was a nice-looking girl. Trish, I mean. She doing all right?”
“She is,” I say, and then I realize that’s a lie. I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her in almost two months now. I grin despite myself. Aunt Trish would freak out to hear that one of Mom’s old monster hunting pals thought she was ‘nice-looking’.
We’re quiet for a while, but I want to ask him abou
t the cabin he mentioned. I’ve never heard Aunt Trish mention it before, but there are lots of things she never mentioned.
“Spent one Christmas in that cabin, just like this,” Helsing says, his voice soft and thoughtful. He finishes off his stitches. “We’d just got off a hunt. Samson, he never minded getting hurt too much. Stuff didn’t seem to touch him. He sat and watched TV while Riley patched me up. Weird guy; loved those sappy movies, the ones where two people fall in love around Christmas time, and one of ’em hates Christmas.”
My vision gets a little blurry. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve, and it comes away wet. Helsing looks away and pretends not to notice.
“Hey, uh—really. Why are you out here? Somebody dare you?”