Chapter 18 Hellsing
HELLSING
Ishould never have left her.
That thought sat in the back of my head the whole time, even as I told myself I was doing the right thing, giving her space, getting eyes back on the Scorpions.
Grace stayed curled up on my couch when I left the house. She wore my shirt and those damn small shorts that did nothing to hide her legs. She said she felt fine. She said she wanted a nap before the party and told me to stop hovering.
She was right.
I still did not want to walk out that door, but the knot in my gut pushed me toward the one place that had seen more destruction than it needed to.
The Midnight Wytch.
Last time I had been here, the front window was broken in, the door was splintered, and the air carried the stink of fire and ash.
Now the window was whole again, a solid pane where shards used to shine on the sidewalk.
Fresh paint covered the scars on the doorframe.
The new wood on the jamb looked pale and raw compared to the older boards.
The sign above the door hung straight. Someone had scrubbed away the soot streaks on the brick. There were still faint marks if you knew where to look, thin lines and darker patches, reminders that this place had gone through some heavy shit.
I pushed the door open. The bell over the frame gave a dull ring.
Inside, shelves stood back in place, lined with jars, bundles of herbs, stacks of candles.
There were spaces where gaps cut through the order, empty spots that waited for stock that had not come in yet.
The floor had been mopped so many times the boards had a faint bleach sting, fighting with the smell of incense.
“Yo, Hellsing,” a voice called from the back.
Josh stepped out from behind the counter with a box in his hands.
Kid was lean, wiry, and his eyes were too old for his face.
He wore a Midnight Wytch shirt that still had creases in it and a pair of jeans with paint stains on the thighs.
The scar on his left cheek pulled his mouth up a little, even when he was not trying to smile.
“You’re early,” he said, setting the box down. “I thought you said you’d swing by later.”
“Plans changed,” I said. “Wanted to see how this place is holding up.”
He glanced around, pride slipping through his guarded stare.
“Mostly repaired,” he said. “Door and window got replaced yesterday. Got the last busted shelves swapped this morning. Seraphine says all we need now is stock and customers.”
“And no more demons crashing the party,” I muttered.
His eyes flicked to me. He heard that. He always heard the things I did not mean to say out loud.
I stepped closer to the counter.
“Listen up, kid,” I said. “Tonight, Halloween, there’s a party at Cherry Smoke. You know the place.”
“RBMC territory,” he said at once. “Yeah. Neutral ground. Ajax owns it, right.”
“Right,” I said. “It sits on the edge of the Quarter. Easy to get in, easy to get out. That’s where a lot of our people are heading. That’s where Grace is heading.”
He raised a brow.
“You want me there?” he asked.
“I want you vigilant,” I said. “You’ll meet us first here out front when it gets dark. Then we walk over together. You keep your eyes open in that crowd. If you see anyone from the Scorpions, you let me know. If you see Croak, you find me fast.”
Josh’s mouth tightened at the mention of those names. He looked down at his hands for a second, then back up.
“I haven’t heard anything from them yet,” he said. “No bikes near here. No assholes asking about you or Grace. But they’re planning something. I can feel it. The streets are too quiet.”
He was right. There was a strange calm over the city. The wrong kind of calm. The kind that one had to guard themselves on.
“They’re not done,” I said. “They think this city’s open season. They think we’re still licking our wounds. They see this mess, and they think that means we’re weak.”
“You’re not,” he said.
“No,” I agreed. “We’re not. But we don’t underestimate them either. So, I need you to show up tonight at Cherry Smoke. You keep Grace in your periphery at all times. If something feels off, you tug my sleeve. You don’t play hero. You get me.”
He held my stare, then nodded once.“Got it.”
I left him there, stacking boxes and humming to some track that played through his headphones, and stepped back out into the street.
The sky had started to turn, light thinning, shadows pulling longer between buildings.
Halloween always wound this city up. The Quarter would fill once the sun dropped.
Costumes. Masks. Drunks. It was a good night for demons.
By the time the evening rolled in, I was back outside the Midnight Wytch with a beer in my hand and a cigarette I did not bother to light.
The neon signs flicked on up and down the block.
Music thumped from somewhere on the corner.
The street began to fill with bodies, painted faces, cheap capes, fake blood, and plastic fangs.
Anne Rice was definitely a favorite this time of year.
Hoax leaned against the wall beside me; one boot braced behind him. He looked amused by everything and nothing all at once.
“How’s it going with Maleficent?” he asked, taking a pull from his bottle.
“Do me a favor,” I said, not looking at him. “Don’t call her that.”
He laughed. “You two finally did the deed, huh?”
“We finally did something,” I muttered.
“It was bound to happen,” he said. “Chemistry like that is bound to explode.”
“Why don’t you go find your own chemistry and stop messing with mine,” I said.
“Oh, I intend to,” he shot back. “And mine shuts down all the charts.”
“You know, I preferred when we used to talk about superhero movies and comic books,” I said.
“I never said I was going to stop,” he replied.
I gave him a side eye, interrupted by another booming voice coming up the block.
“You fools lookin’ for some action on this corner?”
Bullet strode up through the crowd, and I nearly spit my beer on the sidewalk. He was dressed head to toe in Witcher gear. Long white hair down his back, leather armor, sword on his back. He moved in full swagger, like he had not raided a cosplay shop that afternoon.
“Okay,” Hoax said, deadpan.
Bullet stopped in front of us and spread his arms.
“You told me to dress up,” he said. “Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
Hoax grinned and tugged on the old RBMC jacket he wore, the one with worn patches and a familiar scuff on the sleeve.
“I’m Jameson,” he said. “Vintage edition.”
“You’re such a dumbass,” I said, shaking my head.
“Oh yeah?” Bullet looked me over. “What about you, Hoax gave you a once-over already. What’s with the coat?”
I stepped back enough to show my full getup. Long black coat, boots, shirt open enough to show the ink on my chest. Holsters at my sides. Pistols in place. Rosary at my throat. Cross at my belt.
“Easy,” I said. “I’m a cowboy exorcist. Think holy man with guns.”
“You look like this every day,” Bullet muttered.
“Precisely my point,” I said.
Before he could answer, movement at the end of the block caught my eye.
Two women walked toward us through the crowd with the kind of confidence that parted bodies without a word.
Seraphine led, her long black cape catching every small stir of air.
Her hair was hidden under a white wig that fell in stark waves.
White contacts turned her eyes into pale discs against her dark face.
She wore a black leather dress that hugged every curve, the neckline low, the hem slashed high. She walked like she owned the street.
Beside her, Grace moved with a different rhythm.
Harley Quinn, but not the bubblegum version. This Harley was darker. Her dark hair was pulled into two high pigtails, streaked with red at the ends. Black and red makeup framed her eyes, smeared just enough to give her a wild edge. A silver collar circled her throat.
She wore a torn crop top, red and black, that flashed glimpses of her stomach. Fishnet tights clung to her legs. The shorts she wore barely counted as clothing. Across her thigh, visible through the fishnets, fresh ink marked her skin.
LITTLE DEMON.
The words rode the curve of muscle, clean and sharp.
In her hand, she carried a “Good Night” bat, the letters painted along the grain. Her boots were heavy, laced high. She chewed on a piece of bright red gum and blew a small bubble as she walked.
“Damn,” Hoax said under his breath.
“Damn is an understatement,” Bullet murmured.
I did not take my eyes off Grace.
“Okay,” I said. “Keep it in your pants, boys. Harley is mine.”
We stepped off the wall and moved toward them. We met halfway in the middle of the sidewalk, under the flicker of a neon sign.
“Looking to get fired up tonight?” I asked.
Seraphine smirked. “As long as you’re not taking us to a comic book convention, we’re good,” she said.
“You wish,” I said, then turned my attention fully to Grace.
She stood close, eyes bright, jaw set in a little smirk.
“Harley, huh?” I asked.
“You know you love it,” she said, voice low and teasing.
“I thought you’d come as my favorite witch,” I said. “You had options.”
“Witches are played out,” she said. “At least Harley gets to have fun.”
There was an edge to the word “fun” that made my stomach tighten. I stepped a little closer, enough that I could smell the faint mix of her perfume and something else I could not place.
“What’s gotten into you?” I asked quietly.
“A demon,” she said.
She laughed as she said it, then brushed it off with a roll of her eyes and started to move her hips in a small dance to the distant music, tempting, playful, candy on the surface. The joke slid into the space between us and sat there. My chest tightened.
I wanted her.
I wanted to pull her in, throw her over my shoulder, take her somewhere quiet, strip the costume off her body and replace the laughter with something real. The need rolled through me in a steady wave, heavy and sharp.
At the same time, that old anxiety punched me in the gut.
Bael.