Aiden Shepard [ Abraham Van Helsing ] (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} arcere) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} bellumlogs, |
Aiden had been waiting. Patiently, which was unusual for him.
He'd set out the box of supplies and had been idly shifting through it, glancing at the clock every so often. As midnight and moonrise approached, he got more and more anxious, moving from place to place in his apartment, flipping through the novel left at his bedside. Finally he just gave up and slumped on his couch, a pile of papers shifting to the floor in a white stream. They didn't make much difference in the mess.
When the change happened, it was gradual, this time. The headache, staved off by painkillers an hour before, didn't come into his skull like a bullet, but like a hangover. Aiden squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the heels of his palms against them and then he wasn't there any more. Van Helsing was the one who blinked blearily at the dull light of the room, at the moonlight making the mess of papers on the floor gleam painfully.
His jacket, dusty and old, lay comfortably on his shoulders; against his chest hung the crucifix, which he thought he'd given to Jonathan. If it was here, then truly something bad was on the horizon. The women ... where were they? Madam Mina, Miss Lucy ...
Near his feet lay the box, and it was with a smile that he reached down to take three of the stakes, two of the crosses. The wafers would be useless, he feared. For a boy who so disbelieved in his own fate, though Van Helsing, he had been kind enough to leave such assistance.
Armed this time and with far fewer delays than before, he made his way out and up the stairs, whispering a prayer under his breath. He paused briefly once he reached the fifth floor to listen, leaning out from the stairwell into the hallway in case something needed his help.