Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek - Hardcover

Curtis Jobling is the author of the Wereworld series, which includes Rise of the Wolf, which was shortlisted for the 2011 Waterstone’s Prize, Rage of Lions, Shadow of the Hawk, Nest of Serpents, Storm of Sharks, and War of the Werelords. Max Helsing and the Thirteenth Curse is his first book in the Max Helsing series. He is also the designer of the worldwide hit children’s television show Bob the Builder, and the author/illustrator of numerous children’s books. He lives with his family in Cheshire, England. Visit Curtis online at curtisjobling.com.

Ducking beneath branches and bounding through bushes, Max powered on, in monster-hunting mode. He had no doubt he was chasing the Beast of Bone Creek at last. Leaping over roots and rocks, Max saw the branches and leaves rustling just ahead of him. He spied a dark shape darting left, trying to peel away from his path, but cut it off, changing the angle of his sprint and diving left. He exploded through the undergrowth, paddle raised and scything down.

There was no bigfoot there. Instead, there was a grubby little man, no taller than Max’s knee.

The fellow looked up in shock as the paddle came down, leveled at his fur-covered head. Max twisted his arms at the last second, driving the makeshift staff into the earth just inches away. The man fell back, landing with a thump in the soil, as a breathless Max towered over him, chest slick with sweat. He pointed the paddle at the tiny man.

“Who are you?” he said, gasping. “And what have you done with the campers?”

“You going to kill me, Van Helsing? Is that it?”

The strange fellow dusted himself off and glowered at the boy. His weather-beaten skin was brown and leathery, and he carried a set of panpipes in his belt. His clothes were fashioned from patchwork animal skins—predominantly squirrel, from the looks of them, and adorned with birds’ feathers. His ensemble was topped off by a rabbit pelt that he wore as a hat, tied beneath his chin by the paws, the bunny’s ears sticking up as if it had just been surprised.

“How do you know my name, dwarf?” said Max.

The little man flicked dirt from the top of his panpipes with a tiny finger. He snarled, rising indignantly. “How dare you. I’m a brownie. Not that you’d give a flying fart, monster slayer!”

Max jabbed at the brownie with the paddle, sending his bottom back to earth with a bump.

“Stay put, short stuff,” said Max. “I’m not done questioning you. Where are the two people who went missing last night? What’ve you done with them?”

The brownie placed the pipe to his lips and blew across them. Instantly Max swayed where he stood. He recognized the tune—he’d heard it before, atop the High Crag before rappelling. The notes put him at ease and caused the fight to flood from his body. He was no longer so keen on smashing the paddle over the brownie’s head. Sleep was a more promising proposition. He was even eyeing a nice bed of moss when his training kicked in.

Fairy enchantment: Jed’s lessons had taught him how to react. The key was distraction, anything to take his mind off the music for the briefest of moments, but also to distract the spellcaster.

Max sang a line from his favorite Queen song—badly—the lyrics disrupting the brownie’s melody. The little man was surprised to see his cantrip countered.

“Scaramouche! Scaramouche!” shouted Max, striking the pipes from the brownie’s hands before pinning him to the leaves with a bare foot.

“What foul magic is that?” gasped the brownie.

“‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’” said Max with a grin as his senses returned. “Beats nine out of ten fairy spells.” His smile slipped. “You seem to know a lot about me, brownie, but I know nothing about you. How about you start answering some questions?”

“Or what?” snapped the tiny man, squirming and punching Max’s foot ineffectually. He fished a pinecone out of a pouch on his hip and launched it at Max. It struck him hard across the bridge of his nose, making him see stars.

“That was you, lobbing cones at me, yesterday?” he said.

“And I’d do it again! Maybe rocks, next time!”

Max reached down with his free hand and grabbed the brownie by his animal pelt jacket. He gave him a shake, irritation and anger getting the better of him. This wasn’t Max’s style, but all of his frustrations were boiling over.

“Where are those campers?” he shouted. “What have you done with them?”

The brownie raised his little hands as if to shield himself from what was to come. Max saw genuine terror in the fellow’s eyes, and it sickened him to the pit of his belly. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins, his head thundering. The little man might indeed know where the campers were, but brutalizing him wasn’t going to bring Max any answers. He slackened his grip as the brownie began to speak.

“It’s not us what’s done nothing,” he began. “It’s . . .”

His words trailed away as he looked up at Max. His confession ceased abruptly, his eyes wide, no longer fixed upon his tormentor. They were looking past the boy, behind him. Max felt a cold chill settling over him as if the sun had been blocked out. He craned his neck and glanced back over his shoulder.

Being a monster hunter had prepared Max Helsing for many things. But nothing had prepared him for the Beast of Bone Creek.