Greg Van Helsing was in a sour mood after failing, once again, to enter the ancient tunnels beneath the El Tajin ruins. The normy he’d brought with him to Mexico, one Peter Mayhew, did manage to at least decipher what it was they would need to proceed, but Greg had been hoping to explore the tunnels. Peter told him that two things were needed to enter Kuzco’s domain: a blood sacrifice and a password. His ability, incredibly, even gave him a hint as to what the password might be. Though a 7 or more letter word for birthright was not exactly a gimme, especially considering the fact that they didn’t know what language it might be in. Peter suggested that it may not even be, and was in fact unlikely to be a word in english. His theory was that, as Kuzco the Fabulous lived here in Veracruz at the time when he would have made the password, the language used here, and at that time was the best place to start.

And so, instead of exploring the ancient domain, Greg had to ride in the passenger seat while Peter drove them, abhorrently slowly, from one gift shop or bookstore to the next for hours until, finally, he found an English to Nahuatl dictionary. Between the fact that the cover that looked as though it were illustrated by a four-year-old, and that the entire dictionary only looked to be about 50 pages, Greg was not optimistic about finding the secret password to the ancient ruins within. Still, they now had something to go on, and that was more than he’d been able to come up with in over 40 years.

The baking equatorial sun was absent in the sky when Greg and Peter made it back to the hotel, which was no surprise considering who’d been driving. Mrs. Mayhew was seated exactly where she was when he and Peter had left several hours earlier, the dog snoring loudly between her feet.

Greg wasn’t sure how to feel about the part-Witch that was Peter’s wife. She was cordial to him, nice even, and so he did not feel any dislike toward her, but something about her gave off powerful danger vibes. He knew secondhand from Peter’s ability that she was 19% Witch, but before Peter even had the ability, Greg had suspicions. Even the 19% Witch blood in her veins did not explain her aura. Not the ‘aura’ the modern young people often referred to, which probably had more to do with essential oils and ‘good vibes only’ t-shirts than anything, but a literal aura. Every living being gives off a certain unique feeling to the senses of a Witch Hunter. Peter Mayhew, for example, had an aura that was almost non-existent, merely a faint pulse of general excitement that Greg could only sense while the goofy man was in close proximity. Renea’s, however, he could sense as soon as he and Peter exited the elevator onto the floor where their suite was located. It was thick, black as night, and very, very powerful. More even than Roma’s. Darker, thicker, and more hair-raising than the two-century old vampire. Yet, by all appearances, she had no knowledge of magic and even less interest in using it. Greg couldn’t understand it.

Reunited once again, the Mayhews exchanged a loving greeting. Greg averted his eyes. The two of them were like a sickly sweet ‘in love’ couple from a hallmark movie. It made him want to vomit. Flapjack came to his rescue, but not before snuggling in between the legs of the Mayhew for some of their overly long embrace. Greg crouched and scratched the little fella behind his ears, waiting for the ‘I love you’s’ to end. Finally they detached and a conversation including all parties could commence.

“Mrs. Mayhew,” Greg greeted, dipping his chin.

“Thank you for keeping my sweet Peter in one piece, Mr. Van Helsing,” she said, brow raised at his continual usage of ‘Mrs. Mayhew’ despite reminding him regularly that they were, in fact, on a first name basis. “How’d it go?”

Peter got Renea up to date, gesturing wildly as he began the process of changing into a swimsuit - once again subjecting Greg to his unabashed nudity as he did it right there in the shared living area of the two bedroom suite. Greg wasn’t paying attention, but nodded along each time Renea looked his way for confirmation. He was lost in thought, mulling over what Peter had told him about the runes under the trap door. Kuzco the Fabulous was a vampire of tremendous renown. So much so that even now, centuries after his demise - a surely heroic tale someone surely immortalized in a story by now about his late brother Gabriel’s glorious victory - the name was still circulated around the darker circles of the kabal. Gabriel Van Helsing, a few dozen years Greg’s senior, hadn’t given any details about the matter. Instead, he stated only that, “Kuzco will no longer torment the living”.

Greg remembered that day. It must have been close to 600 years ago, but he remembered. His infamous older brother had not escaped the battle unscathed, a rarity to be sure. When he returned from Central America to their current residence in Ireland, something was different about him. He’d always been the dark and broody type, but after his encounter with Kuzco he took broody to an entirely new level. Gabriel was distant, a haunted look in his eyes. Like he wanted to, but simply could not, forget some horrible event. It was like it was on his mind every waking moment. He even told Greg to give up monster hunting, to make a family and settle down somewhere quiet, to stop doing the only thing that made him happy. They argued - physically - as brothers sometimes do, and for the first time in a great many bouts, Greg came out on top. Looking back on it, that battle with Kuzco so long ago may have weakened Gabriel permanently - ultimately leading to his death at the hand of Nosferatu. After their disagreement and subsequent scuffle, the two Van Helsings parted ways. He hadn’t known then that he would never see his brother again.

“Greg?” Peter asked, cocking his head questioningly. He was standing buck ass naked with a swimsuit in each hand.

“What? Sorry.”

Peter held up the trunks in his left hand. They were yellow, and looked so small that he’d have to squeeze himself into them. “This one?” Peter raised the pair of trunks in his other hand. These were regular, albeit too short for Greg’s personal taste, trunks the color of a cloudless winter sky. “Or this one?”

Greg scowled, looking at the man like he’d just proposed marriage to him. “I don’t…” he started, stopping just short of the ‘care’ as Peter’s expression turned to hurt. “The blue ones.”

“There,” Renea said, not looking up from her laptop, her hands flying across the keyboard. “You’ve been out voted. Thanks, Greg.”

Peter pouted, his perfect features scrunching up in a way that even Greg found kind of adorable, and slipped on the blue pair of swim trunks. “Fine. I’m going to have a drink in the pool. You want to come?”

Greg thought about it for a moment. He didn’t even own a pair of trunks. But he also did not want to be left in the hotel suite alone with Renea. His other option for the evening was to look for monster hunting work, but he had enough money to get by for a while and didn’t speak a bit of spanish.

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“I didn’t bring a swimsuit. Can you get drinks by the pool instead of in it?”

Peter smiled widely. “I’ll be right back.”

The flamboyant manchild disappeared into one of the bedrooms. A few minutes later, he came out with both arms held behind his back, clearly hiding something in them. Before Greg could say a word, Peter revealed a pair of Greg-sized swim trunks. Greg just looked at Peter Mayhew for a few awkward seconds, trying to figure out why he would take the time to go and purchase a swimsuit for him. The more he thought about it though, the more he realized that Peter was just a genuinely kind and thoughtful person. He smiled and laughed, getting to his feet.

“Yeah. Let’s hit the pool,” he decided. “Thanks, Peter. You even got my favorite color. Mrs. Mayhew, you coming?”

“You’re welcome. Renea will meet us down there when she finishes up her work,” Peter said, waving dismissively. He tilted his head to one side and then the other contemplatively. “Probably. And black isn’t a color.”

Peter rambled on about crossword puzzles of all things as they rode the elevator down to ground level. Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone swimming just for pleasure and felt strangely awkward wearing nothing but his new trunks, which Peter had managed to size perfectly, as they walked through the lobby. As luck would have it, though, not a single person seemed to be observing him. Every single man and woman that they passed stared at Peter. Between his Ken-doll face and lean, but muscular and aesthetic build, Peter drew eyes to him like a magnet. They hadn’t even made it to the pool before someone approached him. It was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, that was nearly as flamboyant and… Greg couldn’t think of a better word than ‘pretty’, as Peter. He asked what brought the two of them to Mexico, and Peter began a lengthy discussion that Greg had little interest in. When they finally got to the part where Peter had to explain that he was a married man, his would-be suitor glanced curiously up and down Greg’s towering form.

“Not to Greg,” Peter explained with a laugh. “So not my type. He’s single though, aren’t you Greg?”

“Single. Uninterested. Thirsty. Pool?” Greg replied. He had to admit though, if he were ever in need of a wingman, Peter Mayhew would fill that role expertly.

“My room is 933, if you change your mind,” the man said suggestively, still looking at Peter. He looked appraisingly at Greg once again for entirely too long. “You too, big fella.”

Peter smiled and waved his goodbye and Greg grunted.

“I take it that kind of thing happens a lot?” Greg asked as he and Peter made it out of the lobby. The way Peter had handled the interaction was natural. Natural the way that only repetition can produce. Natural the way it was natural when Greg was fighting monsters.

Peter was surveying the pool. He located a pair of unoccupied beach chairs to leave the few belongings they’d brought down and the two of them headed that way. “What kind of thing?”

“People, you know, coming onto you? I guess?”

Peter blew out air and scrunched up his lips, a self-deprecating gesture if Greg had ever seen one. “I don’t think Giovanni meant to come onto me. We just seemed to connect, you know?”

Greg looked at Peter in utter disbelief. It was the most obvious pickup attempt he had personally witnessed in recent memory - which, for Greg Van Helsing, was quite a large pool of memories. Greg wondered if Peter was just attempting to be modest or if he was legitimately that oblivious. He suspected the latter.

The two men dropped off their towels and cell phones and stepped into the pool. The whole thing proved to be a novel experience for Greg. The dark, warm, humid night made the cool ice-blue water - illuminated sporadically with underwater lights of various colors - a welcome relief. The bar was a tropical themed little hutch floating on one side of the pool. There were coconuts everywhere along the bar itself and decorating much of the floating contraption it rested upon. Greg wanted a whiskey, but Peter insisted on margaritas. He was assisted in convincing Greg to have one by the breathtaking young bartender. Greg was fairly certain she took Peter’s side in an attempt to garner the pretty man’s favor. Still, when in Rome…

“Oh what the hell,” he finally conceded. “Margaritas. Then whiskey."

The fruity drink with a tiny umbrella sticking out of it for whatever reason was surprisingly pleasant and Greg Van Helsing, despite his centuries of life, experienced something new. Drinking margaritas and relaxing in a pool. He found, much to his own surprise, that he quite enjoyed the whole thing. There was something so innocent and carefree, something that was just so… mortal about it. They had a few margaritas, occasionally people would approach Peter with varying intentions. The majority were women, but a few men as well. A group of adolescent girls even took a swing at Peter, but Greg was pretty sure they were just there to gawk. He remembered Renea saying, “You can’t take him anywhere,” and was starting to understand what she meant. Eventually it became clear to everyone at the pool that nobody would be taking Peter to their hotel rooms, and the two were left alone and discussion concerning their next steps could ensue.

“I looked through the dictionary,” Peter said, his legs and feet kicking slowly back and forth in the pool as he sat on the ledge with a margarita in hand, “but there either wasn’t a word for ‘birthright’ in ancient Nahuatl. That or the dictionary we found just doesn’t have it.”

“Hmm,” Greg grunted, thoughtfully.

“Renea said she’d do an internet search when she finishes up work. Hopefully she finds something. Otherwise we’ll have to, well, I guess I already mentioned it.” Seeing Greg’s confusion, Peter went on. “In the elevator? The crossword thing.”

Greg had been less-than half-listening to Peter babble about crossword puzzles. He had assumed Peter just loved all puzzles, never realizing he’d brought it up with any amount of relevance. The more he thought about it, though, the more it made sense to think of the password like an answer in a crossword puzzle. They could think up all of the possible synonyms and search the dictionary for them. As Greg worked the potential solution through his mind, bits of what Peter had been saying in the elevator came back to him. He suggested exactly that, gathering and translating synonyms, and then taking a list of them back to the trap door. He was a clever guy and Greg found himself more and more impressed with his problem solving skills.

“That Mrs. Mayhew really puts in a lot of hours, doesn’t she?” Greg asked. He grabbed his margarita from the ledge of the pool and finished it off.

“Renea has the work ethic of a computer,” Peter agreed. There was a flicker of sadness in his eyes when he’d said it, but it was gone almost instantly. “She’s amazing.”

“I think you said she’s an administrator of some kind. But, Peter, I’ve never asked what it is that you do. I mean, if you have time to do anything, driving as slowly as you do. It’s a wonder you make it anywhere.”

Peter laughed and flipped Greg the bird. “Renea makes plenty of money, so I mind the house,” he said. Again, a flicker of sadness - or perhaps the hint of shame - in his eyes, but this time it took a bit longer for him to wipe it away. “And I keep myself busy. I do online classes, and have hobbies and stuff. You know…”

“You’re in school?” Greg asked, surprised. He was surprised by pretty much everything Peter had just confided. Despite his clear competence and ability, he was a, what? A stay at home husband? Not even a stay at home dad, except to Flapjack. He was just… unemployed? He made sure not to show his confusion. Peter seemed to be a touch self-conscious about the subject, so Greg moved the conversation along. “What are you studying?”

Peter finished his margarita and set the empty glass down beside him. “Nothing in particular. Everything? Whatever sounds interesting, I guess. I’ve been taking classes for years. I think the educational credits add up to something like six bachelors degrees but they’re scattered. I really only took the classes to learn the subject matter, not with any intention of graduating or anything. What about you? When you’re not killing werewolves, I mean. What’s a day in the life of Greg Van Helsing look like?”

For a few seconds, Greg considered the question. Most of his days lately had been rather dull, if he were being entirely honest. He’d wake up in whatever shabby hotel room he stayed the night in and scroll the internet for hours in search of potential leads. Sometimes he’d go see Hal at the docks to see if he’d caught wind of any contracts or check in with various contacts all over the world. He went to local kabal branches occasionally to check the contract boards but, in this modern era of technology, it was rare to find anything attractive there. This trip to Veracruz was the most interesting and exciting thing he’d done in years.

“Let’s get another margarita.”