by Vivian Shaw
“But,” Cranswell had said, “what about the killing people thing? In all the books and movies?”
“Well, really,” Ruthven had told him, looking rather tired, “don’t you think it’d sort of attract public attention, all these random individuals dropping dead of sudden blood loss? Any vampire who kills when he or she feeds is a vampire with some rather significant impulse-control problems, plus I’m not even sure it would be comfortably possible to down that many pints of the stuff in one go. Even if you don’t have access to blood from a bank, it’s much easier and wiser to take a small amount from several individuals than drain one person to the point of death, and far less likely to get you noticed by people with the pitchfork-and-torch mentality.”
Cranswell had blinked at him. “That … actually kind of makes sense.”
“Exactly, which is why nobody suspects it. Do try to keep up, Mr. Cranswell.”
He smiled, remembering Ruthven’s long-suffering expression, and went to call the office and tell them he wouldn’t be coming in.
The Embankment house was three stories high. Ruthven’s bedroom faced the river, as did the two spare rooms flanking it; on the other side of the hall the smaller and less ostentatious apartments where Cranswell and Greta had been installed looked over the back garden. Cranswell balanced the tray against his hip and knocked gently on the doctor’s door. After a moment she called out “Yes?”
“Cup of tea?”
“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Thank you. Come in?”
Cranswell let himself in. The curtains were still drawn, but the lamp on the bedside table was lit, the crystal and silver on the dressing table glittering softly in its low light. Greta was sitting up in bed, a book on her lap.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, looking suitably apologetic.
“No, course not. Here.” She cleared off a litter of several other books from the table beside the lamp for him to set the tray down. “Thanks. It’s awfully nice of you. I take it the rest of them are still abed?”
“Yup, no sign of anyone else stirring.” Cranswell handed her a cup. “I didn’t know if you took sugar—How’s the neck?”
She made a face and managed to stop herself before she rubbed at it. “Hurts a bit. Mostly just itching. I don’t think the stuff on that blade did me any serious harm, and I cleaned it out properly last night.” The knife itself, as Cranswell knew, was sealed inside three layers of plastic and safely out of the way in the garage: Greta had insisted on keeping it as far as possible from Varney, Ruthven, and Fastitocalon.
“D’you have any idea what it is?” he said. “The, ah, the coating?”
“Not really. My friend’s looking at the bit I took out of Sir Francis’s wound. If it’s the same stuff we ought to know sometime today what it’s made of. But it’s not affected me anything like the way it did him.”
“Because you’re human,” Cranswell said, settling on the side of the bed with his own teacup. “Right? I mean, from what the Museum books say, it’s pretty certain they designed that stabby spike thing to hurt demons, which I guess includes vampires in the definition.”
“Mmh.” Greta didn’t look particularly happy about it. “It’s a pretty vague definition, then.”
“Well, vampires, monsters, undead creatures, demons, all that kind of falls together, right?”
“Not from the medical standpoint,” Greta said. “It makes rather a lot of difference. Anyway, we know it doesn’t do vampyres any good at all, but Varney seems to be on the mend. I really do have to get over to the clinic at least for part of the day. It’s flu season for the ghouls, and I need to see Mr. Renenutet about his feet, and … there’s so much to do and I can’t just let Nadezhda and Anna handle everything on their own. Or refer everybody to Dr. Richthorn, the other specialist. Hounslow’s a long way for them to go.” She tucked hair behind her ear.
“What are you going to do about your car?” Cranswell asked.
Greta looked up at him in shocked realization. “Christ, it’s still up there. In Crouch End. Full of pepper spray. I’ll have to take the tube.”
“You know, I wouldn’t,” Cranswell said, slowly, realizing this even as he spoke. There was a sort of formless fear that had been lapping at his thoughts ever since he’d woken, and the idea of being underground was repellent for no very good reason. “Wouldn’t go down into the dark if you don’t specifically have to. Take the bus. Or have Ruthven drive you over.”
She rubbed at her face, the pale hair slipping forward again to cover her hands. “Maybe you’re right. Oh, hell, what time is it?”
“About half past eight.”
“Mmh. Okay, I suppose that’s not too bad. I’ll have a shower and try to wake up and then see Varney, and then go over to the clinic one way or another. You’re staying here for … for the duration?”
“Yeah. I called in to work, told them I had the flu and I’d be out for a few days. I’m kind of surprised that you’re looking to leave the house, to be honest.”
“If I didn’t have things I really couldn’t put off, I’d stay right here, and maybe hide under the blankets,” Greta said. “I suppose I’ve got to call the police about the attack last night as well, and be shouted at for not reporting it at once.”
He made a face. “You probably should. And I really do have to get those books back to the museum, but Lord knows how without making it obvious that I pinched them in the first place.”
“How’d you get them out?”
“Oh, one of those little cards in each storage locker, you know, Removed for Conservation by Squiggle Signed on Line, that sort of thing. Thank God they weren’t actually on display. I’d have had to mess with the security cameras, and I’m not even remotely secret-agenty enough.” Cranswell dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I can’t actually believe I did that. I’d had a pretty awful day and—sort of acted on impulse, instead of talking myself out of it. I’m kind of amazed I didn’t get caught, to be honest. Maybe I could smuggle them back into the conservation department under the cover of a really big coat.”
“Maybe you could borrow one of the gents who can alter perceptions of reality,” Greta said, not unsympathetically. “If Fass feels up to it, I know he can do things to, say, security guards’ awareness of your presence. I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”
“Who is he?” Cranswell asked her.
“Fass is. … an old friend of the family? To be honest it’s really rather difficult to tell exactly what he is. I mean, he’s known me since I was born, he was one of Dad’s good friends, and he’s looked like that ever since I can remember. It’s … well, you know, it’d be really awkward to sit him down and say to him, ‘Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what sort of creature are you anyhow?’ after all these years.” He wasn’t human, that much she knew for a fact—the longevity and lack of aging were a dead giveaway, plus the grey complexion and the supernatural powers—but physiologically it was difficult to distinguish Fastitocalon from any other fiftyish man with a bad chest.
“What does he do again?” Cranswell asked.
“He’s an accountant. Absolutely loves numbers, you know? He tried to teach me calculus back in school and I wasn’t having any, but I could still see how much he loved the subject. He does math for fun on the back of envelopes. It’s his thing.”
Cranswell shuddered. “But you said he can … manipulate perceptions of reality?”
“Ye-es,” Greta said, finishing her tea. “I’ve certainly seen him do things like convince people he isn’t there, or unlock locks without a key, that kind of stuff. I’m pretty sure if you asked nicely he’d go with you to the museum and help you get those books back to their proper homes.”
He wasn’t wholly convinced, but nodded after a moment. “Maybe you’re right. Not like I have a hell of a lot of choices right now. If I want to keep my job.”
“Pretty much what I was thinking.” Greta gave him a wry look. “Oh, what a huge, gigantic bloody mess this all is. Thanks aw
fully for the tea, Mr. Cranswell—”
“August. And it’s no problem—I was gonna go see what there is for breakfast, if you have any requests.”
She smiled, an actual honest-to-God smile that made Cranswell feel as if the world might not be spinning entirely off its proper track after all, and said, “Bacon. Lots of bacon, and at least one egg.”
Sometime later, a little more presentable and fortified with breakfast, Greta Helsing knocked gently on the door of Varney’s room. There was a faint stirring within, and then a mellifluous, if rather weak, voice called out, “Enter.”
Greta entered. He was lying as she’d last seen him, propped up on pillows, his grey-streaked hair spread out in tangled waves, but there was a little more color in his face, which was nice to see. “Good morning, Sir Francis. How are you feeling?”
Varney looked up at her as she approached the bedside. His eyes really were metallic, she thought, famously described in the terrible novel as polished tin. She hadn’t been quite sure of her initial observation, but there it was, unmistakable in daylight. The irises were a dark shining grey like tarnished mirrors, catching and reflecting the light in little gleams as they moved. She wondered what was behind the effect, and if that was part of the specific vampyre physiology. Like the beautiful voice. Was that some peculiarity of the larynx common to the species, or was it just Varney himself?
“I have certainly felt worse, Doctor,” he said, and she could hear the capital D. “But what of yourself? I understand from Ruthven that you experienced a terrifying attack last night. I do hope you have taken no serious hurt.”
Greta shrugged, exercising some effort not to reach up to the bandage on her neck. Taken no serious hurt; he sounded so courtly, and she was again vividly aware that she was wearing jeans and a somewhat threadbare sweater, not the ruffles and lace that this house and its decor called for. Vampires and fancy clothing just went together; it was one of those things.
“I’m all right,” she said. “The spike just scratched me, and whatever’s on it doesn’t seem to be doing me anything like so much harm as it’s done you. Under the tongue, please.” She handed him a thermometer, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Varney’s eyes narrowed as he looked from her face to her throat, taking in the light gauze dressing taped over the cut, but he accepted the thermometer with decent grace. His teeth were just as white as Ruthven’s, but the pattern of the dentition was different. His upper pre-canines as well as the canines were a little elongated. She wasn’t likely to forget the sight of those teeth bared in a snarl at her, when she had first woken him out of a feverish doze. That one was going to stick around for a while.
The thermometer beeped, and she reclaimed it for a look, relieved both at the distraction and at the reading. “Not bad at all,” she said. “You’re down to eighty-three; that’s much, much better than you’ve been. Did you sleep all right?”
Varney lifted a hand and let it fall, limply. She wondered if he was aware of the tableau he presented, and she had to admit the effectiveness of the pathetic gesture, whether or not it was intentional. “I suppose I must have,” he said, wearily. “I cannot remember any dreams.”
The clinical picture was a solid improvement, at least so far. There seemed to be more black and less grey in his hair, which she’d seen before as a general indication of increased well-being in several supernatural species. “Well, it seems to have done you no end of good,” she told him. “I want another look at that wound, and then I’ve got to go over to the clinic, but I should be able to bring you back some suitable blood.”
She was leaning over him, extremely glad that her hair was for once behaving and staying in its messy ponytail, and her gloved fingers carefully, carefully removed the tape holding the gauze down over his wound. Again she noticed the latticework of old scars, scars upon scars, a record of what must have been a fairly tumultuous existence, and again she wondered: a lot of lost duels?
The last of the tape came away, and she lifted the gauze pad to reveal his wound; she smiled involuntarily at the improvement. The inflammation was significantly reduced, and there was scab formation in the tips of the cross-shape that had not been there even several hours ago. “That’s lovely,” she said, sitting back and folding the used dressing into a neat square. “Much, much better. I’m very pleased.”
Varney peered down at the wound, looking perplexed, and then back up at her. Greta had seen that reaction before, and knew that to anyone else’s eyes it would probably still appear fairly unpleasant, but she was profoundly relieved at the extent of the healing process. “Your body’s getting on with healing itself quite satisfactorily, if much more slowly than you’re used to,” she told him, stripping open a fresh sterile dressing. “That should be completely closed over probably by tomorrow, and after that you can get up and resume activity—light activity, I hasten to specify.”
She taped the fresh dressing over the wound, not bothering with any further application of ointment, and stood up, still smiling. “In the meantime, is there anything you’d particularly like other than the blood? Special teas? Amusing if unimproving literature?”
He stared up at her, and then, rather astonishingly, began to smile back.
CHAPTER 7
So, uh, Dr. Helsing said you were an accountant.”
“That’s right. Why, do you need one?”
“No, I … was just, uh …” Cranswell trailed off.
Fastitocalon smiled a little, to himself, hunching deeper into his borrowed coat as they walked. He was having to exert a little extra energy, although not much, to project a faint don’t-notice-me field around the pair of them; he was saving most of his strength for the effort it would take to conceal Cranswell and the precious burden inside his jacket from the security in the museum. “You were just kindly making conversation, and also you are wondering why I’m capable of doing magic, I expect.”
“You don’t read minds, too?”
“I try not to, in general, as a matter of etiquette. It’s not common among accountants, magic, except inasmuch as sufficiently sophisticated mathematical theory does overlap with some areas of magical scholarship. But most people who do taxes and balance books aren’t into the purely theoretical end of things.”
Cranswell was still staring at him. “I’m okay with the idea that there’s magic,” he said, “because hell, I know there’s vampires and were-creatures and all the other things that ordinary people don’t actually believe in, but … this isn’t wands-and-pointy-hats stuff you’re doing, is it?”
“No,” said Fastitocalon, “no, it’s not. Let’s just say I used to be a demon and leave it at that? Long, long, utterly uninteresting story.” He deliberately avoided looking at Cranswell, hoping to forestall any interruption. “And I’m jolly glad Greta convinced me to come back to Castle Ruthven with her when she did. Given the damage that blade caused to Sir Francis, I expect it would do something just as comprehensively nasty to me. If we see any monk types I shall hide behind you and whimper.”
He coughed. It wasn’t raining, thankfully, but it was a raw cold morning, and he was very glad it wasn’t far to the Museum.
“You sure you’re okay to do this?” Cranswell asked, frowning. He had been about to say something else, something about what do you mean you used to be a demon, Fastitocalon knew, and was a little glad of the excuse to distract him. “You sound pretty rough.”
“Oh, this is nothing,” said Fastitocalon. “Back in the day I used to get kicked out of lodging houses in Rotherhithe for making too much noise and disturbing the neighbors. These days life is generally easier, but I do miss opium dens.”
Cranswell was definitely looking as if he had a lot more questions on his mind as they reached the bottom of the museum steps. Fastitocalon held up his hand, halting. “All right. It’d be easiest if I could just flip you in and out of the conservation department, but unfortunately I don’t think I’m up to it at the moment and anyway I’ve not been there myself so I don’t hav
e a very clear mental picture of the place to aim for. We’ll have to do this the longer way.”
“What’s flipping?” Cranswell wanted to know.
“Translocation,” he said. “But this’ll have to be good old-fashioned invisibility. Stay close to me and don’t make any sudden movements. I need to keep physical contact for this to work, and remember that people won’t be able to see you, but they can still feel you, so don’t bump into anybody.”
He took a precautionary dose from his inhaler—it would not do to start coughing noisily in the middle of this operation—put his hand on Cranswell’s shoulder, and shut his eyes.
When he opened them again they were ever so slightly orange on top of the grey, like a coat of luster on stoneware. Around the two of them, color and light and sound faded out slightly, as if someone had turned down the volume.
Cranswell was staring at him. He made what he hoped was a reassuring face, and nodded toward the museum.
It had occurred to Greta Helsing with increasing frequency over the past twenty-four hours or so that, having lost her father before she hit thirty, she had developed a tendency to gravitate toward other older male figures, presumably to make up for a perceived or unconscious lack of parental guidance in her life. Older in some cases meaning by at least several hundred years, and probably more. She didn’t know whether this was really something she ought to encourage in herself.
It had been particularly noticeable earlier in the day when she’d found herself arguing with three of these older male figures at the same time that she could, in fact, be trusted to get herself to Harley Street and back without being murdered or walking into anything or falling down a hole.