by Vivian Shaw
She had the beginnings of an idea for how to help him remember the things they needed to know, but it would require Sir Francis Varney’s help, and she was not at all sure they could count on that. More than once she’d caught Varney eyeing her with an odd kind of awkward intensity, and she hoped he wasn’t feeling hostile toward people who provided ex–Gladius Sancti personnel with medical care as well as toward the Gladius Sancti themselves. If the terrible penny-dreadful’s account was to be believed, Varney had historically shown very little hesitation in killing people who annoyed him, or at least injuring them badly. At one point he was said to have accidentally murdered his own son in a fit of anger, and she hoped the intense stare was not an indicator of imminent violence.
It was definitely a different sort of eyeing than she got from Ruthven or Fastitocalon. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that, either.
Greta pushed it out of her mind and just sat where she was, watching over her nameless patient, and trying to squash the feeling that unseen things were slipping faster and faster out of control.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Cranswell tapped her on the shoulder, making her jump. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m supposed to take a turn watching him. If he wakes up, can I ask him all the questions?”
There was something reassuring about Cranswell’s lack of mental filter. “No, you may not,” she said, and hauled herself out of the chair. “You may ask him a few of the questions, but he’s really having difficulty remembering anything other than the blue light and the fact that he hurts. At least he’s come out of the Bible-quoting stage, but he’s not very clear. He said something about Chelsea, too. I want to ask Varney to hypnotize him.”
“Varney’s a hypnotist? I thought he was a melancholiac.”
“Ten points for vocab, but all vampires have some degree of ability in that direction. Actually I don’t know how exactly it works—it’s called thralling—but it’s enough like hypnotism to be useful in the same situations. You’ve probably seen Ruthven do it—his pupils pulse in and out in a sort of rhythm, and whoever’s looking into his eyes goes all vague and smiley. Makes you feel like your head’s full of warm pink clouds.” She had once asked him to do it to her in the spirit of scientific inquiry, and then once after that when she’d had a particularly horrific migraine, which it took care of with commendable speed. Thralling was a hunting technique, of course, but Greta didn’t feel the need to point that out to Cranswell.
“Anyway,” she continued, “he’s good at it but not anything like as good as I think Varney must be, because have you seen Varney’s eyes? They’re literally reflective. Famously described as ‘polished tin.’ I just hope he’s willing to have a go.”
“Pretty sure he won’t say no, if it’s you doing the asking.”
Greta frowned at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just an observation,” Cranswell said, raising his hands in a placatory gesture. “I think tall-dark-and-angsty has developed a thing for you, Doctor.”
She stared at him, feeling her ears go pink. “Nonsense,” she said. “Of course he hasn’t. I’m not his type, anyway; there’s a noticeable lack of lacy nightgowns and swooning. He’s known to go for the sort of lady who clutches the bedclothes to her snowy bosom and quavers ‘the vampyre, the vampyre’ through bloodless lips, and I lack even the slightest hint of glamour. Is there anything for breakfast?”
Cranswell eyed her. “We’re down to toast and Weetabix. Somebody is going to have to go grocery shopping, and it’s not going to be me.”
“No, you’re going to sit right here and keep an eye on our friend, and not go all Gestapo on him if he wakes up and is capable of sentences.”
“Okay, okay,” Cranswell said, sitting down by the bed. “You take all the fun out of … being in a pretty ludicrous situation, if you think about it.”
“I’m trying not to. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea in a bit.”
Varney was sitting at the kitchen table when she came in, looking incongruous because, well, Varney just looked incongruous anywhere that wasn’t a windswept hilltop or a ruined castle. It was difficult to imagine him not appearing profoundly dramatic.
His hair was noticeably darker, though. She’d have to check the literature on that manifestation again, but it was almost always correlated with an increase in general health.
Also, August Cranswell was a twit.
At the moment Varney had his long hands wrapped around one of Ruthven’s earthenware mugs, and the rich, coppery smell of blood was heavy in the air. Ruthven must have brought dinner back with him in the night, which was one more thing Greta could cross off her list of things to worry about. You got used to the smell of blood pretty quickly, but she did have to admit it was always a little off-putting at first.
“Morning,” she said, sitting down and reaching for the toast rack. Varney watched her butter a slice of somewhat elderly toast with more concentration than she felt this performance strictly warranted. After a moment or two he set down his mug.
“You seem in decent spirits, Doctor. Are we to take it that your patient is improved?”
Greta looked up from her plate. “A bit, yes. Whatever’s … influencing … him, whatever’s responsible for the eyes and so on, is still definitely helping him to heal despite his having been kicked out of the order. At first he was still going on about iniquity and wickedness and talking in scripture, but that seemed to pass off.”
She made a face. Her unsettling little interview with the monk hadn’t done much for her peace of mind. “He’s having trouble remembering what happened to him, other than the bits we already know about, the blue light and the noise and being excommunicated. I was wondering, actually, if you would mind trying to thrall him, Sir Francis? It might get more actual information out, and I think he might be easier in his mind if he could remember things. Even if they’re terrible.”
Varney blinked at her—two tiny reflections of her caught in his eyes—and looked surprised. “I?”
She held his gaze, which was not the easiest thing she had ever done. “If you wouldn’t mind. I mean, I quite understand your antipathy, he was part of the group responsible for your attack, but …”
“I, er,” he said. “I suppose I could make an attempt, although why you’d want me to do it when Lord Ruthven is quite capable, I’m sure I don’t know.”
He looked away. There was a very faint color high on his cheekbones, and he’d let the Lord slip—she knew he was trying not to use it because it embarrassed Ruthven, but doing so required him to make a deliberate effort. That was a discomfited vampyre-with-a-y if ever she had seen one, and Greta hadn’t seen one before. He looked … different. Less remote. “I just think you’d get better results, that’s all,” she said. “It’ll have to wait till he wakes naturally. I’m not going to haul him out of restful sleep for interrogation, but I’d appreciate it very much if you would have a go.”
“Certainly,” said Varney, and hastily finished his blood.
In point of fact Varney had made up his mind, yet again, to leave the house and take his awkward and utterly inappropriate feelings far away, but Ruthven had drawn him aside a little earlier and asked him point-blank to stay. I think we may very well need you, he had said. Sooner rather than later.
It was nonsense, of course; nobody needed Varney any more than they needed a bout of influenza, or some other unpleasant and debilitating condition, but he had to admit it felt pleasant hearing the lie. It was a kind lie, and Ruthven was a kindly host.
Varney watched Greta industriously consuming toast, and had to look away when she licked marmalade off her fingers in an unself-conscious sort of way. I’m not going to haul him out of restful sleep for interrogation, she had said. The white gauze bandage on her throat was very bright in the kitchen’s warm illumination.
Without meaning to, he said out loud, “Why do you do this?”
Greta looked up. “Do what?” she asked, with her mouth full.
/> Varney was more than a little mortified, but made himself continue. “Why do you … help people like that creature upstairs? He would have killed you if he could.”
She put down the piece of toast. “It’s my job,” she said.
“Why do you do it, though?”
“Because somebody needs to.” Greta shrugged. “There really are not that many supernatural physicians in the area—in fact, there aren’t many of us, period—and the need is never going to go away.”
“But he’s an enemy,” Varney said, trying again. “I can perhaps understand the generalized motivation to provide care for a disenfranchised patient base, but he isn’t a patient, he’s an enemy captive.”
“Firstly,” said Greta, holding up a finger, “that’s not quite accurate; he’s been officially expelled from their nasty little murder club. And secondly, it doesn’t matter what he is. He needs help, and I am trained to provide that help, and have in fact taken an oath to give that help whenever and however it is required. It’s not always a superlative pleasure, but it is my job.”
“And you still took the job, knowing what it would entail,” he said.
“Yes.” Greta pushed her plate away, looking steadily at him. “It was my father’s job first, and I’ve always known what I wanted to do. It was simply a question of getting there.”
Varney felt his hands curl into fists. “But we’re monsters,” he said, and had to close his eyes. It sounded so puerile out loud.
She failed to reply for long enough that he cautiously opened one eye to see whether she’d actually left the room, but she was still sitting across the kitchen table from him, looking almost evanescently tired. Varney felt a sudden sharp flush of profound dislike for himself.
“You are not human,” she said at last, “but you are people. All of you. The ghouls, the mummies, the sanguivores, the weres, the banshees, the wights, the bogeys, everyone who comes to me for help, everyone who trusts me to provide it. You are all people, and you all deserve medical care, no matter what you do or have done, and you deserve to be able to seek and receive that care without putting yourselves in jeopardy. What I do is necessary, and while it isn’t in the slightest bit easy, it is also the thing I want to do more than anything else in the world.”
Varney looked very hard at the table, as if it could offer any sensible answers. He was conscious of the fact that nothing whatsoever in his life was necessary, including him.
“I don’t know what to do about this,” Greta said in a different tone of voice, and he looked up. “Any of this. The—attacks. The mad monks. Whatever is happening is not something I can fix, and—I am not very good at dealing with situations like that, I’m afraid.”
“You seem to be dealing remarkably well,” said Varney.
“I’m completely out of my depth. The only thing I can do is my job, so, yes, I am going to take care of our new acquaintance. And hope like hell that he can give us some answers, which is why I need you: I want you to do the thralling.”
“I will,” said Varney, too fast, too sharp. “I will. Absolutely. Anything I can do to help.”
Greta smiled suddenly, and he had to blink. It was a little like watching a small and self-contained sunrise. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m … very glad you’re here.”
Just for a moment, Varney thought that he was, too. For a moment.
Greta straightened up, back to business. “Someone’s got to go shopping,” she said. “Taking advantage of offered hospitality is one thing, but we’ve eaten Ruthven out of house and home.”
Varney sat back from the table, both glad that the conversation had changed subject and wishing desperately that it had not. “And that wretch Cranswell finished off the coffee this morning,” he said.
“Damn. I suppose I’d better go, if Ruthven lets me borrow the Volvo.” She tucked her hair behind her ears again, looking as if she didn’t relish the prospect in the least.
“I could go,” Varney said, surprising himself.
She looked up at him, and he felt his face go warm, but made himself hold her gaze. “That is, if Ruthven would lend me his automobile. It would be … pleasant, to be of use.”
“You sure?” Greta was smiling again, less intense but still present.
“If you would be so good as to write out a list of provisions, I will gladly go and fetch them,” he said. “You have more important matters to attend to, Doctor.”
“Well … thank you very much, in that case,” she said, apparently convinced. “I appreciate the thought. Hand me that notepad? Let’s see,” she said, writing down “coffee” in a much nicer version of her normal handwriting scrawl, for clarity’s sake, and not at all because it looked better. “What else are we out of?”
When he had gone, Greta began to tidy up the kitchen, conscious of doing so as an attempt to distract herself from the ongoing uncertainty of the situation. You seem to be dealing remarkably well, Sir Francis had said, and the hilarious inaccuracy of the statement was just about balanced out by how much she wanted it to be true.
It was a considerable relief, therefore, when Fastitocalon poked his head round the kitchen doorway and said, “There you are. Good. Can you come and look at one of the ghouls? Ruthven sent me to find you.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, a hair too quickly. “I’ll get my bag.”
As soon as she opened the cellar door, the baby’s thin wailing was audible. She hurried down the steps, and then had to stop for a moment, blinking, to fully take in the sight of Edmund Ruthven cradling a very small ghoul in his arms. His expression was not one Greta could ever recall having seen on those patrician features before: a kind of besotted astonishment. Tiny green hands clutched at his shirt.
The rest of the ghouls were hiding in the shadows, other than Kree-akh and the ghoullet’s mother, who was looking more worried than ever.
Ruthven looked up as she approached. “Greta,” he said, and had to clear his throat and try again to get his voice sounding normal. “Could you have a look at this little chap? He’s not tremendously well.”
His armful wasn’t screaming energetically, just wailing, a thin and miserable thread of sound. She looked from Ruthven to Kree-akh, who sighed and said something to the mother, prompting a flood of ghoulish that Greta couldn’t even begin to follow. When it subsided, Kree-akh nodded. “Akha says you may examine him.”
Apparently Ruthven had already been preapproved for ghoullet-holding duty, Greta thought, hooking her stethoscope around her neck and reaching into her bag for the thermometer. It made sense, of course. He was well-known as one of the protectors of the city, old and powerful supernaturals to whom one might appeal in dire need. Still, it made her smile a little. She’d never seen the vampire look quite like that before. It was also convenient to have someone else hold the baby while she did her examination.
Greta went through digital thermometer probes quite quickly; they simply didn’t stand up to her patients’ peculiarities of dentition. The one she had with her was relatively new and didn’t take long to give her a reading. “Mm,” she said, resetting it. “How long has he been feverish?”
More ghoulish from the baby’s mother, this time a little slower; she could make out a few words. Kree-akh translated nonetheless: He’d had a cold for several days but it had seemed to be going away, before the blue monks had come, before the tribe had had to flee its home, and now he wouldn’t stop crying and wouldn’t eat his nice rat.
Greta nodded. She already knew what the trouble was likely to be, but just then the ghoullet let go of his grip on Ruthven’s shirt to pull at one pointy green ear, removing all remaining doubt. She had a look in the ear nonetheless, and nodded again, turning off the otoscope. Absolutely classic acute otitis media, even if the eardrum looked a little different from the ones she had first encountered in med school.
“He’s got an ear infection,” she said, straightening up, “and given the general conditions, I want to start him on antibiotics right away. Has he ever been given
them before?”
Again Kree-akh translated. “He’s never been given any human medicine.”
“Well, we’ll start with amoxicillin and keep a close eye on him to see how it goes,” she said. “I’ve got some with me. Poor little guy,” she added, gently touching the baby’s warm cheek. “I know, it’s no fun at all, but you’ll feel better soon. I promise.”
She was a little surprised when the ghoullet blinked at her and let go of Ruthven again in order to reach out a small hand in her direction, still sniffling but apparently done with active crying for the moment. There were grubby handprints on the pearl-grey cloth of Ruthven’s shirt, which the vampire either did not mind or had not yet noticed.
“He’s curious,” Ruthven said, amused. Greta looked at him, and he nodded. Not entirely sure of herself, she reached out and lifted the ghoullet into her arms, surprised at how heavy he was, dense-boned for his size. She cradled him against her shoulder, swaying gently in an instinctive rhythm, and was a little amazed that he didn’t start crying again at once—she must be doing something right, if only by blind chance.
Looking up from her armful, she was aware of both Kree-akh and the child’s mother—Akha, she thought, her name is Akha—watching her, and felt her face go hot. He’s curious, Ruthven had opined, and Greta shot him a look before returning her attention to the ghoullet. “He’s lovely,” she said.
One small starfish hand patted at the pale fall of her hair, and then the baby pressed his face against her neck and hung on tight.
A little while later, in the kitchen, Greta put on a kettle and watched Ruthven dab at the small greyish greasy handprints on his shirt. Most of the grime appeared to have come off on him; her own sweatshirt was in better shape.
“I think they may be indelible,” she said. “Although you made a most touching scene, standing there with an infant in your arms.”
Ruthven looked up, making a face at her. “You should have seen yourself. You came over all pink and breathless for a moment, cuddling him. He is going to be all right, isn’t he?”