Frankenstein's Fair Lady

by Anitra Lynn McLeod

  Silently, Adelaide considered for well over ten minutes. She ate and chewed and tilted her head this way and that while trying to bore right into his very soul with her quick-changing eyes. They went from brown to green to blue then briefly to red then back to that speculative turquoise.

  “A million pounds.”

  Frankenstein choked and almost spit out his mouthful of food.

  “Yes, my dear. I said a million pounds.”

  “Adelaide,” he began but took a sip of wine to clear his throat. “I appreciate your offer and your obvious faith in me to champion your troubles, but I must say no.”

  “You’re turning down a million pounds?”

  “First, you do not have a million pounds.”

  “I do.”

  “You do not—regardless.” Frankenstein would not be sidetracked. “Second, and of far more importance; I don’t see how human reanimation will have any effect on the legality or the—the”—unable to find the proper word he simply made one up—“the vogue-ness of pet mummification.”

  “Weren’t you listening to me?”

  “Of course.” He thought he had been but once he’d started in on those little sandwiches he might have allowed his attention to lapse.

  “Really, my dear, how is it you and I have remained friends?”

  “We’re both outcasts?” he asked flippantly. He wished then he had the magic to transform his wine into whisky. Hard spirits had a decided tightening effect on his frivolous tongue. As it stood, he felt unable to sway Adelaide to drop her absurd plan when he’d always managed to talk her out of such things before. Although, none had ever come close to threatening her livelihood and no threat had ever come from her prior rival. Worse, Adelaide unknowingly skirted far too close to a subject for which he held a decidedly morbid fascination.

  “Outcasts we may be but that’s an even better reason to prove, once and for all, that the reanimation of humans is the next logical step.”

  He opened his mouth to argue about her absurd idea of logic but caught himself. Instead, he uttered a simple, “No.”

  “Victor, please.”

  Frankenstein stiffened.

  “Oh, my dear.” Adelaide pressed her hand to her throat. “Forgive me. In my earnestness, I forget that you do not care for your first name. Your father’s name.”

  “My father was a monster.” Frankenstein had dropped his first and last name, taking on his middle name, his mother’s maiden name, as his only name. “Victor M. Krempe.” Frankenstein fairly spat the name. “To this day I carry his shame.”

  “And I my father’s.” Adelaide lifted her wine glass and drained it dry.

  “That is why we are friends. Not sharing the status of outcast so much as both of us were cast into the role of a social pariah by actions not our own.”

  Adelaide nodded.

  “And that brings me back to your plan to reanimate a human. What our fathers did…” to fortify himself, he too drained his wine. “Why would you even entertain the idea of following in their footsteps?”

  “Following in their—my dear young man, there is quite a difference between killing humans to bring them back to life with electricity, and bringing one back who has died by natural means.”

  “A small difference at best.”

  “Not at all.” Adelaide leaned toward him, pushing her plate away. “Our fathers killed. We would restore.”

  “You know I am a man of science, but even I know there is a certain rightness to the world.” Frankenstein took a deep breath. “Dead is dead and should stay dead.”

  “You bring pets back all the time.” Adelaide punctuated her point by slapping the table and making the cutlery dance. “How is reanimating a human any different than bringing back a pet?”

  “An animal is not a man!” Frankenstein slapped the table with both hands as if to give his point twice the vigor she had given hers. He felt a curious sense of déjà vu. How many times had he argued this very thing with himself? So far, he had not crossed that line. With Adelaide’s persuasive tongue, he didn’t know if he could maintain his stalwart vow.

  Unperturbed by his show of violence, Adelaide countered, “Ah! But man is an animal, is he not? Therefore, if bringing an animal back—”

  For once, Frankenstein cut Adelaide off. “If you wish to treat this as a philosophical discussion, I am all for that, but I suggest we exchange wine for spirts and retire to the drawing room.”

  He didn’t wait for her to agree. While getting to his feet, he tossed his napkin on the table and then strode with determined steps to the drawing room. He headed right toward the bottle of whisky. He poured himself a shot, downed it, and then poured another before turning to find Adelaide already settled on the largest sofa, her hair coiled neatly beside her. “Would you care for one?”

  “Of course.” She removed two cigars from her reticule. “Would you care for one?”

  “Of course.”

  For a time, they drank and smoked without talking. But all too soon, Adelaide, using her most persuasive tone, asked, “Why are you so against the idea?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “Your father, yes. But…”

  “But?”

  “If there were no such scandal, if there were no such law, would you try?”

  “Adelaide.”

  “We are having a philosophical discussion.”

  “No, we are not. Or at least you are not.” Frankenstein crushed the fire from his cigar and then paced the length of the room. “You have an ax to grind and I will not be your whetstone.”

  “If you insist.”

  “If I insist? What kind of argument is that?”

  “Fine. Yes. I have an ax to grind. But think of it, my dear, dear boy.”

  “A double dear. I can only imagine what you want from me.”

  “Think of the opportunity.”

  “To do what? Ruin myself completely?” He poured another whisky but found himself cradling the glass, hating himself for feeling the sway of her words. Despising himself for wanting her to change his mind, for her to make the notion of human resurrection okay. For once he could embrace the idea, then he could embrace the act.

  “If we are successful—”

  “We?” He asked pointedly. “‘Tis I who would do the dirty deed.”

  “Don’t call it that. It is not a dirty deed to give someone their life back. Yes, you would cast the spell, but I would be the one to teach the reanimated human to blend with high society.”

  Clearly, he’d missed that part of her tirade earlier. Why would she want to take the creature into the one world it most certainly wouldn’t fit into was beyond him, but again, he refused to argue and said, “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you wish to do this, and I pray you listen to me and change your mind, but if you go forward, you do so alone.”

  “You know I do not have the skill. I can mummify a human but reanimation eludes me.” Her eyes turned almost black.

  “With good reason.” Frankenstein realized how cutting his remark but refused to apologize. Perhaps rudeness was the only way to make her understand the gravity of her suggestion. “This isn’t a game, Adelaide. If you were caught—”

  “We wouldn’t get caught. That’s the whole point.”

  “Then—taking your scenario—what would be the point? If you are going to make this reanimated person so perfect they can pass in high society, you will never get to gloat, for if you told anyone what you had done, you would be jailed.”

  “No!” Adelaide crushed out her cigar. “No, no, no. That’s just it. This would prove it can be done and can be done well.”

  “Why? Why do you wish to do this? You have more money than you can ever spend. What could possibly motivate you to do this foolish thing?”

  “Prestige.”

  “Oh, Adelaide.” The whisky seemed to hit him all at once, forcing him to settle back in his seat. “Forgive me but I fear you do not understand the difference between fame and infamy
.”

  “I do understand. But think of it. To be the first to accomplish such a feat. To have people willing to pay almost any price. Think of it.”

  Part of the problem was that he had thought of it. Thought of the potential misery if he said no to a poor but desperate family. Thought of the lengths they would go to save a beloved family member, especially the breadwinner. He thought of the other side too. The excessively wealthy who could live forever and make even more money and take even greater power away from the downtrodden. But mostly, he thought of what could go wrong. Today with Captain Mayhew and Chipper had reminded him of that.

  “Well?” Adelaide demanded.

  “I have thought of it and I know this is not for me.”

  “I think you are the perfect man to perform this magic.”

  “Our reputations are already irreparably sullied by what our fathers did yet you wish to smear further smut upon our souls?” Again, he’d told himself this too many times to count. Whenever his curiosity got the better of him, he had a list of reasons to remind himself why he should leave things well enough alone.

  “But you already reanimate the dead.”

  “Briefly. Very, very briefly and only for constable inquiries when they have nowhere else to turn.”

  “You see? The magic does have value.”

  “Most of the time, those killed by foul play can’t direct the police toward their murderer. Rarely do they have clarity of the last few moments of their life.”

  “But surely it has value or they wouldn’t hire you.”

  “They use my services less and less.”

  Adelaide opened her mouth to ask but he cut her off.

  “Most killers, our fathers included, strike from behind so the person never sees them coming. In domestics, the murderous partner uses a toxin that makes reanimation painful and pointless.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s impossible to get anything coherent when the person is screaming in pain.”

  Adelaide blanched. “Well, then we will find one who was not poisoned.”

  “One who just died suddenly through illness? That brings on another set of problems.”

  “Well, surely, there has to be a way to find someone who will fit the bill.”

  Only if we do what our fathers did and kill them. But he didn’t say that. It was bad enough he’d thought it. Instead, he let out a long sigh and said, “There isn’t. And even if…no. There is no even if. It’s a dangerous prospect to even consider.”

  “If you say.”

  “Please put this aside, Adelaide. I beg you.”

  She demurred but he knew the idea remained because her eyes flashed to pale pink. Whenever she lied, that color washed over her cheeks right up into her gaze. The color evaporated in a blink but he’d seen it and knew Adelaide had no intention of giving up her terrible scheme.

  Frankenstein only hoped he showed the same perseverance in continuing to deny his compulsion to follow in his father’s footsteps.

  Chapter Three

  What Frankenstein hadn’t counted on was his own damn intellectual curiosity. Thinking of what could be, playing the what-if game in the safety of his own mind was one thing, a game he played with some regularity—at first. He played less often as time went on because he saw what happened to those he revived in the police station. Shock, horror, outrage, anger—not a single one had expressed any gratitude when brought back. None had ever confirmed an afterlife either, but given the circumstances, it wasn’t any wonder. But now, Adelaide and her damn ideas had made him turn his mind to the problem again. This time, he changed the particulars of the game.

  What if…

  He began the resurrection within moments of death?

  Perhaps even the very instant of death?

  Would that change the outcome?

  If he managed to catch them in such a moment, would the person retain their personality, beliefs, their very soul? That—the loss of the soul—had held him back from ever trying to revive a human for longer than a few minutes. A part of him believed the soul departed the body with the dying breath. He didn’t believe in God, or at least he didn’t very much, mainly because he was a scientist and divinity demanded faith. Frankenstein believed in an afterlife but not the versions of heaven and hell he’d been taught in Sunday school. The one thing he did believe in without any doubt at all were souls.

  A human without a soul would be a terrible creature.

  Even his father, as monstrous as he’d been at the height of his sick compulsion, had retained his soul. It hadn’t stopped him from his mission to give life to the dead but it had made him feel pity. Only for himself, but still, it showed a certain humanity. Frankenstein wondered if he would find that same humanity in a long-term reanimated human.

  Animals seemed mostly the same after reanimation. When resurrection was done close to the time of death, they retained their personalities, their basic ways of being. Humans, though…

  Unlike Adelaide, Frankenstein didn’t have to rely on the reports of others. He’d seen firsthand what human revival could be like. How some came back wrong. Even when the time elapsed from death to reanimation was less than a day—hours, even—they seemed not quite right. A blankness in the eyes, a curious halting of their speech, a strangeness that he couldn’t describe to another but intuitively grasped.

  Their unnatural second life showed.

  But to be fair, they had died badly. Trauma and poison and gunshots and knives. He’d never had an easy death to work with, for why would the police need to revive one from that? But for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what an easy death would be. Mostly, he tried not to think too much about human reanimation. When he did, the lack of a soul had always held him back from exploring the idea with any true sense of going forward, but what if he could entrap the soul within the body as it died?

  Adelaide had gone home that night, slightly drunk and very angry. She’d vowed to find another to help her with her scheme. Frankenstein had wished her well without truly meaning it but that night, and every night since, he’d dreamed of reanimating a man. Some nights the daring procedure worked and he found joy in giving life back but other nights the dreams turned to nightmares as his soulless creature took to the darkness, ravaging the populace in the wee hours of the night. Plundering, pillaging, and even perverting the most basic of human needs, his creature eventually led the police to his doorstep. Frankenstein imagined himself incarcerated then hanged in the town square while furious torch-wielding people cheered his demise.

  He woke from those nightmares gasping for air and grasping at his neck.

  The thought of ending up like his monstrous father kept him from ever doing anything more than thinking about human resurrection, yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself from delving ever deeper into the nature of souls. He turned his considerable talent to exploring that idea and found himself deep into mysticism and shamanism and a dozen other –isms that left his mind reeling with possibilities, if only he dared.

  But he didn’t dare.

  However, thinking wasn’t doing. Thinking hurt no one so he continued to consider the idea from multiple angles.

  And then one night, slightly drunk after a night playing billiards and unable to get a Hansom cab, he made his way home in the midst of a dreadful storm. With his lapel lifted up to protect his face and neck, he could barely see the path, let alone anything else. When someone smashed right into him, they both fell down into frigid muck.

  “You oaf!” Frankenstein struggled to his feet. He peered down. There, collapsed in the mess of the street, lay a young woman—no, a man. Longish blond hair brushed over the face had tricked him at first, but now he saw dark work clothes, hobnailed boots with thick soles, and a battered overcoat held together by a hope and a prayer.

  Kneeling beside him, Frankenstein found his pulse weak, his lips dry, and his breathing so shallow it barely lifted his chest. Despite the violence of their impact, it simply couldn’t have caused th
is reaction.

  Frankenstein quickly scanned the street, hoping for a cab of some sort but when he saw nothing, not even another soul, he rose to his feet then hefted the young man over his shoulder. Home seemed farther away than ever, but he moved as quickly as he could. When he reached the welcoming structure, he found himself going around the back then taking the stairs to the very bowels of the house where he kept his laboratory.

  He refused to speculate as to why.

  Once inside, he locked the door behind him and placed the boy on the examination table then turned on the lights.

  The boy’s chest continued to rise and fall but seemed to slow with each passing breath. Prying open his eyes revealed constricted pupils.

  Sedation, respiratory depression, dry mouth, and pupil constriction could only mean one thing: opium overdose.

  Dull fury tightened Frankenstein’s limbs. He despised the easy way some had of taking powerful medicine. Addiction seemed rampant in the city and a waste of so many good lives, yet, when he examined the young man more closely, he found work-worn hands, strong teeth, and clean hair—hardly the marks of a drug-addicted street urchin.

  When he removed the boy’s filthy overcoat, he found no bottle, pipe, or any other evidence of drug use. Had someone deliberately poisoned him? Perhaps. Frankenstein had heard of just such things happening. But why? Why poison a young boy who could not be much of a bother to anyone? Instead of focusing on that curiosity, he tried to determine if there were any way to remove the drug from the boy’s system. Without information, he could do nothing. Ipecac would expel the contents of the stomach but he could hardly give such a mixture to an unconscious man.

  To his horror, Frankenstein realized all he could do was watch helplessly while the drug ran its course. Worse, he’d brought the boy into his home and might be blamed for drugging him. Perhaps he should take him back out and leave him in the street. Even as he thought of the solution, Frankenstein knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Leaving a man alone to die seemed the most cruel thing in the world.

  And then a new idea came to him.

  He could save him.

  But only after he died.