“No.” Frankenstein said the one word aloud and startled at the vehemence of his voice. He would do no such thing. No matter how perfect this opportunity, no matter that he would likely never have such a chance as this again, he couldn’t go against the law. More importantly, he couldn’t go against his own moral compass.
He brushed back the boy’s hair and gazed into the face of a young man who obviously hadn’t experienced much of life. At best, he’d just barely reached adulthood. Eighteen to no more than twenty. How could he let one so young die?
A drug overdose would do damage to the body but it clearly hadn’t been an excessive amount of drugs or the boy would have been dead far more swiftly. Without the trauma, he stood a good chance of maintaining his personality and his mental faculties. If Frankenstein followed the protocol he’d read in that occult text, he could keep his soul intact.
As his moral compass swung this new direction, Frankenstein found himself assembling the necessary materials without much conscious thought. When he realized what he was doing, one question abruptly swung his moral compass the other direction:
What if the boy didn’t come back right?
Frankenstein would have to kill him. This wouldn’t be like at the police station, where removing the spell was a mercy. This would be killing a fellow soul-carrying human being. Could he do that? What if something about this magic were different and removing the spell didn’t kill the boy? That left him with the horrifying notion of having to kill with his bare hands.
The boy’s breathing rate slowed again, leaving Frankenstein little time to decide.
Ticking from the clock above the mantle seemed unnaturally loud then seemed to sync with the beat of his heart.
In the end, what compelled him was the same thing that had always compelled him. He had to know. Unlike Adelaide, he didn’t want prestige. Pure intellectual curiosity drove him to discover if reanimating a human and keeping them intact could be done and if not why not.
Frankenstein tossed off his coat and brushed back his hair. He drew the table of items closer to his—victim? Patient?—uncertain what label to give the boy, Frankenstein focused on preparing himself to hold the boy’s soul within his own body until the time came to give it back to the boy.
Herbs and potions and chanted words filled the air around them, obliterating the smell of rain and muck and the dreadful ticking of the clock. Careful observation of the boy’s breathing kept Frankenstein aware of the exact moment of death. When it came, he placed his mouth over the boy’s and breathed in as the boy breathed out his last.
He felt the boy’s soul enter him, clean and as bright as the most peaceful spring day. Frankenstein felt filled with all things pure, all things eternal and joyous. But then he felt too full as if he’d just eaten holiday dinner three times over. He couldn’t contain the boy’s soul and his own. He felt as if his body tried to expand and failed.
The shock to his system threatened to drop him to his knees. Fighting for all he was worth, Frankenstein clung to the edge of the table. He would do this even if it cost him everything, even his very life. With trembling hands, he checked for a pulse and found none. Gathering energy into his fist, he doubled then tripled then quadrupled the life-force before placing his hand over the boy’s heart. Timing the moment, he released the charge at the exact second he breathed the boy’s soul back into him.
Frankenstein had delivered his first and possibly only kiss of life. Having never kissed another, he had no idea the act would feel so startlingly intimate.
He drew back, expecting something, anything, but nothing happened.
“Live. Damn you, live!”
Coughing, sputtering, the boy’s eyelids fluttered. “What—who?”
Profound relief left him unable to speak. Frankenstein continued the ritual, binding his magic to the soul and tying both to the boy’s body.
When he finished, he collapsed on the floor. Cold from the stone seeped through the thin weave of his trousers, numbing him almost instantly. He hurt all over, more than he ever had in his life. Waves of nausea washed through him, tightening his stomach and making him heave dryly.
The last thing he expected was for the boy to lean over and vomit. Mercifully, he missed hitting Frankenstein but the stench compelled him to drag himself away. Dizzy and sweating, he tried to keep alert so he could help the boy, but the harder he struggled to stay awake, the more firmly something pulled him into a stupor.
“Where am I?” the boy asked.
Frankenstein tried to answer but he couldn’t get his mouth to operate. He felt packed in layer upon layer of gauze, distant and diffuse. Too late he recognized the symptoms as being similar to a walloping dose of opium. Somehow, he’d taken some of the drug into himself. The mechanics eluded him, but he recalled a passage from one of the many books he’d read, something about having to suffer part of the pain to protect the soul. He hadn’t understood then but he thought he might now.
“What did you do to me?” The boy swung his legs over the edge of the table and stepped off, carefully avoiding the pile of vomit. He took two steps, windmilled his arms and collapsed in a heap. With all the grace of a drunk, the revived boy rolled over, facing Frankenstein.
They peered at one another, neither able to focus without effort because of the drugs.
“You drugged me.”
“No.” Frankenstein reached out for him. “Save.”
“Save? You mean slave? I am not your slave.” Fury twisted the handsome right off his face. “I was in the tavern. I had won—” Abruptly, he stopped talking and patted his pockets. Whatever he was looking for must have been gone. “You thief!”
“No.” Frankenstein reached for him again only to find his hands slapped away.
The boy got to his knees then used the table to climb to his feet. “What is this place?”
Frankenstein wanted to explain, he tried, but all that came out of his mouth were garbled words and dry clicks. He’d never been so thirsty in his life.
Staggering, the boy grabbed his coat and headed toward the stairs but stopped. “More of your kind upstairs?”
Desperate to keep what he’d done secret and protect his staff, Frankenstein nodded. He’d rather the boy get away than hurt anyone else.
The boy turned toward the exterior door. With painstaking slowness, clinging to the wall with such strength he broke a fingernail and left behind a bloody streak, the boy made his way to the door.
Frankenstein crawled across the floor to intercept him. He couldn’t let him roam free. Too late he realized he should have strapped him down but now there was nothing he could do but reach out. His fingertips brushed the hem of the boy’s pants. He flexed his fingers, gripping the rough fabric in his fist, only to feel his hold slipping away as his consciousness did the same.
The last thing he remembered was the moon illuminating the boy from behind, giving him what looked like a halo. And then Frankenstein remembered no more.
* * *
Frankenstein awoke with the worst headache he’d ever had. Shaking, he got to his feet and looked around the lab. Everything from the night before came rushing back to him. He’d consumed opium a time or two but never much and only at the behest of his mother. What he’d taken into himself last night had been more than enough to kill the pain in three stout men. Puzzled by how the drug had been transferred to him, he pondered it while drinking glass after glass of water.
Footsteps above his head reminded him that he did not live alone. His staff most certainly had noticed he hadn’t come home last night. While cleaning up the vomit and righting everything in the lab, he concocted a story that would hide his nocturnal adventure.
Up the stairs he went, doing his best to appear distracted.
“Sir.” Clerval startled when they encountered one another in the hall.
“What? Oh. Clerval.” Frankenstein shook his head. “I came in late to the lab and, well, you know how I can get.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I have brea
kfast served?”
“Rather, if you would, draw me a bath and lay out fresh clothing. I feel the need to walk.”
“At once, sir.” Off he went, allowing Frankenstein to hurry upstairs. The thought of food made him want to gag but he smelled the stink of last night—mud, vomit, even opium—on himself. He didn’t know what his butler would make of it but he knew whatever he thought, Clerval would keep it to himself.
After a quick bath, a fresh set of clothes, and a splash of spicy cologne, Frankenstein pulled on his overcoat, gloves, and top hat. He hastened toward the neighborhood where he’d run into the boy and found the corner where they’d collided. The boy’s knit cap had tumbled off. Frankenstein picked it up, hoping for something to be tucked under the brim, but found nothing, not even his name. Disappointed, he slipped the hat into his pocket then stood there, examining everything in all directions. How would he ever find him? How many towheaded workers with battered coats could there be in the city? Hundreds? Thousands?
Closing his eyes, he thought of the boy’s hands. He worked at some trade that left them dry and calloused. A stonemason? Perhaps.
Deeper into the city he went, walking without thinking. He realized he was following a route without meaning to. He had not made a conscious decision. He felt compelled. By what, he didn’t know, but he also knew he couldn’t stop. Onward he went, halting only to ensure the streets were clear before he crossed.
Frankenstein felt him before he saw him. Blond hair gleamed in the sun. When the boy turned toward him, it was as if he felt the same strange compulsion. Their eyes met, held, and then the boy took off, running pell-mell through the streets. An impulse to follow gripped Frankenstein, but he could hardly be seen chasing a boy through the town. People knew him. They would talk.
Over and over, Frankenstein caught up to the boy only to watch him run away. After six such encounters, Frankenstein realized he couldn’t continue the game indefinitely. He had to think of something else, a way to get the boy to come to him. But what or how?
Frustrated, he returned home.
He ate and drank and did all the things he was supposed to do but the problem didn’t leave his mind for a moment.
Whatever would he do? How could he assess the boy’s mental state if he couldn’t examine him? What if he were running to avoid just such a thing?
Consumed by indecision and shame for his foolishness, he took his bottle of whisky and a tray of those delectable little sandwiches down to his lab and pondered the issue while poring over his books. At least he could rest assured the boy’s physical faculties were intact. He wouldn’t have been able to outrun him all day were they not.
When no answer came forth from the books, he paced. He thought of ways to track the boy, to trap him, or even hire street toughs to find him, but all of those plans could spell disaster. He couldn’t let anyone know what he’d done or how valuable the boy was to him. To keep things quiet, he had to work alone. Had to—
A knock at the exterior door to the lab sent a shockwave through him. Electricity sparkled from the tips of his fingers. What in the world was this? He’d never had his power manifest without will in his hands. He pondered the phenomena as he moved toward the door. Even before he opened it, he knew he would find the boy standing there.
When Frankenstein opened the door, the boy, clutching at the doorframe with one hand while the other cupped his gut, gasped, “I need your help.” He collapsed into Frankenstein’s arms.
Chapter Four
Frankenstein brought him inside then closed and locked the door. Mindful of what appeared to be a belly wound, he scooped the boy into his arms then placed him on the exam table. When Frankenstein tried to lift his hand away, the boy groaned and pressed down more firmly.
“I can’t help you if you won’t let me see.”
“Everything will come spilling out if I move my hand.”
“You’re on your back.”
“Oh?” He blinked and looked around. “I am.”
“Let me see.” Frankenstein pulled the boy’s hand away while lifting up his shirt. A surprisingly neat, perfectly straight wound. Given his work with the police, he recognized the wound as having been caused by a knife plunged in once and pulled out. When he probed the area, the boy cried out and tried to push his hand away.
Pain response, Frankenstein noted automatically. His creature’s nerves were intact. A good sign but not a great one. Even the most long-waited revived human in the police station seemed to remember and cling to their physical pain.
“That hurts.”
“I’m sorry.” To distract him from the pain, and stop himself from calling the boy his creature ever again, Frankenstein asked, “What’s your name?”
“What does that matter?” the boy asked through gritted teeth.
“It doesn’t matter other than I need to call you something.”
After a long hesitation, he said, “Loren.”
“Loren,” Frankenstein echoed as he inspected the wound. “No last name?”
“What’s your name?”
“I am Frankenstein.”
“What, no last name?”
“Touché.” Despite his concern, Frankenstein couldn’t help but note that quick wit showed intact mental faculties. “How did this happen?”
“I slipped.”
“And fell on a knife?”
“Yeah.”
“Forgive me but I don’t believe you.” Frankenstein pressed near the wound again, surprised that hardly any blood came out. He couldn’t decide if that were good or bad or even something in between.
“You don’t need to believe me. Just fix it.”
“I don’t know that I can.” Frankenstein had trained first as a doctor but he’d abandoned the work when he’d discovered his talents as a necromancer. “What made you come to me in the first place?”
“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”
“What makes you think that?”
“All the medical stuff in your laboratory.”
Books, chalkboards, and rows of curious things in jars. Those oddities had come from his childhood when becoming a doctor seemed automatic. He also had medical supplies for basic surgeries and tending to wounds. He’d never thought too much about how his laboratory appeared through the eyes of another, mainly because he’d never allowed anyone else within these chambers. He had a cot in the corner, a washing station to the side, and stacks of loose paper and dozens of writing implements everywhere. Despite the fact he drew on natural electricity in the air and earth, he still had multiple energy generators, two given to him by none other than Nikola Tesla.
“I suppose all the medical equipment does give me away.” Frankenstein had no interest in making Loren think otherwise. As far as he could tell, the boy did not know what he was or what he’d done to him. Frankenstein lifted his attention to Loren’s eyes. Clear, bright, and his pupils reacted appropriately to light. His assessment from last night, that the boy was not an opium addict, seemed correct. Also, if he were using the drug now, he wouldn’t be in pain.
“Why did you bring me here last night?”
“You ran into me on the street. Upon inspection, I realized you were on the verge of dying from an opium overdose. Instead of leaving you there to die, I brought you here.”
Loren’s forehead wrinkled up but not in pain. “How did you—”
“And now here you are with a knife wound.” Frankenstein cut him off from asking how he’d saved him from the overdose because he didn’t have an answer and couldn’t think of a suitable lie. Frankly, he had no idea how he’d pulled at least half the drug into himself other than by mystical means. In bringing him back from the dead, they’d shared something. Something far more than the kiss of life or a profound energy exchange.
“Look here, please.” Frankenstein lifted his finger so Loren would focus on that, allowing him to peer into his eyes. “Whatever it is you do for a living, you might consider a different line of work.”
“Just stitch
me up.”
“Of course.” Frankenstein had to find a way to make him stay until he could perform more tests to determine his physical and mental fitness. “Oh, dear.”
“What’s wrong?” Loran tried to sit up to see his stomach but Frankenstein pressed on his shoulder, holding him down.
“Nothing is wrong. I just realized I will need more supplies and I’m not certain I have them.” But that wasn’t the truth. The reality of the situation had hit him so hard and fast he’d blurted oh, dear without being able to stop himself.
“What more do you need other than bandages?”
“Lie still, please.” Frankenstein turned away and began gathering supplies while his mind raced. Why had he not thought this through? Reanimating his creature was only the first of many steps. Establishing his cognitive and physical states were just tests. The real question became what to do with him if he were intact. He’d considered what to do if he weren’t—reverse the spell and vow never to do such twisted experiments again—but if all went well, then what? Frankenstein could hardly let him roam the streets. What if there were long-range repercussions? Problems or issues that were not readily apparent but would take weeks, months, or even years to emerge?
As they said, act in haste, repent in leisure. He couldn’t keep him here but letting him go seemed dangerous too. What in the world would he do?
“You figured it out, didn’t you.” Behind him, he heard a click. A sound he knew he should be able to identify but didn’t until he turned around.
“What is the meaning of this?” Frankenstein felt an impulse to raise his hands but he’d have to drop the supplies to do that so instead, he held still. “Are you robbing me?”
“I need a place to hide.” Loren waved the barrel of the gun around at the laboratory while lying on his back. “This place is as good as any.”
A stroke of luck if he played it right.
“Well?” Loren demanded.
“You’re welcome to recuperate here.” Frankenstein kept his calm while placing the medical supplies on the table. “The gun is not necessary.” He peered past the barrel and into Loren’s eyes. “Put it down, please. You don’t want to kill your doctor before he has a chance to heal you, do you?”
Frankenstein's Fair Lady Page 3