by J. R. Rain
Anyway, it took many months of not-so-innocent flirting at the boarding school, flirting from both student and teacher, before things progressed to anything more than a few stolen moments in school hallways, or lingering and meaningless questions after class. Neither was fully prepared—or ready—for the feelings they felt. After all, the good doctor was knee-deep in, well, knees and other body parts. Love wasn’t on his mind—reanimating corpses was. Finding a steady supply of the dead was, too. And young Mary was doing her best not to cry herself to sleep each night; after all, never had she been gone so long from her doting father.
She was lonely and not very good at making new friends. She found comfort in Lichtenstein’s lingering glances and smiles meant only for her. She was thrilled to have his attention, and wondered if other girls had experienced the same, but dared not ask. Even if it was all in her silly little head, it was still much better than the overwhelming loneliness of the boarding school. Of course, Mary had quite the imagination; indeed, she had already concocted a dozen or more stolen moments in her head, each moment in exceedingly unlikely and dangerous places. Each fantasy gave her a thrill and made her want her captivating teacher just that much more.
Her innocent fantasies were about to very much become a reality, and sixteen-year-old Mary Wollstonecraft’s innocence was about to be stolen away from her forever.
***
Although the age difference would pose a problem, Mary, in those days, would have been considered of age to be courted. Edward himself was a bachelor at age thirty. An unlikely romance, to be sure, which was why they kept it private throughout her six months at the academy in Ramsgate. Indeed, the good doctor most certainly would have lost his position had his superiors discovered his dalliance with a student.
Yes, Sam, dalliance is still a word. And, yes, people like me still use it. Yes, old people like me. No, I’ve never considered the fact that I might be older than the hills. Or dirt. Now, can I continue? Thank you.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes...
It behooved the young lovers to keep their affair quiet, which they succeeded in doing so. It was in her fourth month at boarding school that Mary and Victor Lichtenstein took their relationship to a whole new level. At her suggestion—which delighted the doctor to no end—she had suggested they meet that night in a nearby graveyard overlooking the city of Geneva... a graveyard the good doctor knew all too well. It was there, under clear skies and a full moon—yes, all details that Lichtenstein supplied to Franklin—that they kissed for the first time, and expressed their love for each other. It was a tender—and proper—moment for them both. That they both enjoyed the solitude of graveyards seemed to bode well for their future. Or so Lichtenstein hoped.
The next few weeks were a blur of continued classroom flirtations, not-so-happenstance encounters in hallways, and late-night rendezvous, usually in the seclusion of the local graveyard. Lichtenstein, feeling love for the first time ever, pushed aside his own work. His own terribly important work.
Never had he felt such a connection with anyone, and so, with the school year coming to a close and young Mary returning home for the summer, he made a very bold move to keep her with him. He planned to ask for her hand in marriage. After all, he was from a good family, with much land and holdings. He was not so terrible to look at, and he had a quick and inventive mind. Just how inventive, young Mary had no idea. At least, not yet.
The pressure was on the young doctor. He knew that his experiments fell far below the accepted norm of the times. Or any times. But he also knew he was close to something big, something unheard of, something this world had not yet seen... the reanimation of a corpse. And not just the reanimation, but the creation of life itself.
Of course, Lichtenstein had never heard of the dark masters. Nor did he know of lost souls actively seeking human hosts. He especially did not know that his experiments were of great interest to those trapped—or banished—on the other side. That in fact, some of his very inspiration had come from these same dark masters, whispering madness into his ears as he slept. He understood none of this. Indeed, he only knew that he was driven to see his experiments through to the end. And he worked passionately, obsessively, sleeping little, if at all, supplementing his income by teaching during the day, and working often straight through the night.
That is, until he met Mary Wollstonecraft. Now, his life had taken on even greater meaning—and more complications, too. What would his beloved think of his experiments? What would she think of him? Would it be possible to convince her of their importance, his importance, that he was truly on the cutting edge of science, and creation itself? Indeed, that he was stepping into the role of God himself?
It was with much trepidation and anxiety that on the eve of her departure, as both of them had expressed their love and their desire to be with each other forever, that he had postponed his marriage proposal in light of showing the would-be novelist his laboratory, located in his apartment basement, nearly thirty feet under the street. The building had been a hotel in an earlier incarnation, and had, at one time, held a vast collection of wine bottles. The cellars in this place were particularly extensive, which was why the good doctor had chosen it. A perfect place to play God.
It was after a particularly moving moment in the cemetery, overlooking the lamplight of Geneva, alone together in the world, each aware that this might very well be their last night together, that Lichtenstein decided to take her down into his basement. He had to show her this side of him. He had to get her to believe in him, in his experiments, in his vision for life itself. He needed her on his side. He saw that now. He saw the benefit of a talented and inspiring woman in his corner. Already his experiments had taken on a fresh angle, which is a weird way to describe the rotting cadavers that lined the old wine cellar.
Perhaps it was too much to ask of a sixteen-year-old girl who was far beyond her years in wisdom and intellect, a sixteen-year-old girl who had a penchant for words—and for the macabre. But his hopes of marrying young Mary, of her being The Bride of Lichtenstein—yes, that just came to me—was dashed the moment she set eyes upon his laboratory; in particular, the bodies stacked over ice, the sawing tools and stitching implements, and his surprisingly advanced array of electrical conduits, all of which harnessed the lightning strikes above. Brilliant, really, and far ahead of his time.
Yes, Lichtenstein might have been receiving promptings from the “other side,” usually through dreams, he confessed later. Either way, Edward Lichtenstein was genius enough to build it all.
How long young Mary stayed around the laboratory, it’s hard to know. Surely long enough to absorb the details, of which she would later use to render her famous novel. She eventually fled; screaming, from what I understand, all the way home to her father. She never returned Lichtenstein’s letters and refused to see him when he called upon her the next year.
Alone and miserable, with only the dead to keep him company, he eventually quit his position at Ramsgate and poured himself into his work. Remarkably, at nearly the exact time of Mary Shelley’s publication of Frankenstein, Edward Lichtenstein would revive his first corpse. I always suspected Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein as a healing balm, a way to make sense of what she had seen. No, she never went public with her knowledge, and she never spoke to Lichtenstein again. But her book—her snapshot, really—into Liechtenstein’s experiments lives on to this day. And so do the corpses he revived.
The many, many corpses he revived.
Chapter Thirty-nine
“And Franklin is such a revival?” I asked.
Kingsley nodded. He had long ago sat back in the client chair as he recounted the tale of the mad doctor Lichtenstein. “He and his many brothers.”
“He considers them his brothers?”
“Just one big happy family, Sam.”
“Are you being facetious?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Franklin has many, many brothers, as he calls them. He seems to have fondness for them.”
&n
bsp; “All of them?”
“Most of them. One or two turned out to be particularly dastardly, particularly evil.”
I waited. I heard muffled voices outside Kingsley’s door. Nothing too excitable, but I noticed Kingsley cock his head slightly, pause and listen in on the conversation. What was muffled voices to me, was surely clear as day to him.
We are both so freakin weird it hurts.
“You probably have work to do,” I said.
“Soon. I am, after all, an ace defense attorney.”
“So you say,” I said.
He grinned. “And as far as Franklin and his family, most turned out respectable enough. Many are leading normal lives.”
“How many, er, offspring—for lack of a better word—did Dr. Lichtenstein create?”
“Ninety-two.”
“And all are still alive?”
“Most. After all, they can be destroyed. Most often by fire, but a silver stake in the heart works for them, too, as is the case with most immortals.”
I drummed my fingers on Kingsley’s oversized desk. I would say he was overcompensating for something, but I knew better. Boy, did I know better.
“Let’s back up here. Were Dr. Lichtenstein’s experiments a success because he used true science, or because the dark masters found their way into the corpses?”
“I would say a little of both. As you know, there needs to be a transfer of blood. From one immortal to another. Be it vampire or werewolf or, in this case, Lichtenstein’s monsters.”
“I’m listening.”
“After many failed attempts at reanimation, Lichtenstein was called upon by a monster of a different kind; your friend Dracula, in fact. To Lichtenstein’s horror, the Count came bearing gifts. Three corpses, in fact.”
“Let me guess: werewolf.”
“Good guess, my dear. Three recently killed werewolves, in fact. Turns out, Dracula doesn’t much like my kind, as you well know.”
Indeed, Dracula had helped me kill an entire werewolf pack just last year, a werewolf pack that would have surely killed me or, in the least, ripped me to shreds. But, yeah, the Count had seemed to kill with reckless abandon, and, I think, no small amount of pleasure.
“Lichtenstein was told, or perhaps even compelled, to use the corpses. To use liberally from the corpses. Something in each of the three killed werewolves needed to be in his reanimated corpses. Something, anything. A heart, lungs, a leg, a foot, fingers, toes. Anything.
“It was only then that Lichtenstein found his first success. It was only then that Lichtenstein raised the dead.”
“And these are reanimated werewolves?”
“Not quite, Sam. Although it is the werewolf flesh within them that gives them the spark of life, these are truly a new breed of monster. They are, first off, far stronger than any of us. Yes, Sam, even me.”
“Franklin?”
“Especially Franklin. He was one of the most successful of the creatures.”
“But he is so... well-spoken.”
Kingsley nodded and checked his watch. I could only imagine how disruptive this impromptu meeting had been to his usually hectic days. And to his bottom line.
“Many turned out very well-spoken. Many had no ability of speech whatsoever. Many turned into true monsters that had to be destroyed, lest they wreak havoc upon the world. Some even escaped.”
“And each contains the soul of a dark master?”
“Indeed, Sam. I would hesitate to say that most contain a very low-level dark master, with a few exceptions, notably Franklin. The thing that attacked you last night would have been closer to monster than man.”
“And you think it is one of Lichtenstein’s creations?”
“I don’t know for sure. But my best guess is yes.”
“Perhaps we should discuss the creature with Franklin,” I suggested.
“A good idea.”
I’d never had a good heart-to-heart talk with Kingsley’s butler before. Truth was, Franklin was a bit of a snob. I didn’t relate too well to snobs. Even undead, reanimated snobs.
I said, “I understand that these creations are vessels for dark masters, like you and me. But, unlike you and me, Lichtenstein’s monsters didn’t have an original soul. Unless I’m missing something here. The souls of the deceased would have been long gone.”
“A good point, Sam, which is what makes these creatures different from you and me. However, as you are well aware, departed spirits do, in fact, hang around their dead bodies. You saw it with your husband a few years ago.”
He was right. I’d found Danny’s spirit hunkered down next to his buried body, deep beneath the Los Angeles River, within a forgotten cavern. His spirit had been confused and unable to move on, for reasons I would never know. I’d always felt like shit that I’d forgotten him down there. That is, until I remembered the bastard had tried to set me up. Anyway, long story short, I’d help Danny’s spirit move on.
“So, what are you saying?” I asked Kingsley. “That the original spirit was, in fact, able to return to its deceased body?”
“I didn’t say that. Not quite. Liechtenstein’s experiments, aided by the werewolf blood sources and body parts, enabled, well, any spirit to enter the galvanized corpse.”
“Franklin had been someone else entirely?”
“In short, yes. Although, I believe, his is the original head.”
Maybe this news should have turned my stomach, but I found myself intrigued. And I don’t think it was because of the entity within me. After all, one didn’t study criminal justice and not have an interest in the darker side of life.
A thought occurred to me. “Can there be multiple souls?”
Kingsley held my gaze, raised his bushy-ass eyebrows, cocked his head a little toward some raised voices in the hallway beyond, then eased out of the client chair far too easily and swiftly. No one his size should be that fast, that skillful, and that much in control of their bodies. But there it was, right before my eyes, the natural and supernatural blending into one perfectly oiled, if not hairy, machine. He moved around the desk and offered me a hand. I didn’t take it, not yet. I generally left when I wanted to leave. Anywhere. Not because one of Kingsley’s clients was throwing a hissy fit outside.
Kingsley saw that I wasn’t going anywhere and retracted his hand and exhaled and said, “From what I understand, Sam, one of Lichtenstein’s monsters can have as many souls as it does different body parts.”
“So, if one of his monsters was cobbled together with, say, four body parts...”
“It could theoretically have four souls.”
“Plus the intrusive dark master,” I added.
“Right.”
“And how many does Franklin have? Souls, that is?”
“Two. Plus the dark master.”
“Does the second soul ever, ah, make an appearance?”
“Often.”
I thought back, my mind temporarily blown. But I could find no discrepancies in Franklin’s personality. He was always icy, snobby and efficient. I said as much to Kingsley.
“The second spirit will generally make an appearance when the conversation turns to politics.”
“Since when do you talk politics with Franklin?”
“He’s my most trusted friend, Sam. We talk often and about everything.”
“But he calls you Master Kingsley.”
“You’re going to be an ace detective yet, Sam.”
“Don’t patronize me. You know what I mean.”
Kingsley sighed and resisted an urge to look at his watch again. Good thing, because I just resisted the urge to rip it off his wrist and throw it through his office door.
“Although Franklin’s spirit is the primary spirit, his secondary spirit, who goes by Spartus, was once a house servant, and prefers to remain so, to this day.”
“And Franklin?”
“He was a common criminal, Sam. A pickpocket, I believe.”
Mind. Blown. I stared at Kingsley, who was loving this m
ore than he should. Since he couldn’t kick me out of his office, he was enjoying blowing my mind far too much.
“Then why isn’t Franklin, say, a pickpocket? How did the secondary spirit override the first?”
“They reached an agreement, Sam. If Spartus would mostly remain in the shadows, Franklin would appease him by performing his duties.”
Mind not so blown. That made sense. I was beginning to understand that two competing spirits could, in fact, come to an agreement. I said, “And the dark entity within him?”
“Mostly keeps to the shadows. It seems content to simply exist in this world. At least, for now.”
I thought about it, and thought about how Franklin never did seem to be very good at his job. He was often moody and cranky, and this would explain why. I still had one objection, “But he calls you Master Kingsley, for crissake.”
“Oh, he’s just being facetious, Sam, while still honoring his agreement with Spartus.”
“And this man who attacked me at the lake...”
“Sounds very much like one of Lichtenstein’s monsters.”
“And just how strong is he?”
“Stronger than you and I combined. Maybe even three or four of us.”
“Is Franklin that strong, too?”
“Perhaps even more so.”
“Even stronger than you in your werewolf form?”
Kingsley grinned, somewhat wolfishly. “Let’s call that a wash.”
“Can Franklin shape-shift?”
“No. At least, not that I’m aware.”
“And the others?”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. Shape-shifting is generally reserved for the higher-level entities. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a client to meet.” Kingsley stepped over to the door and turned the knob.
“Wait. One last question: Can you read minds?”
He gave me a lopsided grin. “Most immortals can, Sam. Even the Lichtenstein monsters. Of course, we all have our own individual talents, usually based on the original talents of the entity within us.”