The Last American Vampire

by Seth Grahame-Smith

  It was Tesla who came up with an alternative plan.

  He brought up the possibility of using [his weapon] to kill Rasputin.

  While Tesla had certainly done his share of drinking and playing cards on the trip, he’d also found time to tinker with his latest invention—which Henry would later describe as looking like “a cross between a satellite dish and an espresso machine.” The “dish” part of Tesla’s device (which Tesla called a “teleforce weapon”9 ) resembled a briefcase, with handles on two sides instead of one, and covered not with leather but with copper plating, fastened with hundreds of tiny rivets. This copper briefcase10 was attached by bundled wires to a large, boxy pack that Tesla strapped to his back; the pack was also covered in riveted copper plating and was built around what looked to Henry like a large vacuum tube11 surrounded by a thick metal ring. There were several small pressure gauges on the side of the backpack, none of which made any sense to Henry, but all of which, based on the way Tesla constantly fussed over their readings, seemed very important.

  [Tesla] claimed that his device could kill anything he aimed it at, up to a distance of thirty meters. We were doubtful, to say the least. You have to understand, this was a sixty-year-old man wearing a funny-looking box on his back, holding a flat piece of copper between his hands. He was asking us to bet our lives on what looked like a parlor trick. So he offered us a demonstration. He asked Yusupov to have some uncooked meat sent down, which he set on the table in the center of the room.

  There were no batteries capable of powering such a weapon at the time, which meant that it had to be kept plugged in, via a thirty-foot cord that Tesla had rigged up. This ruled out an ambush on the streets of Petrograd. But there was another problem. Tesla’s weapon ran on alternating current, but the palace’s generator was one of Edison’s direct-current models.

  After cursing the stupidity of the Russians for investing in “the inferior electricity of an inferior man,” he went to work—scrambling to make a transformer out of whatever he could find lying around. When he finally got it working and switched it on, all the needles on the backpack’s gauges jumped and a hum filled the room. The backpack started to emit a low vibration that you could feel in your bones and made the hairs on your arms stand up. And a smell—that electrical smell of charged air before a storm.

  Tesla told us to get behind him—which we were more than happy to do—and pointed the little copper briefcase at the table, some twenty or thirty feet away. He closed one eye, lining it up the way a rifleman lines up his gun barrel, and squeezed a button on one of the briefcase handles. I’d expected some kind of flash of light or sparks to come shooting out of it, like the experiments he’d shown Twain and me in his lab. But there was nothing like that—just that low vibration and a crackling sound as the raw meat began to smoke, cracking, popping. Cooking before our eyes.

  Henry and his fellow conspirators had never seen a microwave oven or a radar. They’d never watched television or even imagined such a thing possible. To them, the idea of energy being beamed, invisibly, across a room, was simply magic. Yet here it was, a piece of raw steak sizzling and smoking by itself on a bare plate. No flame. No damage to the plate or the table.

  [Tesla] went bug-eyed, as if he was surprised the thing was actually working. The rest of us, we were… I don’t know—shocked? Amazed? More than anything, we were excited, because we knew we had our answer.

  The new plan was quickly drawn up: Rasputin would arrive at around eight in the evening, expecting an audience (and who knows what else) with the beautiful young Princess Irina to discuss her “strange and erotic” dreams. Rasputin would be led down to the basement dining room, where the table would be set in the center.

  I would remain hidden, just off the old dining room, in a basement kitchen, ready to rush in if things went to hell. Yusupov would greet Rasputin and tell him to wait while he fetched [Princess] Irina. Once Yusupov disappeared, Pavlovich would enter and tell Rasputin that he’d arranged a surprise for him: a personal demonstration by the one and only Nikola Tesla, who just so happened to be visiting Petrograd from America.

  Pavlovich would introduce Tesla, who would give Rasputin a demonstration of his latest invention, an “electrical mind reader.”

  We knew this would pique Rasputin’s curiosity, as he was a connoisseur of all things occult.

  Tesla would strap on his boxy copper backpack, flip it on, and aim the handheld plate at Rasputin’s head. Once the switch was thrown, Tesla estimated it would take “between five and ten seconds” for the blood and water in Rasputin’s brain to boil.

  If it all went right, we would kill a powerful vampire without firing a shot or spilling a drop of blood.

  But then, nothing went right that evening. Absolutely nothing.

  They’d expected him at eight, but it was well past ten o’clock, and there was still no sign of him.

  The conspirators were gathered at the table in the center of the basement dining room, beneath the dim light of its dying chandelier. Tesla’s device was on the table in front of them, covered by a white tablecloth. A gramophone blared out a scratchy recording of “Yankee Doodle Boy.”12 A small detail that Henry couldn’t deny himself.

  I’d seen a copy of it in Yusupov’s record collection while we were rehearsing our plan, and I insisted we have it playing when [Rasputin] walked in. The others were dead set against it. They thought it might tip him off to the plot—namely, the fact that there were Americans lurking in the palace. But honestly, what were the chances of him making that connection? It was a popular tune at the time. Besides, if you can’t have a little fun when you’re carrying out an assassination, then what’s the point?

  It was nearly midnight before Rasputin showed up. His motor carriage sputtered through the palace gates and up its round drive to a covered entrance.

  He was already in a foul mood by the time he reached the palace. He hadn’t fed in nearly two weeks due to the demands of his schedule, and his temperament always soured when his blood ran thin. Plus, it had been a thoroughly annoying evening, what with his German contacts keeping him for hours, requesting assurances, making demands. Idiots. Brutes. Had they no appreciation for the precariousness of his situation? Did they think it was easy, keeping the leaders of an empire under your spell? Still, even a vampire of Rasputin’s power had to show patience and respect given whom these Germans represented. They’d come bearing a note:

  The mysterious Mr. Grander. Eighth of his name. The faceless, all-seeing, all-knowing vampire of all vampires. It had been his idea to have Rasputin ingratiate himself with the Romanovs. His idea to exploit the tsarina’s weakness for her beloved Alexei and her desperation to believe in the occult. If you believed the rumors, the whole war had been his idea.

  On most occasions, Rasputin wore a black body-length gown that gave one the impression that he was floating as he walked. But tonight he was dressed in a blue embroidered silk shirt, his long dark hair pulled back. His bushy beard making his long face all the longer. At six feet four inches, he was uncommonly tall, and there was not, as one contemporary newspaper account described, “an ill-placed morsel of fat on him. His entire body is sinew and skin; everything about his appearance is long and muscular.”

  Through a crack in the kitchen door, Henry could see Rasputin walk down the long hall that led to the dining room, led by one of the Yusupovs’ butlers.

  A chill went through my body as I saw him approach. He was exactly the same height, the same build [as Abraham Lincoln]. But there was a grace about him that Abe had never possessed. Abe had always seemed a little awkward in his body. But Rasputin had learned how to control that big vessel. Which is strange, given that he had small feet for such a big man.

  And his eyes. Those dark, haunted eyes. People often comment on them. Their intensity when he stares into the camera. But something no one ever comments on—and you can go back and check this—Rasputin is always in sharp focus.13 In every picture taken of him, even if other faces are blurre
d, Rasputin’s face is always in focus, and his eyes are always locked, unblinking, right on the camera. They had a hypnotic quality, as if he was peering into your soul, even if he caught sight of you for only a second. It was easy to imagine someone being taken in by them. Especially a human.

  Many photos exist of Rasputin and his famously intense eyes, but this is the only known photograph where a hint of his fangs appears just below his mustache.

  Just as they’d rehearsed, Pavlovich cranked up the Victrola and dropped the needle as Rasputin and the butler neared. The cracks and pops gave way to the first tinny notes of “Yankee Doodle Boy”:

  I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy,

  A Yankee Doodle, do or die;

  A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam,

  Born on the Fourth of July.

  Rasputin was disappointed, but not the least bit surprised, to find the prince and the grand duke—conspirators, the both of them, and when I finally prove it, I’ll attend to them personally—waiting for him in their military uniforms. Rasputin had smelled them from the end of the hall. There were other smells down here, too. Some familiar, some… foreign.

  I’ve got a Yankee Doodle sweetheart,

  She’s my Yankee Doodle joy…

  “Togda eto proch’!” barked Rasputin, looking at the Victrola. Turn that off!

  Yusupov gave a nod to Pavlovich, who slunk over and lifted the needle.

  “Gde ona?” asked Rasputin. Where is she?

  “Grigory!” said Yusupov, laughing. “Not even a ‘hello’ for the man whose wife you wish to meet with?”

  “Where is she,” Rasputin repeated, “and why are we down here in this dungeon?”

  “We love it down here!” said Yusupov. “We’re here all the time, drinking, playing music, playing cards. We can make all the noise we want, and Mother doesn’t complain. Irina was with us until, oh, not even twenty minutes ago. She grew tired of waiting and went up to bed. But,” said Yusupov, seeing Rasputin’s face darken (if such a thing was even possible) at the prospect of having his time wasted, “fear not. I shall go and fetch her. She is very eager to spend some time with you… alone.”

  The dangling “alone” was enough to calm Rasputin.

  “A moment,” said Yusupov, “if you please.”

  He left, disappearing down the same hall that Rasputin had just crossed. The butler followed, sliding two large doors closed behind them, shutting Rasputin in with Pavlovich. Just the two of them in the dim and flickering light of the chandelier.

  Pavlovich was scared out of his wits. I could see it on his face. I could smell it, and I’m sure Rasputin could, too. But I didn’t flinch. I could only go in as a last resort. I knew that the second I burst through the door, the fight would be on, and all hope of our quiet little assassination would be out the window. Besides, everything was going as we’d planned. All Pavlovich had to do was hold himself together long enough to introduce Tesla.

  Grand Duke Pavlovich (who had never felt quite big enough to fill his outsize title) had always been nervous around Rasputin—and that was before he’d known that he was a vampire. Rasputin, therefore, thought nothing of the fact that he was nervous now. A fact that likely saved Pavlovich’s life.

  “So,” said Pavlovich, his mouth bone-dry, “would you care to… sit?”

  “No,” said Rasputin.

  “I, uh…”

  Rasputin considered Pavlovich with those impossible, hypnotic eyes.

  “I have something for you,” said Pavlovich. “A, uh, a surprise.”

  “I have no interest in your surprise,” said Rasputin, walking in long, graceful strides toward the table in the center of the room. “Leave me. I prefer to wait for Irina alone.”

  “No,” said Pavlovich.

  Rasputin whipped around and glared at Pavlovich. No?

  Pavlovich was doing everything but jump up and down and yell, “It’s a trick! We’ve brought you here to kill you!” I watched through the crack in the door, filled with dread. Bracing myself to go in there and fight. I was probably a millimeter away from doing it when I heard the doors on the opposite side of the room slide open.

  “I am here, here, here!” cried Tesla, bursting into the dining room.

  Thank God, thought Henry. Seeing Pavlovich falter, Tesla had improvised, making an early entrance and taking the reins from the stuttering grand duke.

  “Who is this?” asked Rasputin.

  “This?” asked Pavlovich. “This! This is the surprise! Yes! This is, um, may I present to you—”

  “You do not recognize the face of Nikola Tesla, Tesla, Tesla?” said the inventor with a sweeping, dramatic bow. “The master of lightning? A wielder of electricity, the likes of whom the world has not seen since Zeus threw thunderbolts from atop Mount Olympus?”

  “You,” said Rasputin, “are Nikola Tesla?”

  It was like something out of vaudeville. It was an absolute farce, and I was sure that Rasputin was going to see right though it any second. But Tesla was just crazy enough to make it seem sane. He told Rasputin that he was making a tour of Russia, trying to convince cities and wealthy landowners to adopt his superior AC technology, and demonstrating some of his latest inventions in the process. While in Petrograd, he was honored to be the guest of the Yusupovs. And wouldn’t you know it—they had insisted he demonstrate his newest, greatest marvel of science for the great Grigory Rasputin, whom they knew would appreciate it above all. In fact, it had been Princess Irina herself who had insisted on Rasputin.

  “So,” said Rasputin, when Tesla had finished his pitch, “the princess does not desire an audience with me… alone?”

  “Of course she does, does, does!” said Tesla. “Don’t be stupid! Yes, yes, yes, alone, she wants you, alone—but first, she demands that I demonstrate for you, personally, a marvel that will change the world!”

  Tesla strode confidently to the table and with a flourish pulled the white tablecloth off his copper contraption.

  “Behold!” said Tesla.

  “What is it?” asked Rasputin.

  “Sit, please. I will demonstrate.”

  “I will stand.”

  “You will sit!”

  Rasputin was taken aback. It had been some time since anyone had given him an order. The two slender, famous figures just stood there a moment, seeing who would back down first.

  Tesla had shoved all of his chips forward. Here was Rasputin—an impatient, arrogant, and intimidating figure. But rather than appease him, Tesla was fighting back by being even more impatient, arrogant, and intimidating. Barking at him like a parent at a misbehaving child. He’d walked into that room, sized up the situation, calculated the variables, and devised a solution. The only question was whether it would work or blow up in his face.

  Rasputin sat down, his back to the door.

  In that moment, I was reminded of why [Tesla] was the great man he was. A risk taker. A genius. Mad as a fucking hatter, yes, but a genius when it counted.

  “Good,” said Tesla. “Very good, now…”

  Tesla attended to his device. Pavlovich had retreated into the corner, dabbing sweat from his brow, thoroughly relieved to be offstage.

  “What,” Tesla asked Rasputin, strapping on his boxy copper-plated backpack, “is the greatest frontier known to man?”

  Rasputin said nothing. He was in no mood for games.

  “The mind, mind, mind!” said Tesla. “The human mind, with its secrets! Its desires! Imagine—what if it were possible to peer into the mind of any man, across vast distances? To know his darkest secrets, his innermost desires, as effortlessly as knowing the color of his eyes? To control him as easily as a child controls a toy doll? The man who wielded such power would be able to conquer nations from the comfort of his armchair!”

  “What is that… thing?” asked Rasputin, pointing to the device.

  “Only the greatest invention the world has ever seen.”

  “Yes… but what does it do?”

  “Nothing short of a miracle.
Just as Marconi’s radio waves transmit sound across an ocean, my device transmits thoughts across vast distances. Linking two minds together as if they were one.”

  Rasputin’s own thoughts were suddenly aflutter with schemes of every size. If Tesla could penetrate his vampire mind—if he could control him like he said—then any mind was within reach. Rasputin imagined himself using Tesla’s device to strengthen his stranglehold on the royal family. Perhaps he might even control the mind of the elusive Mr. Grander, whoever he was. Perhaps it would be Rasputin who would assume control of the world’s remaining vampires. Steer the course of world events.

  Tesla switched the pack on. The needles on its various gauges jumped to life, and the low electrical hum once again filled the room. That vibration in the air. That electric smell. Tesla held the transmitter by the handles and leveled it at Rasputin’s head, aiming carefully. Rasputin looked somewhat concerned at having the device aimed at him but continued to sit obediently.

  I couldn’t believe it. It was going to be easier than we’d imagined. He was just going to sit there and let himself be roasted.

  Tesla’s hands began to shake as the gravity of what he was about to do sank in. Cooking a piece of meat was one thing, but he’d never taken a life. He’d never seen a man die, now that he thought of it. Why had this burden fallen to him? He was a scientist, not a soldier! But as nervous as he was, Tesla knew it was too late to turn back. He steadied himself, narrowed his eyes, and squeezed the button on the briefcase handle.

  The electrical hum disappeared, along with the tingling vibration in the air. The needles on all of Tesla’s gauges dropped to zero.