A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  “In that case, have you brought me here to tear open my throat and drink my blood?” Babette asked. “I inquire,” she added, “because it is rather cold tonight, and I would prefer to get such things out of the way.”

  Iosef tilted his head back and laughed loudly.

  “No, no, my dear Doctor Varanus,” he said, “I have no intention of drinking your blood. For one thing, it would not satisfy me. You eat far too little, and it has been too long since your last meal in any case.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that for a vampire blood is not blood?” Babette asked.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Iosef paused for a moment, evidently measuring his words. “We do drink blood, but it is for sustenance, just as we eat meat for sustenance. The better fed our meal, the more it sustains us. But as we age, all forms of food become less and less important. I can last at least thrice as long as a healthy man without eating. It is as if I am sustained by the world itself.”

  “You mean that seriously,” Babette said, studying him. “You truly mean that.” She shook her head. “I can scarcely believe what I am hearing.”

  “And yet, it is true,” Iosef said.

  “How old are you?” Babette asked. “Honestly.”

  “Quite old, at least by mortal reckoning,” Iosef said. “I was born in 1705.”

  “You look very young for your age,” Babette said.

  Iosef smiled a little at the comment.

  “I was made immortal at the age of eighteen,” he said. “Once one is inducted into the order, one remains…unchanging.”

  “Remarkable,” Babette said. “Most remarkable. Of course, I would prefer proof of all this, to satisfy my scientific curiosity.”

  “I can do more than that,” Iosef replied. “You see, doctor, I came to France seeking you. You are without a doubt one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. You are intelligent, driven, and perceptive beyond your years. I have been seeking a scholar to act as my apprentice, to be inducted into the Shashavani order. I have searched for nearly one hundred years, and I have finally found you.”

  “Is that an offer of immortality?” Babette asked.

  “Immortality, health, youth, tirelessness,” Iosef said. “You will never need to sleep, you will scarcely need to rest, your meals will be simple and few, and you will have eternity to devote to the pursuit of knowledge. What do you say to that?”

  Babette laughed and said, “I would be a fool to refuse. What is the catch?”

  “You will have to return with me to Georgia,” Iosef said.

  “Done,” Babette said without hesitation.

  “You must swear to devote your life to knowledge, to never indulge excess, and always to know that you are a custodian of mankind, not its master.”

  “I have already devoted myself to knowledge,” Babette answered, “and I have little patience for mankind whatsoever, master or otherwise.” She rubbed her arms briskly. “Now, if you don’t intend to ravish me or drink my blood or transform into Lord Byron, could we go back inside? It’s rather cold.”

  Iosef paused for a moment and raised one hand as if feeling the air. Finally he said:

  “Ah yes, it is cold, isn’t it? I often forget about temperature.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Winter, 1870

  After that night, there was for Babette no doubt that she would soon go to Georgia. The only question was how to arrange Father’s consent. Grandfather would be easy to win over—indeed, as the days wore on, Babette saw him quickly grow to like Iosef. But Father would be stubborn.

  The most reasonable tactic, Babette decided, would be to marry. There was no need to ask Korbinian’s permission—indeed, he was the one who suggested it one morning as they lay together in bed watching the sunrise. “The ideal means of escape,” he put it. Babette voiced the idea to Iosef that very afternoon. She expected an answer in the negative—who heard of a woman proposing marriage to a man?—but after a few moment’s of silent contemplation, Iosef readily agreed.

  From that point on, their combined efforts were put toward ensuring that Iosef’s offer of courtship was cast upon fertile ground. Grandfather was only too happy to agree—surprisingly eager, in fact, Babette noted—but Father proved just short of intractable. While he gave his consent to the courtship with some reluctance, behind closed doors Babette heard him arguing the point with Grandfather. “Married to a Russian?” was the repeated refrain, to which Grandfather was always heard to answer, “At least he isn’t German this time.”

  Such nonsense.

  But as winter came upon them, Father finally gave his consent. Babette suspected he had been worn down by the relentlessness of Grandfather’s petitions.

  The Christmas fête was a somber affair that year, quite understandable under the circumstances. Paris was still under siege and, in spite of spirited fighting by the French, the Germans continued to press deeper into France. French reverses against the enemy were soon undone, and the situation was grim. For the first time in years, the attendance was limited to locals—travel was simply impossible. But even war could not stifle the great winter event of the north, and the elite of Normandy came to pay their respects to the family of Varanus and to reassure one another that the war would soon end, and in France’s favor. It was a naïve sentiment but a pleasant one.

  For Babette, Christmas brought a twinge of sorrow, as it had for nearly ten years. The anniversary of Korbinian’s death always reminded her of that horrid night; and worse, when Korbinian appeared to her, reassuring her that he was still with her, her thoughts turned like clockwork to the memory of their lost child. Each year she readied herself for the inevitable memory, and each year she found herself unprepared. She kept her pain concealed from everyone—everyone except Korbinian, from whom she could never keep anything hidden—and withstood it in silence, consoling herself with quiet study until it finally passed.

  * * * *

  Winter, 1871

  With the New Year came defeat, and with it shame. At the end of January, 1871, Paris finally fell to the Prussians, and soon after the government capitulated. No one with any sense could be surprised at the outcome, as Grandfather remarked privately to Babette. The war had been lost at Sedan. The resistance of Paris and the French armies in the countryside had done little but delay a foregone conclusion. But anger was not an emotion guided by sense, and the bitter resentment felt by the French people came as no surprise to Babette. Indeed, she felt it as well, if only on principle.

  To think that the Prussians of all people had led the coalition to defeat France, and this time without requiring the aid of England! It was a slap in the face to both sides of Babette’s heritage. Korbinian also had several choice things to say about the Prussians being allowed to lead anything. The words “horrid” and “boorish” were oft repeated at the dinner table along with several other comments on the newly proclaimed Kaiser’s ancestry that made Babette glad that no one but she could hear him.

  Still, there were more pressing matters of a domestic nature to attend to. As winter broke into spring, Father’s reluctance finally broke as well. He began to speak of Iosef in fond tones, reluctantly at first, but soon in casual conversation. Babette even overheard him remark to Grandfather on Iosef’s “suitability as a husband” for her. It was a remarkable change brought about, as far as Babette could tell, by nothing so much as hours of polite conversation and carefully chosen words by Iosef. There was even talk of announcing the formal engagement at the start of the Season—something to lift all their spirits.

  * * * *

  Spring, 1871

  One particularly crisp and clear morning in March, Babette went for a walk in the woods with Iosef. Luka joined them, as he always did, following several paces behind them and carrying a loaded shotgun that he rested against his shoulder. He looked like a gamekeeper. All he needed was a lead of dogs.

  Babette wore the uppers of one of her riding habits—the one in tones of green—with a pair of matching bloomers. Fath
er was scandalized of course, but no amount of complaining would sway her. In the privacy of the estate, who was to know? And of course, Iosef was enough of a sight in his black shroud and hat. Anyone who came upon them would be quite distracted by him and surely never notice her pantaloons.

  A shiver of apprehension came over Babette. She smelled something strange in the wind. She stopped and looked around the wood. They had entered a small clearing of sorts. After a moment, Babette recognized it as the place where she and Korbinian had been attacked by the beast so many years before. She had not intended to stray so close to the des Louveteaux’s lands.

  Iosef held up a hand.

  “Horses,” he said.

  He was silent for a moment more. Babette could almost swear she saw his ear twitch. Iosef slowly pointed in the direction of the neighboring estate. Behind him, Luka lifted his shotgun from his shoulder and moved to one side so that they would not be in his line of fire should he be forced to use it.

  Babette found it most charitable of him.

  “How many?” Babette asked Iosef. He was right about the horses. She could smell them now.

  “Three,” Iosef said. “One very large. And men with them.” He paused and his lips draw back in a wide grin. “And blood.”

  Blood? Babette wonder.

  “Shall we depart?” Iosef asked. As ever, his tone was without emotion.

  “No,” Babette said. “Let us see who they are and what their business may be.”

  After a minute or so, the three horsemen came into view through the trees. They were men, large and well built, dressed in warm coats and riding breeches. But it was the third man alone who most captured Babette’s attention.

  “Alfonse?” Babette whispered in shock.

  It was not possible!

  And yet, there he sat, astride a massive black charger in a thick woolen coat. His neck was swathed in bandages, which extended below the collar of his shirt. He turned his head to look at her, and a sick smile crossed his face. His movements were slow and stiff, but he was very much alive.

  “Good day, Mademoiselle Varanus,” Alfonse said, bowing slightly at the waist. “It has been too long.”

  “How is this possible?” Babette demanded. “I killed you!”

  “You tried,” Alfonse said. “A lesser man might have succumbed, but a des Louveteaux is above the frailties of lesser men. The likes of you can never kill me.”

  “I cut your throat!”

  “Part of it,” Alfonse said. “It might have been fatal if not for your assistant. But, by the grace of God, he was a fair surgeon. That young man saved my life at Sedan. And after that, Nature did the rest.”

  Alfonse’s gaze fell upon Iosef, and his expression clouded for a moment. He seemed uncertain about Iosef, almost fearful. He sniffed the air and scowled for a second or two before quickly resuming his attitude of arrogant cheer.

  “And who is this?” he asked.

  “A friend of the family,” Iosef replied. “Who are you?”

  “I am Captain Alfonse des Louveteaux,” Alfonse replied, “son of the Count des Louveteaux. And you?”

  Iosef slowly removed his sunglasses and met Alfonse’s eyes.

  “I am Prince Iosef Shashavani,” Iosef said, “of the Russian Empire.”

  Alfonse fell silent for a moment, his eyes widening again. It made Babette smile to see him so disarmed.

  “A Russian?” Alfonse finally asked with a little laugh. “I fought many of your countrymen in the Crimea.”

  “Indeed,” Iosef said. “Though I fear they were none of my family, else you would not be alive to speak with me.”

  “Bold words,” Alfonse said.

  “And true,” Iosef answered.

  Alfonse looked to Babette and said, “First a German, now a Russian. The company you keep is so peculiar, Mademoiselle Varanus. What happened to your love of Frenchmen?”

  “It was soured by you,” Babette replied.

  Alfonse laughed bitterly.

  “You are such a willful thing,” he said. “You still have not learned your place, not after all these years.”

  Such an arrogant man. Babette shook her head. Such a foul creature.

  “My place is what I choose it to be,” she said, “and you are not a part of it.”

  “You are a fool to think it,” Alfonse said. “You are the child of shopkeepers. It was an honor for you to receive my attentions, and you had the audacity to refuse them.”

  “They were not to my taste,” Babette said. “I prefer more civilized meat than yours.”

  “Such arrogance from a woman with nothing but money to her name.” Alfonse snarled at her. “No wonder that no respectable man would have you.”

  Self-important fool! Babette bared her teeth at him.

  “I think you should leave now,” she said. “This is my grandfather’s land. You are not welcome here.”

  “It was curious, you know,” Alfonse said, “seeing you in Sedan after so many years away. At first I thought little of it, distracted as I was by my injuries and the shelling of the Prussians. But after you tried to murder me—”

  “After I defended myself from you,” Babette said.

  “—it made me think,” Alfonse continued. “Why were you there, disguised as a man? What was your purpose?”

  “My patriotic duty,” Babette replied. “Not that it is any concern of yours.”

  “But I disagree,” Alfonse said. “Your kind has no love of country. Why should you sacrifice anything for France, you, the daughter of merchants and peddlers? No, I think you had another purpose. You insinuated yourself among us, like a flea in the hairs of a dog.”

  “What a charming and not at all informative thing to say,” Babette said.

  “It all came to me when you tried to murder me,” Alfonse said. “You, the daughter of an Englishman, the fiancé of a German. You somehow happened to be at Sedan, in disguise, when the Prussians and their ilk encircled us. There is but one explanation.”

  “And what is that?” Babette asked.

  “You are a spy,” Alfonse said. “A spy for the Germans.”

  The statement was so absurd, Babette had to laugh aloud.

  “What?” she asked. “Nonsense!”

  “You blame France for the death of your fiancé,” Alfonse said.

  “I blame you for it,” Babette said. “You were responsible!”

  “You betrayed France to its enemies for petty revenge,” Alfonse said. “You truly are English. You have all the perfidy of your ancestors.”

  “I did no such thing!” Babette snapped.

  How dare he suggest it? The inbred swine!

  “Whether you are a spy or not matters little,” Alfonse said. “At a time like this, the people of France will want someone to blame for our defeat. They will thank me for giving you to them.”

  This made Babette pause. He was right about that. Already the people were angry at their shame—she was angry! To give them a scapegoat.…

  “You have no proof of your lies,” she said.

  “I have the word of your assistant and one of my soldiers,” Alfonse said. “The one you didn’t kill. And my own testimony. As a war hero and the son of a great family, I think that will count for much. And the people will be eager to believe what I say.”

  “Why?” Babette asked.

  “For this!” Alfonse snarled, pointing to the bandages at his throat. “And because you cost me my cousin.”

  Iosef coughed softly to interrupt him and took a step forward.

  “As the Doctor has said, you should leave,” he told Alfonse.

  One of Alfonse’s men turned his horse into Iosef’s path. He extended his riding crop and patted Iosef on the cheek with it.

  “Stay out of this,” he said. “This is between the Captain and the whore.”

  “You should not address the Doctor in such a way,” Iosef said. “Apologize to her.”

  Alfonse laughed at him and demanded, “Why should my man do anything of the kind? You
are far from Russia, good prince. You are in the woods with no one around to help you. Do you think that a servant with a fowling piece frightens us?”

  Alfonse motioned with his hand, and his second companion drew a large revolver and leveled it not at Luka but at Iosef. Luka exchanged looks with Iosef and slowly lowered his shotgun.

  “No,” Iosef said. “But neither am I frightened by three French peasants who seek to ape their betters.”

  “How dare you!” shouted the man with the riding crop.

  He raised the crop and brought it down on Iosef’s head. Babette felt her breath catch, and she lunged to Iosef’s defense, knowing that she would be too late.

  A moment before the crop connected, Iosef thrust his hand upward and grabbed the man by the wrist. There was a single moment in which the man was held there, half suspended out of the saddle, caught effortlessly in mid swing by Iosef. Iosef met the man’s eyes and smiled.

  Having made his point, Iosef stepped sideways and pulled the man from the saddle. The man hit the ground in a heap, and Iosef placed his foot across the man’s throat.

  “Apologize,” Iosef repeated.

  The man on the ground snarled defiantly and spat at Iosef. Iosef shrugged and applied a little more pressure until the man began choking for air.

  “Pardon! Pardon!” the man cried, gagging.

  Nearby, Luka took advantage of the confusion and raised his shotgun again, leveling it at Alfonse’s head. Babette saw him glance at the man with the pistol, arching an eyebrow as if to offer a challenge.

  “Full of surprises,” Alfonse said. “What company you keep, Mademoiselle Varanus.”

  “I say again, you should leave,” Babette said. “I will not repeat myself.”

  She nodded at Iosef, who released the man on the ground and hauled him to his feet with one hand.

  “Very well,” Alfonse said. “We shall go. But I warn you, Mademoiselle Varanus, you will hear from the police very soon. When I deliver you to them as a traitor to France, I will be showered with praise. And you, bitch, will be put in your place.”