MARY: You’d better not let Carmilla read that! Implying that her coat of arms looks like a winged dog. . . .
“He’s still conducting experiments,” said Justine.
Mary approached the table. “Of course he is. I don’t think he ever stops. It’s a sort of addiction with him.” She was about to examine the book when Hyde pushed open the door, hard enough that it banged into the stone wall. His hair was disheveled as though he had been through a small tornado, or had been pushing his hands through it in exasperation.
“Mary,” he said, “you’ve got to help me. Honestly, I’m at my wit’s end. What’s wrong with Lucinda’s blood? You were in the coach with her for four days—you cared for her and kept her fed. Did you notice anything unusual? I mean, in the transformation process?”
Mary stared at him. The laboratory coat, pristine that morning, was now wrinkled. The pinched, crafty face looked tired. His brow was furrowed, and the charming, unreliable smile he habitually wore was absent. For a moment, she almost—almost—felt sorry for him.
“I have no idea what you mean,” she said in the coldest, most contemptuous tone she could summon. “What transformation process? What did her father’s experiment do to Lucinda?”
“My dear,” he said, looking at her directly for perhaps the first time. Suddenly she realized that his eyes were exactly the color of her own—a shifting blue-gray. They were still her father’s eyes, although his general appearance was so changed. He rubbed his hands together nervously, then began to pace back and forth. “Let’s be honest with each other. You know as well as I do that Miss Van Helsing’s blood has particular properties—or it should. I read Van Helsing’s paper on the subject in the journal of the Alchemical Society. He explained the central principle quite clearly, although he did not provide the details of his procedure. By now, her blood should have the power to heal. If he knew I had his daughter—well, I met him once, a long time ago, when I was still a member of the society. He was known as an expert pugilist and a friend of Lord Queensbury. One would not want to get into a fight with such a man. But I would brave his anger to know why her blood does not work.”
Ah, that was how his hair had gotten into such a mess! He was almost pulling at it in frustration.
Justine stepped forward. “I suspect we have considerably less knowledge of Lucinda’s condition than you do. We have not read any papers. We know only that for some reason she must feed upon blood, and that she has slipped into a deep sleep—unless she has awakened since we left her?”
Hyde shook his head. “No, she’s in a coma. I was hoping she herself could tell me more about her father’s research—but it’s no use. I can’t wake her, no matter what I do.”
“That’s your own fault,” said Mary sharply. “You shouldn’t have drawn her blood this morning.”
“Mary, you are too much my daughter to mistake correlation for causation. I drew her blood and she subsequently slipped into a coma, but those two events were not related. The amount of blood I drew from her was no more than a physician might take—it would not have had such a drastic result. Her decline is due to Van Helsing’s experiment. But why? She should be stronger, heartier, more healthy rather than less. Her blood should have the power to heal all ills, to repair wounds, no matter how fatal.”
“Like those men we fought in Vienna,” said Justine.
“Exactly,” said Hyde. “And let me commend you on a valiant battle—Dénes Ferenc saw it all and described it to me in the most vivid terms. I believe he was watching from a window in one of the nearby buildings.”
“Perhaps that explains his statement to me earlier,” said Justine.
“So you were spying on us!” said Mary. “For how long?” Ever since they had left England?
Hyde smiled—and there it was again, that wicked charm of his. Well, she would certainly not succumb to it. “Not you, my dear, although I am always delighted to know how you are doing. Dénes was watching the hospital, as well as the men watching the hospital—Van Helsing’s henchmen, as you may have guessed. One day he saw a light flashing from a window of the inn where you were staying. He cleverly deduced a telescope and paid the innkeeper for information. Then he telegraphed me, and I telegraphed back. The nearest telegraph is in the village, but Ágnes does her marketing there, so it was not difficult for us to maintain contact. Mr. Ferenc really is a coachman, on the regular route between Vienna and Budapest. That made it easy to bring you all here. However, while I’m willing to satisfy your curiosity to the extent it is in my power, I really do have a pressing need for any information you might have on Miss Van Helsing—or rather, the quality of her blood.”
“But we don’t know anything,” said Mary. “It’s exactly as Justine told you. Lucinda needs to drink blood—she throws up if she eats any food, or even drinks anything other than water. She has puncture marks all up and down her arms. So did her mother, who died in that fight—maybe she wouldn’t have died if Dénes had actually helped instead of spying on us! We know Professor Van Helsing was performing experiments on her and her mother, but we don’t know what—or why he put both of them in a mental institution. Really, we have no idea.”
Hyde ran his fingers through his hair again. He looked both dejected and frustrated at the same time.
“Why is it so important, anyway?” asked Mary. “What do you need her blood for? Why have you drawn it twice?”
He looked up at her, eyes wide, with a look of such sincerity that Mary was immediately suspicious. “Surely you must understand how beneficial this discovery would be to the human race. Imagine, Mary. We would be able to cure diseases with a blood transfusion! Anna Ferenc, for example: She’s dying of cancer. Without a breakthrough like this, she will be dead within the year. Would you want to withhold such a cure from her? And imagine all the other lives that could be saved. . . .”
“And what’s in it for you?” Mary did not trust him for a moment.
“Why, the advancement of knowledge, of course! Although one must live on something. I certainly would not refuse some sort of appropriate compensation, were it offered to me. My expenses, I regret, have been heavy of late—renting this castle, for instance. My personal fortune is almost gone.”
“In other words,” said Justine, “you would enrich yourself. The wealthy would purchase health and life, while the poor would continue to suffer. And how much life would they purchase? What exactly can this miraculous blood regenerate?”
“Ah, you have hit upon the very question I would most like to answer,” said Hyde, gleefully. “The blood can heal—we know it can, for the men you shot rose again shortly after you had left them for dead. But can it prevent death itself? Can it conquer that grim destiny to which we must all come? If so—”
“You could create men who never die, and they would pay you handsomely, I’m sure,” said Justine. “You are despicable, Mr. Hyde. You do not deserve our help, even if we were capable of giving it to you. Mary, I suggest we go up to Lucinda. We have left her long enough. We can at least make certain she is as comfortable as possible.”
Mary looked at Justine with admiration. She was standing very tall, and seemed almost statuesque in her anger. She would have made a very good model for Nemesis, goddess of righteous vengeance.
JUSTINE: Goodness, Catherine. I would blush if I were capable of it!
DIANA: Why can’t you blush?
JUSTINE: I’m dead, remember? And alive, of course, but—Lucinda rejected my blood because it is the blood of a dead woman.
MARY: I’m sure she didn’t mean that as an insult.
A cry of such anguish! And then the words “Edward! Damn you, Edward!” They came from down the hall.
Surely Mary had heard that voice before? And the cry sounded like those she had heard earlier—the tone was the same, but then she had thought they were the cries of an animal. Now she knew they were distinctly human.
She looked at Justine, then almost stepped back in surprise at the look on Justine’s face. It was
terribly pale, and there was fear in her eyes.
“That is not possible,” said Justine.
“You know perfectly well it’s possible,” said Hyde. “You, better than anyone, know how strong he is. If anyone could have survived that conflagration, it would be him.”
Mary glanced from one of them to the other, confused. “Who was that crying out? And what’s impossible? Justine, what’s going on?”
Justine gripped her arm so tightly that Mary winced. For once, Justine was not controlling her strength. Perhaps she was not even aware of it. She stared at the stone wall as though she were seeing something very far away.
With her other hand, Mary took hold of Justine’s arm and tugged at it. “You’re hurting me. Let go—and tell me what’s going on.”
“He did not want you to see him,” said Hyde. “Not as he is now—not until he had been healed by Miss Van Helsing’s blood. But since you know—I think you had better come. He will not hurt you. He is no longer capable of hurting anyone.”
Justine nodded, but Mary could see it was with reluctance. “I will see him. I think you have lied to us—the both of you have lied to us—long enough.”
Mary wanted to ask them what in the world they were talking about. But Hyde was walking to the door, and Justine was following him, and all Mary could do was follow them both down the hallway and to the door she had seen earlier, on the left.
Hyde opened it. It swung inward with a loud creak.
Mary heard a cry—a terrible, desperate cry.
Justine was still standing outside the door, blocking her way, but Mary stepped around her. There, in a smaller room, as bare as a monk’s cell, with only an iron bed in one corner, lay the unmistakable figure of Adam Frankenstein. A narrow, unglazed window let in sunlight, but his bed was in the darkest corner of the room. Although he was holding his hands to his face, she could see his coarse black hair, the pallor of his skin, the massive form under the thin blanket. It could be no one else. He was almost too large for the bed—his bulk filled all of it, and his knees were bent so he could fit between the head- and foot-boards. So he had survived the fire after all! And they had been so certain, so completely certain, that he was dead. She felt as stupefied as Justine.
“No!” he said. “Go away! I do not want you to see me like this!”
“Like what?” said Justine. Her voice was unnaturally calm, even for her. “What have the two of you been hiding from us?” She walked over to him and stood beside the bed.
“Justine, be careful! Remember the last time . . .” When Adam had tried to replace her brain with one that would be more obedient to his commands. Mary still remembered the battle in the warehouse, where Watson had been so dreadfully wounded.
Justine leaned down and pulled his hands away from his face. “He’s not strong now. Are you, Adam?”
Before he turned his face away from them, toward the wall, Mary saw the dreadful ruin—all the left side burned, the left eye gone altogether. He pulled his hands away from Justine’s, only to cough into them—harsh, hacking coughs that left blood on his fingers. The back of his left hand was burned as well.
“His lungs were damaged in the fire,” said Hyde. “He’s not supposed to talk. Most of his wounds are internal—they have weakened him considerably. I wasn’t sure he would make it here alive, particularly since we had to cross the mountains. . . .”
“I’ll talk when I damn well please!” said Adam. “What does it matter? I’m dying anyway. You haven’t found anything in that book to cure me, and the blood has done nothing—nothing!”
“So this is why you kidnapped Lucinda—and us, incidentally,” said Mary. “That whole rigmarole about helping humanity, and Mrs. Ferenc . . . You are such a liar!”
“I think we should try one more time,” said Hyde. “Perhaps if I inject her blood closer to your heart—that might do the trick. If her blood doesn’t work this time, I’ll look in the book again. There has to be something in there. After all, the Countess is still alive, isn’t she?”
“You are not taking any more of Lucinda’s blood!” said Mary.
“Who’s not going to take any more of Lucinda’s blood? Hullo, Dad.” It was Diana, standing in the doorway, with János behind her. “I heard a noise and figured I should investigate. Bloody hell, is that Adam Frankenstein?” She turned back to János. “No wonder you didn’t want me to come down here!” She punched him on the arm—hard, by his expression and the fact that he clutched it immediately afterward. Then she turned back to Mary. “Do we have to fight him again, or what?”
“János!” said Hyde. “I want you to draw another vial of Miss Van Helsing’s blood. My kit is in the laboratory.”
Mary could see János darting in that direction. His boot heels echoed down the hall.
“No!” she said. “This has got to stop. First, because her blood isn’t doing whatever you want it to, and second, because it’s wrong.”
János darted back past the doorway, in the opposite direction, with the hypodermic flashing in his hand.
“Diana—,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” said Diana. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near Lucinda, even if I have to stick a knife into him!” She turned, and then Mary could hear her boots clattering down the hallway after János.
“She must not stop him,” said Hyde. “I need to know why Van Helsing’s experiment failed.” He put one hand in his pocket. “Damn! That girl stole my pistol! How—”
Mary could not help smiling. Good for Diana! Annoying as she was, she always seemed to come through in a pinch. “She is your daughter, after all. What did you expect?”
“You don’t understand,” he said. He put his hands to his head, running his fingers through his hair again and then grabbing it as though about to tear it out. “The knowledge we could bring to the world! The insights we could gain into the mind of Nature herself! Why, it would be like Cortez, looking down at the Pacific—silent upon a peak in Darien. We would be the discoverers of a new continent of human knowledge!”
He stalked out of the room. With a glance back at Justine to make sure she would be all right—but Adam seemed harmless now, huddled under the blanket—she followed him back down the hall, into that sad simulacrum of a laboratory.
He went to the leather-bound book and opened it. “There must be something in here, some sort of explanation. In all of human history, only three people—two men and one woman—have discovered the secret of eternal health and life. Frankenstein was one of them, but his experiment was useless—who cares about resurrecting corpses? You’ve seen Adam—and Justine. Would you want to be like them, the walking dead? No, what we want, each of us whether or not we admit to it, is to live forever, young, unscarred by time or any weapon man can devise, vulnerable only to compete destruction . . . I thought, I was convinced, that Van Helsing was on the right track, that he had discovered the secret. Damn!” He hit the table with his fist, so that the jars and instruments on it jumped.
“This obsession with knowledge at the expense of human life, of ordinary human relations and pursuits, will destroy you,” said Mary. She could feel anger building inside her. It was a novel sensation. “Look at what it has done already. Look at you! Alone here, with only Adam Frankenstein and your—yes, henchmen—for company. Was it worth giving up everything—our family, your reputation—for this?”
Hyde stared at her as though dumbfounded. “Mary, I never intended to hurt you or your mother. You must believe that. Ernestine—I went to see her, the first night we were in London. It had been so long. I wanted to see her face again, so I climbed up to the window and watched her for a while through the glass. . . . She was brushing her hair, and I remembered how I used to do that for her, when we were newly married, before so many things came between us. I thought once Adam’s business was done, I could go back and tell her I had always loved her, ask her to forgive me. But a week later I learned that she was dead. I had left it too late.”
“Because you
killed her,” said Mary accusingly.
“Killed? What do you mean? I never even entered the room, although it would only have taken me a moment to unlatch the window from outside. All I did was look at her through the glass panes. She was sitting at her dressing table, with her back to me, and I could see the fall of her hair in the lamplight. She had the most beautiful hair, like a cascade of gold—the sort of hair goddesses have in Greek myths. I used to run my fingers through it. . . . She was looking into the mirror, but then she turned, and for a moment I could see her face—it was as delicate and pure as on the day I married her, although more lined with care and age. I thought for a moment she might see me—she seemed to be looking my way. But then she turned away again and blew out the lamp. The gas was turned low, and I could see no more.”
“She saw you, all right,” said Mary. She could barely look at him—her father, so different from the man he had been when she was a child. “What do you think make her so sick, so suddenly? She was raving about a face she had seen at the window. I never imagined she meant yours.” She looked at him as coldly as she could, with contempt. This was the one thing she had wanted to tell him, the one thing she had wanted him to know ever since she realized what he had done.
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 41
