Victor is a stone wall throughout the entire class. The only time he moves is when I ask Professor Wilton about da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man and how it connects to the soul.
Professor Wilton looks at me, pleased. “There are many theories as to how his Vitruvian Man connects to the spiritual realm but his real work with the soul can be found within the Secretum, his research on life and death.” He sees my pen hovering over my paper and continues, building up steam to this new direction. “Leonardo da Vinci, later in his career, moved from the simple study of the human anatomy and turned his mind to the,” Wilton gestures absently, searching for a term, “source of it all. Christianity was dominant at the time, and he had to be sure to avoid blasphemy, but he was not content with studying what was on the surface of life. He wanted to know how life itself worked, what death really was. It was this need, this new obsession of his that drove him to dissect so many bodies. His thirst is why we have such detailed internal anatomy of the nervous system, how a fetus lives within the womb. His research brought him to the ventricolo centrale, or center ventricle of the heart. It is here he declared where the soul exists within our body.”
I write as quickly as I can, my hand aching from how hard I press the pen into the paper. “But,” I glance over my notes, “why wouldn’t he think it lived in the brain? Did he believe the soul was separate from the mind?”
Wilton gives me a wan smile and a gentle shrug. “We cannot know. If he believed differently, perhaps it was too dangerous to declare. Remember, only a few decades after his death, Galileo was placed under house arrest for heresy.” He looks away from me and inclines his head at Victor. “I believe Mr. Frankenstein’s thesis includes those greater questions, Miss Wollstonecraft. His focus is on the body, mind, and soul after death.”
My gaze slides over to the boy sitting stiffly beside me so slowly it’s as if I’m fighting hurricane winds. He’s not looking at me, but he’s glaring at his paper. If his glare could cause fire, the desk would be in flames. But for once, I don’t think I’m the cause of his ire.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say with a smile, dropping my gaze to my own notes and the man continues with his lecture. Leonardo da Vinci could be a more modern start for the answers to my ghosts. If one of the greatest scientists of our time believed that there is something physical about the soul, that it can be housed in our bodies, then perhaps when we die and it escapes—it may not go to the Catholic church’s Heaven or Hell. I write a question at the top of my paper, underlining it a few times.
What if the soul remains after death?
I feel someone watching me and I tilt my head just enough to see it’s Victor. But he’s not actually looking at me. He’s looking at my question. He’s thinking so hard I can almost hear the gears and clockwork that make up his brain whirling. He looks at me, regarding me as if I’ve evolved into something new. Then he’s flipping his notebook to a clean page, writing quickly before laying his pen down. He’s watching the professor as if he’s engrossed in Wilton’s lecture, and I lean slightly towards him to see what he wrote. I can feel my eyebrows launch into my hairline.
The first question that we must answer is: What is death?
I sit back in my chair, tapping my pen against the notebook, mulling over his response. But the tapping only lasts until I feel a hand gripping my thigh, just above my knee. I glare at Victor, and try to jerk my thigh from his grip. He gives my pen a pointed look, and I roll my eyes. He couldn’t just ask politely, could he? It’s only when I lay the pen down that he pulls his hand away. His release is so much slower than his capture, though, his fingers running over my leg, only high enough to give the barest implication of impropriety.
My skin burns where his hand was, the faintest brush of his fingers searing into my skin, the heat traveling directly to the apex of my legs.
My fingers itch to pick up the pen again, to tap it against the paper over and over. I can’t say if it’s because his touch energized me, a blend of confusion, excitement, and pure potential—or if it’s because I want to make him touch me again. To feel my body react to his hand holding my thigh so tightly.
The student on the other side of Victor, I’m pretty sure his name is Blake, closes his notebook and reaches for his bag. His movement sets off a cascade, the rest of us following suit and Professor Wilton shouting out assignments to us. This time, I feel more prepared to tackle an essay connecting the ancient scientist and philosopher’s research to my own current condition.
I want to skip my other classes, medieval literature doesn’t seem nearly as important. I need science to understand what I’m seeing, not poetry. And the other two, modern geopolitics and biochemistry, aren’t really my vibe. I don’t really care about geopolitics, though some of it is fascinating, and biochemistry goes right over my head. At least neither of those professors ask me questions to answer in front of the rest of class.
I don’t risk it though. I need my free time to do research—something I never had been in one place long enough to really do. Maybe, just maybe, I can stay here long enough to figure this out before my monsters catch up with me.
Chapter Six
The wet mop slops against the wooden floor, sodden with soapy water. Whatever the staff put in the soap, it didn’t smell like artificial lemon at least, and it seemed to break through anything. Maybe working in a school of geniuses meant that one of them whipped up a soap compound that actually fulfilled the promise of voiding the need to scrub. I’m thankful that I can just sweep the mop across the floors and fall into a mechanical routine. Dunk, squeeze, slop, sweep, and repeat.
Frankenstein had said the first question is what is death? But that’s easy, isn’t it? I can feel his glare at me telling me not to be so stupid. If it was easy, I doubt he’d be asking the question. So, what is death? Well, it’s when someone dies.
Dunk, squeeze, slop, sweep.
The body shuts down, the heart stops beating, you stop breathing, your brain stops working. That’s an elementary-level explanation. If da Vinci was right, and the soul was housed in the central ventricle of the heart, what happens to it when you die? Does the beating of the heart keep the soul from escaping while someone is alive? Or is the soul actually in the brain somewhere, hidden behind the weird gray noodles that make it up?
Some people believe that when you die, the soul moves into a divine realm, to Heaven or Hell, or maybe Nirvana. Others think it goes into another body, a constant cycle which implies a limited amount of souls. Some believe that the soul just vanishes and others... others believe the soul can stay here, independent of the body.
I chew my lip. I’m not sure exactly what I believe, mom never really raised me to be religious, but I do think the soul has something to do with the beings I see.
A throat clears and I whip around, the mop spraying water from the momentum of the movement... right onto the hem of Mrs. Browning’s dress. Her frown deepens into a scowl as she shakes out her skirts. She’s dressed as she always seems to be, covered chin to wrist to ankle in a black dress, her silver hair pulled tight into a bun on her head.
“Sorry,” I offer meekly. I want to say it’s because she startled me but I feel like she’d scowl so hard her eyebrows might break.
“I wanted to ensure you have been complying with your duties,” she says dismissively. She looks me up and down, taking in my casual appearance. I still have no other clothes than what I brought with me in my suitcase. I want to hide behind the mop handle, as if it is a valiant knight willing to fight off the beastly dragon. Alas, it is a simple wooden rod. I’m not sure if Mrs. Browning isn’t a dragon, however.
“We’ll need to do something about your clothing.”
I’m certain she only has three modes of speaking: disapproving, scolding, and simpering. The last one is clearly only for her favorite students. I’m saved from a response though.
“Miss Wollstonecraft.” Malcolm might not be a knight, but his voice settles the silver-haired dragon before me.
She turns, and while she doesn’t smile, she does clasp her hands in front of her and her face softens as much as the tension of her being pulled back will let her. “Mr. Van Helsing. Has Miss Wollstonecraft done something?”
Her concern is clearly not for me, I barely hold back an eye roll as her dragon eyes flick between me and the boy.
“It is that she’s not done something,” he says, coming to stop a few feet from us both. The hallway isn’t lit by rows of fluorescent lights like every other school I’ve been to. Instead, it’s all wall sconces. Which means Van Helsing’s face is cast half in shadows, the rest of him is lit with the warm light. It gives him a similar appearance to the angel statue in front of the main doors—beautiful, but a demon within.
Mrs. Browning turns her icy stare on me and I try not to shrink back.
“He told me to be somewhere after lunch,” I explain, gripping the mop tightly enough I can hear the wood creak. “I told him I have duties, and he said to skip them. Since I figured my duties came before socialization, I didn’t meet him.”
She gives me a derisive sniff and jerks her head toward the wall. “Leave the mop and bucket there. If a student requests your assistance in their lab, I expect you to report that to Mr. Cornell and serve the student as if you were fulfilling your duties.”
I bite back a sigh, and do as she says, sliding the bucket to the wall, and propping the mop up. I turn back to them and shove my hands in my back pockets.
“I guess I’m ready,” I say, unable to meet my great-aunt’s eyes. I look in Van Helsing’s eyes, but drop them quickly. He’s angry. Everything about him looks relaxed, except those eyes of his.
“Mrs. Browning,” he says with a head nod before striding back down the hall.
I follow him, but she grabs my bicep, her long fingers wrapping around it almost completely, her nails digging into my arm. I try to pull away, but her grip is surprisingly strong for as frail as she looks.
“Do not make the mistake of upsetting Mr. Van Helsing,” she tells me, not bothering to lower her voice. “The same goes for Misters Frankenstein and Jekyll. They are worth more than the rest of the student body combined. I don’t care if they ask you to scrub their shoes with your toothbrush, you will do it. Is that understood?”
Who the hell are these guys to have this ice viper speaking with such fire? She digs her nails into my arm harder as I don’t reply right away, her eyes narrowing at me, daring me to defy her.
“Fine,” I say at last, and pull away from her. “I should catch up with him then. Wouldn’t want to miss a chance to be a world class servant.”
A crack sounds and my cheek is on fire. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s slapped me. I can only gape at her.
“You are my ward, Mary Wollstonecraft,” Mrs. Browning steps closer and despite only being a few inches taller than me, she towers over me. “You will never use that tone within these walls again. If you dare speak back to me again, you will not enjoy the consequences. Now, say yes, ma’am and go assist Mr. Van Helsing in his lab.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say weakly, too shocked to do much else. I’ve never been slapped before.
I hurry down the hallway, hoping to catch up with the boy. I hug myself, keeping my head lowered, my black hair hanging loose around my face, shielding the hot tears scalding my cheeks.
Thankfully, I remember the location he told me, since I never catch up with him. The door is propped open half an inch, and I knock once before stepping in.
This room is nothing like the classrooms I’d been in at Crowsrest. Those were super posh, but still comfortable and a clear environment for learning. This looks more like a mad scientist’s lab.
I walk further in, taking the very real laboratory in. It’s like I’m back in a big city, besides the walls and ceiling, there’s nothing to indicate we’re in an ancient house. The lights are bright overhead, ensuring that each of the four lab tables have full light. The tables themselves are covered with vials and Bunsen burners and things I don’t even recognize.
The boy is already on a stool, his blazer discarded, and he’s staring into a microscope. He looks up after a moment and nods once.
“Take a seat,” he tells me, and I go to the only other stool which is right next to him. He looks back into the microscope and is silent. I don’t even know why I’m here. Does he just want someone to witness his genius?
“Slide 324 B+.” He holds out his hand and I look around us. There are a dozen slides, all labeled with meticulous and neat handwriting, each one with a drop of red on it. I find the requested slide and carefully hand it to him.
He swaps them out, handing me what looks like an identical slide, but this one is labeled 234 O-.
“Is that blood?” I ask, the silence getting to me at last.
He lets out an annoyed sigh.
“Yes, Mary,” he answers, never taking his eyes from the microscope lens. “My specialty is blood diseases.”
“What’s that have to do with vampires?” I ask, swinging my legs on the stool.
He straightens on his stool and gives me a disappointed look. “While I understand you’re not the standard student at the institute, I didn’t realize you were actually stupid.”
“Excuse me?” I sputter.
With him calling me stupid, I feel it worse than anyone else and I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because he seemed aloof but not as rude as the other students and staff. He drums his fingers against the lab table, still assessing me.
“Do souls have anything to do with ghosts?” he counters and now I’m crossing my arms defensively.
“You tell me,” I say. “You’re the one who told me there are no such things as ghosts.”
His lip twitches, the smallest hint of the smallest hope of a smile. “And you’re the one who told me there are no such things as vampires. Yet here we both are.”
He turns back to the microscope and after a long minute of silence, he holds out his hand. “326 O+.”
I reach for it before I realize I’m listening to him, but being here is better than mopping floors. Marginally. As we swap slides, I ask him another question. “What’s your name? I can’t just call you Mr. Van Helsing.”
“Why not?” he murmurs and his voice takes on a tone that might be mistaken for warmth. “It is my name after all. 124 A+.”
I grab it, and wait for him to grow impatient. Sure enough, a few heartbeats later, he looks up, scowling at me. Raising it, I say, “I’ll trade you the slide for your name.”
He rolls his eyes. “Malcolm, or would you like the entire seven names my parents insisted on bestowing me with?”
I grin, and offer the slide flat on my palm. “See, that wasn’t so hard, Malcolm.”
He picks the fragile glass slide up from my palm, his fingertips whispering over my skin. It feels more like a caress than it ought to. The moment the slide is in his fingers, I pull my hand back, and hold onto the stool seat tightly, willing away the memory of his touch. But the cool metal can’t dampen the heat clinging to my palms.
We’re quiet for the next half an hour, except for him asking for slides. I make sure that his fingers don’t touch me again. He doesn’t seem to be taking notes, and I’m getting bored. My curiosity has died in the silence of the lab and I feel like I’m going to burst into a terrible rendition of a pop song just to alleviate the silence.
“Why vampires?” I can’t hold back anymore. But rather than seeming annoyed, he keeps looking at his slides.
“My many times great ancestor is Countess Carmilla Karnstein,” he begins. “I don’t expect you to recognize the name. There’s a legend surrounding her that she was a true vampire. She sustained herself on the blood of her chosen victims, usually attractive teenage women.” He gives me a glance and my face burns, but I don’t look away. “Throughout the line of my family, there has always been a strange blood disease or disorder. People would disappear, then servants, staff, even guests, sometimes, would be found dead. Human bite marks covered their nec
k and appendages.”
I shudder. “Creepy.”
“Quite,” he agrees.
“Soooo,” I drag out the word, looking over the slides. I’ve already made the connection that these are different blood types in the samples. “You’re trying to figure out what the disease is, and what? Find a cure?”
“Yes, but the first step is replicating the disease, which is what I’ve been working on.” Malcolm straightens and switches the light off on the microscope. He turns to me and holds out his palm, but he’s not asked for a slide, so I raise an eyebrow at him. “Your wrist.”
I swallow hard, and mentally fortify myself against his touch but when his fingers wrap around my wrist, turning my arm until the veins at the base of my palm are visible, heat courses through my blood.
“Your heart is racing,” he observes, running his thumb over my pulse point, which certainly doesn’t help the situation. “I would like to take a sample of your blood,” Malcolm states and I try to pull my wrist away. But again, I’m caught by a grip of surprising strength. His nails don’t dig into my wrist, but there’s a silent threat in his grip.
I think about what Mrs. Browning said, but she couldn’t mean this. She had to have meant more along the lines of being a staff assistant. Handing slides, cleaning up workstations, things like that. Not literally offering up my blood.
He sees me hesitating, my hand still balled, a tension between both of us originating from where we touch. Malcom stands, so smoothly our hands never move, and then he’s leaning towards me. His mouth passes close enough to my cheek I shiver, desire coiling around me, my heart racing even faster. This time, it is a caress when his nose traces the shell of my ear, making me gasp.
“Mary,” he breathes out my name against my ear and I bite my lip, my eyes falling closed. “If you do not give me what I want, I will take it. Then, when I am done, I will tell Mrs. Browning that you offered to suck my cock in trade for the opiates I use in my experiments.”
Obsession Page 4
