Dreadful Company

by Vivian Shaw

  Greta looked back at Ruthven, and this time she was smiling slightly: after a moment, so did he. “A lot of people wouldn’t have been able to do that, Emily,” she said. “And – here, give me that notepad, I’ll draw you a diagram of the rib cage and the lungs; it’s easier to explain sucking chest wounds with pictures.”

  “Can I learn how to do stuff like that?” Emily asked, her silver eyes suddenly wide, as if this had not previously occurred to her. “Like – can I learn how to fix people, and not just bite them?”

  “Of course you can,” said Greta, smiling. “You can learn how to do a hell of a lot of things, including medicine. There’s no reason you can’t study to be a doctor.”

  Emily looked from her to Ruthven, who nodded. “There really isn’t,” he said. “I mean, yes, there’s absolutely going to be challenges, tiresome things to deal with along the way based on your new physiology, but they can be overcome. And forget all about money; if you want to go back to school, all you have to do is get accepted. You need never have to worry about a penny of tuition or fees. I can promise you that right now.”

  “Really?” Emily said in a small voice, and looked back at Greta.

  “Really,” she told her, warm and certain, and Emily burst into tears – huge, helpless, racking sobs, the kind that come out after they’ve been repressed for much too long.

  Ruthven cursed under his breath and came forward into the kitchen as Greta put her arms around the girl and held her close, stroking the messy braid of her hair. Emily clung to her almost tight enough to hurt – she didn’t know that yet, didn’t know how strong she was – and Greta held her, rocking both of them slightly, as Ruthven rested a careful hand on Emily’s back.

  “It’s not true, what they told you,” he said, his voice gentle. This close, Greta noticed he was wearing garnet studs in each earlobe, a glitter and wink of deep wine-red; she’d never realized he had pierced ears until now. “You can’t go back to the home and the family you had before, but that doesn’t mean you’ll never have one again. What’s true is that you are only starting out now, and you can make your own family, with the people you find along the way, and the home you will come to is one you will build yourself.”

  “I don’t know how,” Emily sobbed into Greta’s shoulder.

  “But we do,” Greta said gently. “We do. We’re all learning, all the time. And we’ll help – all of us. Ruthven and Varney and me, and our friends, and the friends you’ll make on your own. We’ll help. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “We’ll help,” said Ruthven, echoing her. “I’m glad we came here, in the end, because we’ve found you, Emily. That’s worth it all.”

  Greta could feel Varney’s presence in the doorway before she looked up to see him standing there, and the expression on his face made her feel as if all her insides had turned to hot liquid gold, threatening to spill over. She hugged the girl tighter. “I’m glad, too,” she said.

  “And I,” Varney said. “For what it’s worth.”

  Greta met his eyes – silvery, reflective even at this distance – and some of what she felt must have shown on her face, because he blinked at her and began to smile – that odd, uncharacteristic, brilliant smile, like the sun rising over a fieldful of mist, turning it from blank impenetrable barrier to opalescence. It’s worth everything, she mouthed, and color flared and faded in Varney’s thin face.

  Everything? he said without a sound. She could read his lips as clearly as if he’d spoken for the whole room to hear, and she was pretty sure he could read hers.

  Everything, she mouthed back. Varney – I want to go home, too. So much. She stroked Emily’s hair. I want to go home, too, if you will take me there.

  I can, he said. I will.

  She saw that St. Germain had joined him in the doorway: that all of them were there, except Grisaille and Fastitocalon; and for the first time since her own father’s death, Greta was truly aware that she herself was not alone; that Ruthven was right, and family was what you made it; that despite everything, in the end, there was no home lost that might be found, if sought.

  EPILOGUE

  S

  pring came that year to London late but gloriously, all at once: the gardens at Hampton Court, the daffodils at St. James’s, and the tulips in Regent’s Park, the brilliant wealth of azaleas at the Isabella Plantation and rhododendrons at Kenwood House, the wisteria draping the Hampstead Heath pergola, all seemed to come into fulminant bloom within a week or two. The maples lining the Embankment had lost their reddish seed clusters and were hazed with the delicate green of new leaves, jade-clear and unfolding, deepening into a richer color as they expanded day by day.

  It was extremely beautiful and it meant that there was a hell of a lot of pollen in the air all at once, and Edmund Ruthven found himself a slave to the demon antihistamine. He made his way downstairs quite late these mornings, still wrapped in an embroidered silk dressing gown, half-asleep, in search of blood and coffee – and for the third day in a row had to pause and sneeze in the echoing marble-floored entryway before entering the kitchen.

  Grisaille was reading the Times, bare feet propped on the table, and eyed him with an eyebrow raised as he came in. Ruthven sighed.

  “It isn’t fair,” he said, consonants slightly blurred by congestion, “that not only should you escape this particular inflammatory hell, you consistently look better in my dressing gowns than I do. I object.”

  “Of course I do,” said Grisaille, and sat up, putting the paper down. It was true: he had purloined one of Ruthven’s favorites, blue and green peacocks with little jewels sewn into the embroidered feathers, and it set him off much better with his dark skin and red eyes than it had ever done for Ruthven. “I’m thoroughly decorative; we know this to be true. Also, I’m allowed to lounge around in silks of more-than-oriental-splendor; I’m a convalescent.”

  “You have convalesced,” said Ruthven, and pushed his hair back. He had done some experimentation and discovered a range of hair products that gave him some hold while avoiding the sleeked-down wet look, but it was difficult getting used to having his hair flopping over one eye. “Past tense. I saw you nip up the stairs yesterday like a damn gazelle; you’re fully recovered.”

  “I had a knife through my lung three and a half weeks ago,” said Grisaille, looking hurt, and coughed for effect. “You wouldn’t throw me out on the streets in my condition?”

  Ruthven sighed. “Oh, hush. Of course I wouldn’t, you know that.”

  “I know that,” Grisaille agreed, and got to his feet with a single limber movement, going to put the kettle on. “You, however, look like hell. Here, read the thing about the people trying to tear down Trellick Tower and put up another unspeakable glass prong in its place; I’ll make you something for your allergies.”

  Ruthven stayed standing a moment longer, and then flopped into a chair, pulling the newspaper toward him. “I hate Trellick,” he said, and sniffed. “But I hate the glass prongs more.”

  “I know,” said Grisaille fondly, and Ruthven looked up to watch him. There was less silver in his hair these days, Ruthven was sure: the dreadlocks fell in a wealth of rich darkness over his shoulders, here and there glittering with tiny jeweled rings, as he got things down from cabinets and mixed and poured. It was much more pleasant to observe Grisaille work than to read about architectural atrocities, and he didn’t even try to look as if he hadn’t been watching when the other vampire turned from the counter to set a steaming mug in front of him.

  “What’s this?” he inquired.

  “Just drink it,” said Grisaille, and Ruthven took a sip: the richness of blood plasma and the sharp smokiness of lapsang souchong tea blended remarkably well with honey, lemon juice, and brandy. He blinked, and felt himself smiling helplessly as the stuff began to ease the miserable congestion in his sinuses.

  “Thank you,” he said, cupping his hands around the mug, for once without a witty rejoinder; and when Grisaille put a slim dark hand on his shoulde
r, Ruthven covered it with his own. “You’ll have to stay,” he said after a few moments, with a bit more self-possession. “Who knows how long this wretched tree orgy is going to last?”

  “Who indeed,” said Grisaille. “You’d better keep me around for medicinal purposes. It’s a good thing for you that you met me, Mistress Bona.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Ruthven; and the spring breeze passing by the Embankment house carried with it the faint but undeniable sound of laughter.

  At Dark Heart, the spring rains had drenched the parkland, filling up half the ancient and neglected water-garden ponds with stagnant green murk, and Varney’s newly hired team of builders trooped back and forth from their vans to the main house and to the stable block in a sequence of muddy Wellington boots.

  He was slightly aware of playing the part of the country squire much more effectively than he’d ever managed in previous iterations, and of enjoying it for the first time, as he pulled on his own muddy boots in the back pantry of the house and set out for the stables with a pail of expensive dog food kibble in one hand and a plastic bag half-full of cobwebs in the other.

  This was not a scene Varney had ever envisioned in his concepts of the future. Neither was the fact that as he came down the terrace steps, shoulders hunched under his waterproof against the misting rain, the crew hard at work replacing the broken terrace flagstones greeted him with grins and a cheerful “Mornin’, sir.”

  He nodded to them – there was noticeable progress made, apparently hiring people who wanted to work for you made a bit of a difference results-wise – and thanked them for coming out in the rain; and could feel the eyes on him as he walked through the weed-choked parterre toward the stables. He was used to being stared at. He was not used to being stared at approvingly.

  The stables were bright and warm and dry, and full of bustling activity. He handed over the pail of kibble to one of the young women who were managing the logistics of feeding their thirty charges, and tucked the cobweb bag into his pocket as he walked down to the last stall on the end. The bag was for later, when he went to see the wellmonsters in their new homes. Now was for —

  Well, for this. Varney leaned on the half-open door of the stall and looked down at something wonderful.

  Greta Helsing sat crosslegged in the straw with Emily beside her. She was cradling a reddish-brown curly-coated tricherpeton’s head in her lap, making notes on a clipboard.

  Greta looked tired but glowingly happy, her hair pulled back into a loose knot, but what was really the center of attention were the four newborn trich pups nestled into the curve of their mother’s body as she lay exhausted with her head pillowed on Greta’s knee. They wriggled and made soft little noises as they nursed, and Varney could not help being aware of a certain unwarranted flicker of pride.

  Four pups, and – a fifth, because Emily was bending over something very small cradled in the cup of her hands: a tiny scrap of mortality, half the size of its brothers and sisters, and quite unlike them in color: all the others were the warm auburn of their mother, but this little creature was a peculiar, almost iridescent pale champagne-gold with what looked to Varney like blue overtones in its coat.

  “Good heavens,” he said, and both Emily and Greta looked up, startled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you, but – what a remarkable color.”

  Greta grinned. “Isn’t it? I wish we had any idea which of our other gents – if it’s any of them – this lady had relations with, because the genetics on this are fascinating. Can you come in or are you on your way elsewhere?”

  “I am, but it can wait,” said Varney, and let himself into the stall. Very carefully he settled down in the straw, heedless of its cleanliness or lack thereof, and peered at the tiny tricherpeton in Emily’s hands. Hesitantly she held it out a little for his inspection.

  “Will it be all right?” he asked. “It’s so small.”

  “Probably,” said Greta at the same time as Emily said “Yes,” and she had to smile. “Probably yes. It’s a runt, so we’ll see if it can manage to get enough out of Mum unassisted to survive, and if it’s not, we’ll do the hand-feeding every two hours. But we’re determined.” She looked from Varney to Emily and smiled, and he had to smile, too: the young vampire looked so intent on her handful.

  “May I see?” he asked, and held out his own hands, and after a moment, hesitant, Emily set the little pup into them. It looked even tinier in the broader expanse of Varney’s palms; in fact, it fit quite well into one of his hands, and he stroked it very carefully with a fingertip. The tiny quivering delicacy of its life was very vivid to him. Very vivid.

  That I should be trusted so much, he thought, looking down at it. That I should be allowed to hold this creature.

  He very gently settled it back into Emily’s hands, and could see her relax. There was a confidence in her that he hadn’t seen in France, and hadn’t even seen here outside the stables or the water gardens: she was better here. As if the things that had happened to her mattered less. He didn’t know what specific aspect of Dark Heart had wrought that change, and didn’t care, as long as it worked – but he was slightly, slightly proud that there was this version of Dark Heart to be there at all.

  “You’re doing beautifully,” he told her. “Thank you.”

  “I want to,” Emily said, looking up at him suddenly. “I want to. To do this. More than anything else. Can I – is this something I can learn to do properly?”

  “Yes,” said Greta, stroking the mother’s soft ears. “Yes, you can. The world very much needs more monster vets. It’s not going to be easy, but there are some people you can train with; you’ve got the instinct, and the monsters like you; and I’ll help as much as I can.”

  Varney wasn’t prepared for the sudden, astonishing brilliance of the girl’s smile: it seemed to light up the warm dimness of the stall like a candle flame. Almost without thinking about it, he held his hand out and Greta laced her fingers with his, and Varney thought for the space of a few slow heartbeats that he actually sort of understood what all the wretched poets had been on about with their fulminations on joy, on happiness, on – satisfaction.

  Outside, the rain intensified, pattering against the stable block’s slate roof; beyond the stables it drifted in grey curtains, like a sigh, across the hills that marked the western boundaries of Dark Heart’s park; and beyond that, up the low rise of the chalk downlands like a vast green whale-back, past the hedgerows and fieldlets of the valleys at the foot of the chalk, past the wrinkled rings of greensward cut into hill-forts six hundred years before the birth of Christ, all the way to the distant gold streak of the Chesil Bank and the flat blank sea, and all the worlds beyond; and with it, on the breeze borne with the drifting veils of rain, came a feeling of peace extraordinary in its sweetness: a feeling like coming home.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, my eternal thanks to my wife, the author Arkady Martine, who kept me as sane as possible throughout with judicious applications of single-malt and sympathy; I love you, dear. Also: Stephen Barbara, best of agents; Emily Byron, Lindsey Hall, and Sarah Guan, editors par excellence; M. R. James, Victor Hugo, and Gaston Leroux, whose influence will be readily apparent; and my parents, Owen and Penny Bamford, who made it possible for me to visit Paris twenty years ago. As you can see, it made something of an impression.

  Look out for

  GRAVE IMPORTANCE

  by

  Vivian Shaw

  Oasis Natrun: a private, exclusive, highly secret luxury health spa for mummies, high in the hills above Marseille, equipped with the very latest in therapeutic innovations both magical and medical. To Dr. Greta Helsing, London’s de facto mummy specialist, it sounds like paradise. But when Greta is invited to spend four months there as the interim clinical director, it isn’t long before she finds herself faced with a medical mystery that will take all her diagnostic skill to solve.

  A peculiar complaint is spreading among her mummy patients, one she’s nev
er seen before. With help from her friends and colleagues – including Dr. Faust (yes, that Dr. Faust), remedial psychopomps, a sleepy scribe-god, witches, demons, a British Museum curator, and the inimitable vampyre Sir Francis Varney – Greta must put a stop to this mysterious illness before anybody else crumbles to irreparable dust…

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  about the author

  Vivian Shaw was born in Kenya and spent her early childhood in England before relocating to the United States at the age of seven. She has a BA in art history and an MFA in creative writing, and has worked in academic publishing and development while researching everything from the history of spaceflight to supernatural physiology. In her spare time, she writes fanfiction under the name of Coldhope.

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