A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  “Ah yes,” Thorndyke said, joining him. “My dear family.”

  “Your family?” Friedrich asked. “I did not know that you were married. These are all your children?”

  To be honest, he had never envisioned Thorndyke to be the marrying kind, nor the sort of man to have fathered so many children.

  “Oh yes, yes,” Thorndyke replied proudly. Then he added, “They are all adopted, of course. As Christians, my wife and I do not believe in…that sort of thing.” He cleared his throat sharply at the insinuation of sexual conduct. “And I hope that you do not either, Friedrich, that is to say, Baron.”

  “Well, I—” Friedrich began.

  “Loss of vitality through lustful conduct is one of the principal causes of illness,” Thorndyke said. “It has killed many a promising young man in the prime of life.”

  “I don’t really—”

  “If the Good Lord had wanted us to do that sort of thing,” Thorndyke continued, “he would have made it difficult, unpleasant, and good for the soul. Satisfaction is the reward of upright behavior. Pleasure is the Devil’s work.” He walked to the drinks cabinet and unlocked it. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

  Oh, thank God, yes. Friedrich thought.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said.

  “Lemonade or barley water?”

  “What?” Friedrich asked. “Oh, um.… I had expected something a bit stronger. Sherry perhaps, or some brandy.”

  Thorndyke looked at him sternly over the top of his spectacles, and Friedrich almost felt ashamed at having said such a thing. Almost, of course. He would be damned if a von Fuchsburg would ever be made to feel guilty about drinking. It would ruin a timeless family tradition.

  “You may recall, Baron,” Thorndyke said, as he selected the decanter of barley water and filled two glasses, “that I am a teetotaler, as you ought to be as well, for your health. Alcohol has brought many a man to ruin and death, you know.”

  “I shall…remember that,” Friedrich said, accepting his glass with a smile. No need to ruffle Thorndyke’s feathers with a debate over the benefits of strong drink. The fellow meant well, but he was an American, and they were an odd people. The ones that weren’t cowboys were puritans, or at least that was what Friedrich had heard. And having visited the country, it seemed a fairly accurate statement.

  Turning away as if to inspect the books on the shelf, Friedrich slipped his flask of brandy from his pocket and poured a little into his glass. Turning back, he said:

  “Thorndyke, I must ask you, have you read the monograph I sent you? It is rather important to me to know your professional view on the matter.”

  Thorndyke turned slightly red and coughed a little. He approached Friedrich with a grave expression, like a father about to tell his son that there was no Father Christmas.

  “Friedrich…that is to say Baron…that is to say, Your Lordship,” Thorndyke said. “I understand that you are enamored of this ‘cell theory’ of yours, but I think it is best that you dispense with it. Cells may be the building stones of the body, but they are not a key to health and longevity, as your monograph suggests. They are but passive recipients of the true factors in wellness: exercise, diet, baths, et cetera. Cells do not make us well any more than they make us ill. That is the role of our conduct and of the things we eat and drink.”

  Friedrich held up a hand in protest and said quickly, “But surely, if they are components of the body, they must play a role in the body’s well-being. If the bricks of a house are strong, the house is strong. If they are weak, the house is weak. Why should it not be the same in the body?”

  Thorndyke took a drink of his barley water and chuckled. He smiled at Friedrich and said:

  “Baron, I can understand how a layman such as yourself would be misled by such ideas, but I assure you that cells are of no significance to the body. Forgive my contradicting you,” he added, placing a hand to his chest and looking at Friedrich with the utmost sincerity, “but this belief of yours that cells are at all related to a person’s age or vitality or health is simply not true. Do not forget, I am a doctor of medicine and you are not.”

  “In point of fact, I also am one,” Friedrich said. “I studied medicine at the University of Fuchsburg—”

  “Your family’s university,” Thorndyke said.

  He spoke with the tone of voice that men of science always used when rejecting Friedrich’s credentials. It made Friedrich nearly grind his teeth each time. Surely, they always reasoned, how could they trust his education when it would have been impossible for the faculty to deny him a degree? And he had suspected he would be received in such a manner at the time. He had argued that he should attend university elsewhere, but Aunt Ilse would have none of it. It was preposterous enough for the Baron of Fuchsburg to study medicine; what a slight to Fuchsburg it would be for him to do it elsewhere.…

  No matter, Friedrich thought. Let the old fools think what they might. He would show them. The proof of the pudding would be in the eating. When he had uncovered the secret of immortality, then let them scoff at his credentials.

  “Very well, Thorndyke,” he said, smiling, “I shall yield to your superior expertise. You are the professional. I am but a curious amateur.”

  Thorndyke smiled in delight and said, “And a most welcome one, Your Lordship. Most welcome. The welcomest of the welcome.”

  “Eh…quite,” Friedrich replied. “But if my theory is nonsense, what then is the secret to youth? That is why I have come to see you. Youth, Thorndyke, not merely health, as I said to you in Vermont. Youth.”

  Thorndyke nodded vigorously.

  “Quite so, quite so,” he said. “And…and…” he continued, “I have spent much time over the past year examining this problem.” He finished his drink and set the glass down on his desk. “In fact, if you would be so good as to follow me, I may have some intriguing results to interest you.”

  Progress at last, Friedrich thought.

  He followed Thorndyke through the side door into a dark storage room that smelled of odd things and chemicals. Thorndyke turned a gas knob just inside the door, and the lamps on the walls blossomed into light. Friedrich saw rows of shelves arrayed as if in a library. Bewildered, he approached the nearest shelf and examined it. It held flasks, pots, and glass jars all lined up neatly, free of dust.

  Friedrich gasped in shock as he realized that most if not all of the jars contained human specimens: hearts, livers, kidneys, and eyes, all floating in various stages of preservation or decay in countless different unidentifiable fluids.

  “Good God…” Friedrich said. He turned to look at Thorndyke, aghast. “Thorndyke, what is this?”

  “I thought you would be intrigued,” Thorndyke said, his face lit up with delight. “As you know, once removed from the environment of the body, organs begin to decay, just as they do when exposed to unhealthy substances, slothfulness, and immorality. I have been experimenting with various solutions to preserve them in their living state—solutions that are not harmful to the body, of course. It is my fervent hope that one or more of these, when induced into a living person, will prevent internal decay, perhaps even reverse it. Which, I believe, carries right along with your interest in the prevention of aging. Together we shall make Methuselahs of us all, eh?”

  “Thorndyke,” Friedrich said, “perhaps you did not understand me. What is all of this? Where in God’s name did all of these organs come from?”

  “From corpses, obviously,” Thorndyke replied, sounding a little nonplused. He laughed and said, “I’m hardly some madman who goes about at night and steals organs from respectable people while they sleep in their beds!” He laughed again, but his laughter slowly faded away when Friedrich did not join in. “Is something wrong, Baron?”

  “Thorndyke,” Friedrich said, speaking slowly and as clearly as he could, lest his meaning be misunderstood, “where did these corpses come from?”

  Thorndyke looked at him, first in confusion but soon with growing comprehensio
n.

  “Surely you do not mean…foul play!” he exclaimed.

  “Well?” Friedrich demanded.

  Thorndyke went pale and began to stammer, “I…I.… You cannot possibly.… I mean, the idea!” He removed his glasses and fixed Friedrich with a stern look. “I understand that you are young, Your Lordship, but to make such an assumption.… And about a respectable man of science! I mean, really!”

  Under the weight of Thorndyke’s indignant reaction, Friedrich suddenly began to question his assumption. Certainly, he fervently wished that his worst fears were not the case, but what other explanation could there be?

  “Thorndyke!” Friedrich cried. “Where did these organs come from? Who were these people? How did they die?”

  “They were criminals, Friedrich,” Thorndyke said. He huffed a little. “And vagrants found dead in the street. The sort of people with no one to mourn or bury them. But I have given them a chance to redeem themselves by contributing to science. I have a man who handles it all for me. He knows people in the police. When someone is executed or a body is found that no one claims, he arranges to buy it for me in a discrete manner. All aboveboard, I assure you.”

  “Ah,” Friedrich said, suddenly feeling rather a fool. “I, uh.… I do apologize, Thorndyke. I had not realized.…” He frowned. “But honestly, you must admit that it was a perfectly reasonable conclusion…that is to say, without knowing the facts—”

  “I need admit nothing of the sort,” Thorndyke said. “And I must say, I am surprised that you could even think of such a thing. If you wish to be a medical man, you will have to be careful of where that mind of yours strays. Consider the facts: I am a respectable doctor, a well-to-do man of good family, married, and a Protestant. A true man of medicine would have understood all those things and known instinctively that there was nothing untoward about my collection here. And you would do well to remember that, Your Lordship.”

  “I shall bear that in mind,” Friedrich replied.

  He forced a polite smile. However right Thorndyke was, however mistaken the assumption had been, there was no call for Thorndyke to be patronizing. Still, as Thorndyke was as yet his only available resource.…

  “And I do apologize,” he added. “I had for the moment forgotten your…Protestantism.”

  Though chosen at random, this statement seemed to do the trick. Thorndyke smiled and patted him on the arm, saying, “Well, you are a Catholic, after all.”

  What the Devil is that supposed to mean? Friedrich thought. Aloud, he asked, “Is all forgiven?”

  “Forgiven and forgotten,” Thorndyke said. “Now then, why don’t I show you some of my more successful tests, hmm? I tell you truly, I have a heart and kidneys from a man destroyed by drink. And under a very careful treatment these past few days, I have not merely prevented their degradation, but I believe I have even reversed the damage done to them in life. They look positively healthy.”

  Friedrich was suddenly interested again.

  “Truly?” he asked. “I would very much like to see that.”

  “It shall be my very distinct pleasure to show it to you, Baron,” Thorndyke said. He turned away to lead Friedrich across the room. Then he paused and turned back, very nearly colliding with Friedrich. “Oh, but before I do, I wonder if I might inquire about your offer to make a charitable contribution to my new sanatorium. With all the preparations going on, now is certainly the time.…”

  Friedrich exhaled in irritation, but kept his smile firm and charming. It was hardly an unreasonable request. Thorndyke was about to unveil the fruits of his research, even after Friedrich had allowed his naiveté to invoke an unpardonably rude misassumption about Thorndyke’s character. Payment was only fair. And besides, what was money in the pursuit of knowledge? Any price was acceptable so long as it brought him closer to his goal.

  “Of course, Thorndyke,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “I will write you a cheque from my London bank. What sort of sum do you have in mind?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Blackmoor

  Mid September

  “Cousin Robert,” Varanus said, addressing her rather insufferable relation as he sat behind the desk in his study, “I have little patience for people who summon me to remote parts of the country on the grounds of discussing business, only to then vanish off to the place I have just arrived from for the better part of the week!”

  “Cousin Babette—” Robert began.

  “I have not finished,” Varanus told him. “Furthermore, I possess even less tolerance for those same people who return from their inexplicable holiday only to tell me that my entire family ‘demands’ that I give up my inheritance!” She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward, standing on tiptoes for as dramatic an effect as she could muster. “I expect you to explain yourself at once!”

  Robert kept his smile, but Varanus knew that she had angered him, no doubt with her ‘impudence’ or some other such nonsense. Good. Let him be angry; she was furious.

  “Cousin Babette,” Robert said, rising from his seat and looming over her, “are you quite finished?”

  Robert’s tone was that rather intolerable mixture of self-importance, smugness, and indignation that tutors and schoolteachers so often preferred to use with any student who dared speak her mind, and Varanus did not appreciate Robert using it with her, certainly not when he was clearly the party in the wrong.

  She opened her mouth to retort something angry that she had not quite finished deciding upon, when she saw Korbinian leaning against the far wall. He smiled at her and said:

  “Rather a boor, isn’t he, liebchen? Still, the damn fellow is family. It wouldn’t do to be rude to family, would it?” Korbinian’s eyes twinkled. “Besides, he can puff and posture all he pleases. It won’t force you to give him what he wants.”

  Varanus took a deep breath. Korbinian was right. It would do no good to have a shouting match with Robert. That was probably what he wanted: evidence of her inability to behave in a reasonable manner. And after all, what could Robert or any of the others do? Her inheritance was her inheritance.

  “Cousin Robert,” she said calmly, “I do not appreciate your tone. And I do think that as family, we ought to be rather more respectful of one another, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course,” Robert said. He did not sound pleased.

  “Do forgive my raised voice,” Varanus said, “but I do feel—and I think you will agree—that you have done me a disservice. I have come here, to Blackmoor, to become acquainted with my surviving family. Upon my arrival, you depart for London without explanation; you leave me here uncertain of our business, only to return with the news that our family will not allow me to keep what is legally mine. In what manner do you expect me to respond, cousin?”

  Robert’s smile became rather forced, and he replied, “I do understand, Cousin Babette, I assure you of that. And there was no offense intended. I was called away to meet with our cousins the morning after you arrived. Had you visited us sooner, that would not have been the case.”

  A likely story, Varanus thought.

  “But having met with our cousins,” Robert continued, “I had no choice but to report the grave news about their decision. This is a matter of importance to our family, and surely you appreciate that as much as I.”

  Varanus folded her arms, not particularly convinced.

  “What I appreciate, Cousin Robert,” she said, “is that my grandfather’s estate in Normandy is my property by right of inheritance, but for some reason that eludes me, you and our cousins now insist that I should turn it over to you. I do not understand why you or your relations believe the property’s ownership to be in any way your business.”

  “Cousin Babette,” Robert said, “I do not understand your reluctance to accept our proposal. Your life is in Russia now, far removed from Normandy. You shall have little time, if any, to spend at your grandfather’s house. What good will it do you to own a house that you never use?”

  Varanus pu
t on a bright smile and asked, “Isn’t that sort of thing rather the vogue for the upper classes?”

  “We are offering you a tremendous allowance for your entire life in exchange!” Robert cried. “Why do you not accept the offer? What possible reason could you have to refuse?”

  Varanus was silent for a long while, looking up at her cousin, who towered above her, his face red with anger and his eyes wide with exasperation and confusion.

  “Because it is my home,” she said softly. “Wherever else I may live, it is my home. And I do not mean to give it up.”

  Robert exhaled loudly. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. After a few deep breaths he looked at her and shook his head.

  “Sentimentality?” he asked. “That is your reason? Sentimentality for a place you have not lived in for more than fifteen years?”

  “Yes,” Varanus said.

  She felt her breath quickening, and she slowed it to calm herself. Breathing was one of those habits she had not lost since becoming one of the living Shashavani. And when she became angry, she breathed a great deal—perhaps even more than when she had been mortal. It was a curious thing. Perhaps something to do with her muscles.…

  “You are distracting yourself, liebchen,” Korbinian murmured in her ear. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I know why you are so adamant about keeping the old place. What puzzles me is why he is so set upon obtaining it.”

  A valid point.

  Varanus raised an eyebrow and asked, “Robert…why is the family so insistent that I relinquish control of the property?”

  The question seemed to surprise Robert. After a moment he cleared his throat loudly. His smile now looked rather like a snarl, which was probably not his conscious intention.

  “Because, cousin,” he said, “that property has been in the Varanus family for decades, since it was first purchased by your grandfather—my great uncle. And your grandfather selected it because it has great historic significance. If our records are correct, it encompasses land originally owned by Henry of Rouen. It is our heritage. Our heritage. It must remain in the Varanus family.”