A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  The doctor loomed over her and pressed his face close to hers, staring at her eye-to-eye. When he spoke next, it was in a soft tone, almost a hiss, like a man sharing a great secret.

  “I know you, Jezebel,” the doctor said. “You are a demon made flesh. Evil incarnate, disguised in this pleasing form sent to test me. But I will not be misled! For God is my bulwark, and I shall not be found wanting.”

  “What are you talking about?” Varanus tried to demand, though with the gag little of it came out coherently. And anyway, the doctor had been lost in his own feverish thoughts and paid her no heed.

  “But I see now,” the doctor said, turning away and walking to the center of the room. “I see that in your wickedness there is some benefit to be had as well. Whether your dark master has underestimated the cleverness of the righteous man, or whether you are unknowingly a gift from the Lord, I cannot say.” He turned back to her. “But you shall make my work so much simpler. No more must I send men out into the streets to bring the servants of evil here. For your body shall provide all!”

  What…?

  The doctor held up a liver in a glass jar for her to see. His hands trembled so much with excitement that he very nearly dropped it.

  “Your liver!” he proclaimed. “And yet, you live. An hour after surgery, there’s not even a mark left on your pretty flesh.” He held up another jar, holding a second liver. “Yours.” And another. “Yours!” And another. “Yours, yours, yours!”

  Varanus felt sick. Now she understood the muddle of pain and confusion that had gripped her for so long. The madman had cut her open and stolen her organs and then repeated the whole process once it had all regrown! It was a violation so terrible Varanus could scarcely wrap her mind around it.

  To be eviscerated over and over and over again for eternity.…

  “Five healthy livers,” the doctor proclaimed. He patted Varanus’s stomach, making her recoil at his touch. “And I’ll wager you’ve another in there now, just waiting to be removed!” He smiled monstrously. “God is great in His bounty.”

  Varanus struggled against her bonds, but she was simply too weak from starvation and loss of blood. She snarled from behind her gag.

  How dare he? How dare he?!

  “I haven’t tried your heart or your brain yet,” the doctor continued, “but I think perhaps I ought to. In a little while, after I’ve taken some more of the rest. I don’t believe it will kill you, not having a brain—and I should very much like to see just what sort of evil malformation has afflicted it—but it would be hubris to sacrifice such a gift for the sake of curiosity. So perhaps we’ll wait a few days.”

  The doctor walked to a basin of water and began washing his hands.

  “Now then,” he said, “you must excuse me for a little while. I must just go see to my patients. I have three men with pneumonia in dire need of cold baths.”

  He dried his hands on a towel and left his bloody apron to hang on a hook by the door. Turning back toward her, he smiled and said:

  “You and I shall do great things, Jezebel. I may even redeem your soul for God, if you have a soul. Won’t that be marvelous?”

  Varanus looked back at the ceiling. When she heard the door close, she growled angrily.

  It wasn’t just the pain or the fear that upset her. It was the sheer ignominy of it all. She felt utterly helpless, a feeling she was neither used to nor tolerated very well.

  Presently, the figure of Korbinian loomed over her. He looked down at her and shook his head sadly.

  “Oh, liebchen,” he said, “how have you come to be in this place? It pains me to see you like this.”

  “You could always make yourself useful and help me,” Varanus replied.

  “’God helps those who help themselves,’” Korbinian said.

  “You are not God,” Varanus noted.

  Korbinian looked sad and he replied, “You know I cannot help you, liebchen, though I would if I could. You must do this yourself.”

  Varanus glared at him. She tilted her head and looked at one impaled arm. She began slowly working it up and down. The torn flesh sliding against metal was agonizing, but she kept at it. It was not long before her muscles ached from the effort. But however hard she tried, she could not pull her arm free.

  After ten minutes, she collapsed in exhaustion. She was simply too weak, too tired, too hungry to muster the strength.

  For the first time since becoming Shashavani, she felt completely powerless. It infuriated her. And it terrified her.

  Korbinian leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Keep trying, liebchen,” he said. “You must keep trying.”

  * * * *

  “You are making a remarkable recovery, Luka,” Friedrich said, as he finished bandaging the man. “Really quite remarkable.”

  “Does that mean I will live, Doctor?” Luka asked. His voice was rich with sarcasm.

  Friedrich laughed and said, “There is little question of that, my friend.”

  “Good,” Luka said. He reached for a newspaper at his bedside. “Do keep me apprised of when I’m well enough to leave, if you please. I have little patience for waiting.”

  Friedrich gave Luka a pat on his uninjured shoulder and said:

  “The body’s natural processes cannot be rushed, Luka. Patience is a virtue we must all learn. And besides which, you will not be convalescing long. You are recovering from your injuries faster than any man I have ever seen, save one.”

  Luka opened his paper and began reading. In a rather disinterested voice he asked, “And who is that, Doctor?”

  “Me,” Friedrich replied with a smirk.

  Luka lowered the paper for a moment and gave him a curious look before returning to his reading.

  Chuckling a bit to himself, Friedrich returned to the front room of the clinic and made a note about the change of bandages in the logbook. Having done so, Friedrich poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down to do a little light reading—a novel by Ann Radcliffe, for that was what Auntie Ekaterine had taken a fancy to, and Friedrich thought it wise to brush up for the sake of conversation.

  It was proving to be a rather slow afternoon. All of his patients had arrived by lunchtime—a few work injuries, one man with indigestion, and a case of someone being overcome by varnish fumes. All were quite easily sorted out, although the varnish poisoning concerned Friedrich more than a little. The work conditions of the locals sounded rather horrible. He felt that something ought to be done about it.

  After a little while, he checked his watch again and looked toward the door. Constantine’s nurse, Sally, was missing again. It really was unlike her not to come into work, unless she had been put on an evening shift and no one had told him. He made a note to ask Constantine about it when they changed over at dinnertime. That would not be too long off now.

  Presently, the door to the clinic opened, and Friedrich looked up from his reading to see Ekaterine walk in, clad in a lovely dress of dark blue silk. She smiled at him as she closed the door behind her.

  Friedrich was on his feet in an instant, hurrying around the desk to greet her.

  “Auntie Ekaterine!” he exclaimed, unable to hide his delight at the sight of her. “How are you? What brings you here?”

  “Oh!” Ekaterine said, perhaps a bit surprised by his great enthusiasm. “Why hello, Alistair. I’m well. And you?”

  “Very well, very well,” Friedrich said. He realized after a moment that he was staring, so he quickly motioned to one of the chairs. “Would you care to sit?”

  Ekaterine smiled at him and said, “Yes, thank you.”

  Friedrich took her by the am and led her to the chair. Ekaterine sat with perfect poise and nodded at him.

  “May I fetch you a drink?” Friedrich asked. “Brandy perhaps?”

  “Brandy?” Ekaterine asked in astonishment.

  Perhaps it wasn’t common to offer brandy to ladies in England, Friedrich thought. But that was all they drank in Fuchsburg. Brandy and good
Fuchsburger wine.

  “Yes, why not?” Ekaterine said, after a moment’s thought. “I could use a small brandy.” Then, as she watched Friedrich pour two glasses, she added, “…from a pocket flask it seems.”

  Friedrich simply smiled and handed her one of the glasses. He waited for her to sip hers first before taking a long drink of his. He didn’t want her to think he was a drunk, after all.

  “How are you today, Alistair?” Ekaterine asked.

  “Quite well,” Friedrich replied. “And you? A good book last evening?”

  “Well, an enjoyable one,” Ekaterine answered. “The two are not always the same, are they?”

  “Often they are not,” Friedrich said, sitting on the edge of the desk.

  Ekaterine looked past him and asked, “Is that The Romance of the Forest I see? Yours?”

  Friedrich picked up the novel he had been reading and laughed.

  “Well, it is certainly not Constantine’s,” he said. “Yes, it is mine. I thought I might…see what all the fuss is about.”

  Ekaterine looked at him with interest. A small smile played about on her lips, and she asked coyly, “And are you enjoying it?”

  “It is very exciting,” Friedrich said. “Thrilling, even.”

  “Very thrilling,” Ekaterine agreed.

  “Though perhaps here is not the proper place for it,” Friedrich added. “I think that it would be even better to read before the fire on a stormy night.”

  “I have already done so,” Ekaterine told him, “and I can recommend it.”

  Friedrich leaned forward and looked into her eyes, putting on his best charming smile—the one he reserved for special occasions.

  “Perhaps we should read it together sometime,” he said. “On a dark and stormy night, of course, with rain falling in torrents and just a few flickering candles to light the pages for us.”

  “In an old castle, of course,” Ekaterine said, gazing back at him, her look unwavering.

  “Of course.”

  “It sounds like quite an adventure.” Ekaterine sounded ever so slightly dubious, which was probably affected.

  “I enjoy a good adventure now and then,” Friedrich said. “And I think that you do too. So would it not make sense for us to have one together?”

  Ekaterine smiled a little. Then she laughed softly and licked her lips. Glancing away, she asked:

  “Alistair, where is your mother?”

  “My name is Friedrich,” Friedrich murmured.

  Ekaterine looked back at him and asked, more firmly, “Friedrich, where is your mother?”

  Friedrich sat back and took another drink of brandy.

  “I haven’t seen her since last night,” he said. “I assumed she was home with you.”

  Ekaterine frowned. “No, she never returned. I thought she’d be here, working overnight.” She looked around again. “Where is Luka keeping himself these days?”

  “Just in the back,” Friedrich said, standing. “He’s recovering from his injuries.”

  “Injuries?” Ekaterine rose quickly and hurried toward the back room. “Luka? What have you done to yourself?”

  Friedrich followed her to the back room and watched as she and Luka began speaking—then shouting—at one another in a foreign tongue. Friedrich could not make out most of the exchange, though he was able to glean that Ekaterine was angry at Luka’s being injured. He also noticed that they were not speaking Russian, for though Friedrich was not wholly fluent in that language, he did have some command of it. Whatever language Ekaterine and Luka spoke, it was not one that he had heard before.

  After the argument had progressed a little while, Ekaterine and Luka seemed to change topics. Friedrich noticed that they began referencing his mother—mentioned specifically as “Varanus” rather than “Babette”, which he thought a little odd. Presently, Ekaterine shook her head and turned to Friedrich.

  “Apparently your mother ran off last night to investigate a gang of kidnappers,” she said. “And Luka let her go.”

  “What?” Friedrich demanded, turning to face Luka.

  “I did not ‘let her go,’” Luka replied, looking annoyed at having his reading interrupted. “She is free to go about as she pleases.”

  “To investigate kidnappers on her own?” Friedrich demanded. Then he considered the statement. “What kidnappers?”

  “Some people in the neighborhood have gone missing,” Luka said. “Prostitutes and vagrants. Snatched off the street by men in a wagon.”

  “What?” Friedrich exclaimed.

  “Don’t sound so indignant,” Luka said, returning to his paper. “I am investigating it. Or I was, before I was incapacitated by injury. Once I am mended, I will resume my investigation. I have already told my men to keep alert for strange wagons or further abductions. For now that is all that I can do.”

  “Well…well…” Friedrich stammered. “You say she went looking for the men responsible?”

  “Yes,” Luka said, “though I doubt she is there now. Either she investigated and went someplace else, or she sorted the matter out herself. In either case—”

  “Where?” Friedrich demanded.

  Luka lowered the newspaper and looked at him with annoyance.

  “I tracked one of the wagons to a warehouse south of Whitechapel Road,” he said. “I believe that is where the gang is based.”

  Friedrich raised an eyebrow.

  “A warehouse?” he asked. “Surrounded by a wall?”

  “Yes,” Luka said.

  Ekaterine looked at him and asked, “Why?”

  “Do you recall the street name?” Friedrich asked Luka.

  “Blakeney something,” Luka replied.

  Friedrich sighed and closed his eyes. Blakeney Way. A walled warehouse on Blakeney Way, south of Whitechapel Road, serviced by wagons. He could almost picture it.

  “If you two will excuse me,” he said, “I must look into something. If my mother or Doctor Constantine arrive before my return, tell them I will be back presently.”

  There was an ever so slight pause, and then Luka said, “Suit yourself,” before burying his nose in the newspaper in an effort to ignore the people around him.

  “Wait,” Ekaterine said to Friedrich, catching his arm with her hand. “Where are you going?”

  “I am going to have a little talk with a former colleague,” Friedrich replied.

  Ekaterine paused a moment and said, “You’re going to investigate, aren’t you? You’re going to the warehouse.”

  “Perhaps,” Friedrich said, as he walked quickly to the door and grabbed his coat and stick. “There’s something happening, and I am going to sort it out.”

  “Are you mad?” Ekaterine asked.

  Friedrich put his hat on and said, “Probably.”

  * * * *

  Friedrich hurried to Thorndyke’s charity house, his blood boiling. By the time he arrived, he had all but forgotten the disappearance of his mother—for Luka was probably right, and surely she had too much sense to visit such a place on her own. All he could think about was Thorndyke…and certain other ideas that he had entertained before and from which he had foolishly allowed himself to be dissuaded.

  Reaching the warehouse, he raised his walking stick and banged it against the door. There was no answer at first, and so he stood there knocking until the head of his cane left a mark in the wood.

  Finally the door opened, and the same scruffy man as before poked his head out and scowled at Friedrich.

  “Whatcher want?” he demanded.

  Friedrich did not bother to answer. Instead, he simply put his shoulder forward and shoved his way past the man into the yard. The man struggled against him, but Friedrich kept on going and knocked the man to the side.

  The other men on guard looked up from what they were doing and moved quickly to intercept him. Friedrich paused in the middle of the yard as one particularly large fellow inserted himself directly in Friedrich’s path.

  “Get out of my way,” Friedrich said,
standing his full height and looming over the men around him.

  “Y’ain’t wanted,” said the leader. “Git out.”

  “Where is Doctor Thorndyke?” Friedrich asked, looking downward at the man and meeting his eyes.

  “Git out,” the leader repeated.

  Friedrich noticed one of the men nearby shift position and pull something out from behind his back. A knife, probably. And the other men looked ready for violence.

  “Tell me where he is or get out of my way,” Friedrich said, readying his hand on his walking stick and adjusting his feet.

  The leader laughed. The other men followed his lead and joined in.

  “Toff thinks ’e owns the place,” he said. He snarled. “Show ’im ’e ain’t wanted.”

  He lunged at Friedrich with a big, meaty fist, but Friedrich was ready. He stepped backward into the man standing behind him, stomping his heel onto the fellow’s foot and elbowing him in the gut. The man doubled over and fell back onto the ground. And in the interim, the leader’s blow narrowly missed its target.

  Now the fat was in the fire, Friedrich thought.

  He dropped back into a fencing stance and raised his stick, holding it like a rapier. The man to his right came at him. Friedrich struck him in the belly with the tip of the stick. The man to the left was next, swinging a club overhead. Friedrich threw up his stick in a block, knocked the club away, and then struck the man twice in the knee.

  So distracted was he by his initial success that Friedrich only narrowly avoided being stabbed by the man with the knife. He darted back a few paces as the man came in, stabbing and slashing, and took a moment to judge the quality of the attack. It was brutish and uncoordinated, not the strike of a trained soldier. Friedrich advanced quickly and struck the man on the wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. An overhead blow to the head drove the man to the ground.

  Now Friedrich turned back to the leader. The man stopped for a moment to stare at his injured comrades. One fist was raised in the air, ready to strike, but he hesitated and looked up at Friedrich.

  Friedrich hefted his stick like a cudgel and said, coldly:

  “Where is Thorndyke?”

  * * * *

  Friedrich stormed into the lower passage of the warehouse, his walking stick gripped tightly in one hand.