by Nancy Gideon
“Why?” Louis was animated and wildly hopeful as he passed the bit of silver from hand to hand. He was on the edge of mortality; he could feel it. And he was impatient. “You have what you need. Let’s get on with it.”
“Radman, you probably know better than I how the blood thickens once the heart no longer circulates it through the body. The blood in those veins could not be transferred into your own.”
“Blood is blood. I don’t understand.”
Howland took the opener from him and used it to make a deep cut in the dead man’s wrist. What little fluid leaked from the gash was sluggish and dark. “See? Totally useless for my purposes.”
The marquis grew very still. His gaze riveted to that dark, vital flow. Even his breath stopped as Louis rubbed his fingertips along the table top, smearing them in the puddle of deep crimson. Then he brought them up to his mouth to suck them clean. He made a soft sound in his throat. A murmur of rapture. His voice had lowered a rumbling octave when he spoke. “But not useless for mine.”
It was the smell of blood. It acted upon Louis like a fever until his brain burned and he was conscious of nothing else. And the taste, the rich texture upon his tongue, goaded him into a frenzy of primal lust. For food. For life. For power. The allure was too great, the instinct too strong. One puny mortal barring the way with a cry of, “No, you mustn’t,” had as much effect as a gnat to be swatted away. So, he did and, with one casual flick, the good doctor went sailing across the room to crash against his bank of files and slide, dazed, to the floor.
With no more distractions, Louis sank down to savor the feast. He tore into the dead man’s arteries, moaning with the ecstasy of it. Though there was no longer warmth, there was a dizzying fulfillment and an almost drunken delight in the act of drawing deep and swallowing. The sense of raging emptiness slowly abated as he went about his grisly meal.
And then that insignificant human was back, pulling at him, trying to drag him away. “Stop. You must stop.”
Stuart Howland was a man of science and logic. Though he’d come to believe the marquis’s story of vampirism, a part of him was still unaccepting... until now. Until, before his startled eyes, he saw exactly what a vampire was. As he watched, Louis Radman changed into something totally alien and totally terrifying.
STUART WAS MET with a growl and a hiss that was low, wet, and animal. The eyes glaring up at him were gold and red and terrible in their fury. Fully distended fangs gleamed sharp and deadly, tinged with the same gore that smeared mouth and chin. This was not Radman, who could be reasoned with. This was a demon. The undead.
Stuart did the only thing he could think of. He swung the letter opener, and as he’d hoped, the creature was quick to intercept it with a movement so liquid and sure, it was a blur to his eyes. Then came an obscene crackling, steaming as the silver lay clenched within Louis’s hand. Howling, he released it, but the pain from the mark cut deep into his palm continued to burn. Clutching the afflicted hand to his chest, he staggered back, wailing horribly, features contorting into a nightmare of agony and disbelief. He reeled about in a blind haze, knocking over instrument stands and a fern basket before finally collapsing and curling up into a tight ball of misery.
“What have you done to me?” he cried, panting, thrashing against the throb of anguish that raced through his system like infectious fire.
“It’s what you did to yourself,” Stuart replied without sympathy, as he wiped away a trickle of blood from where the vampire had struck him. The man’s strength—my God, it was incredible. And so was his torment, now. But Stuart was hesitant to approach.
“Are you in control again, my lord?”
“Yes,” he hissed through gnashing teeth. And when he looked up, his eyes were hot and molten, but no longer unholy. The awful fangs had receded as well. Still, Stuart was understandably wary.
“If you will allow it, I might be able to help.”
“Then help me,” he snarled, levering himself up into a seated position. He hugged his hand, rocking over it as the agony swelled in rhythmic waves clouding his mind like a delirium.
Then the doctor was bending over him, freeing his injured hand, sprinkling the scorched flesh with the same powder he’d been treated with over the past weeks. Slowly, almost gently, Howland bound his wound with clean linen as he spoke somberly of consequence. “You understand now, don’t you?”
“A rather cruel lesson, Doctor.”
“But I made my point. Your recovery is only as certain as your resistance.”
“And now that you’ve seen what I am, you can understand, too. You can see why I am so desperate to escape the hell of my existence. ‘It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood’.”
“Ah, Shakespeare. Macbeth, isn’t it?”
“Clever Will could always turn an amusing phrase.”
Stuart stared at him. “You knew—”
“I’ve known many people,” Louis snapped tersely. “I’ve known kings, queens, poets, and princes. I’ve seen empires rise and fall. I have seen too much and I am so weary of continual change. I want to live no more than one natural lifetime. I am so tired of watching those I know and love die without me. I want only to sink into that natural sleep when my time comes.”
“But it already came once, didn’t it? You are—dead, aren’t you?”
Louis gave him a wry smile. “Are you arguing philosophy with me, Doctor? ‘I think, therefore, I am.’ Well, I do and I am and I was cheated from the rest of my years. It was not my choice, this living damnation. Can you return that life which was stolen from me?”
“As I’ve said, I don’t believe in demons.”
Louis chuckled softly.
“I believe in science and I think what you are suffering from has to do with certain factors in your blood, a mutation, if you will, that acts upon the normal cells and warps them into something—inhuman. It’s this alteration that produces your sensitivity to light and extreme allergic reaction to certain chemical properties like those found in silver and garlic. And heightens your dependence upon blood. Drain off the impurities and end the contagion.”
“That simple.”
“Not simple. But possible. How is your hand?”
Louis seemed surprised by the question. He flexed his fingers slowly and murmured, “Better.” But to Howland’s discerning eyes, he still appeared gaunt and shaken from his usual stoic control. And suffering from the hunger.
There was a rapping on the rear door. “Rest,” the doctor instructed, as he stood and went to see to the late-night visitors. Louis laid his head upon uplifted knees and did as he was told. He rested and he listened to Stuart Howland’s conversation with Mac Reeves.
“The body you brought me was too old.”
“Too old? You didn’t go naming any age, now, did you?”
“Not age, you fool. He’d been dead too long. His body was already beginning to decompose. He was useless to me.”
“Does that mean you aim to welsh on paying us?”
“I will pay you if you will listen and do as I say. Tomorrow night, bring me a recently deceased corpse.”
Tomorrow night. Louis seized upon that with an anxious thrill. Tomorrow night, then perhaps he could walk the daylight hours again. Just one more day of his unliving hell.
“How recently, gov?”
“Thirty minutes, no more.”
“Where do you expect—”
“That’s not my problem, now, is it? If you can’t handle it, I can always call—”
“No, no. If the price be right, I can get you whatever it is you be wanting.”
“Fine. Now, take away... that, and dispose of it discreetly. And be quick about it.”
“Yessir. You ’eard him, mates. Grab on, and let’s get a move on.”
AS THE BURLY twosome removed the corpse, Mac
Reeves made careful note of the ragged wounds on the arm and the blood fresh on the face of the aristocrat huddled on the floor. Something foul and fishy was going on within these proper walls, and he could just bet it wasn’t something either of the gents would be pleased to hear on the morning gossips’ tongues. Smiling to himself, he tipped his hat to the doctor and followed his men out. If they hurried, they could still unload the corpse to one of the hospital porters and the poor cove would end up on a surgeon’s dissection table in the next day’s lecture class.
WHEN THEY WERE alone, Louis managed to totter to his feet. He wiped his face with his uninjured palm and refrained from licking his lips. The hunger was quieted by the taste he’d taken, but there was no sense in provoking it.
“Can you get home safely, my lord?”
Louis smiled. “I am immortal. What could happen?”
“Do not get—distracted again.”
“I won’t. Then tomorrow night, we’re going to—”
“See about returning you to the living,” Stuart concluded for him.
Chapter Six
ARABELLA HAD HER questions waiting at the next morning’s breakfast table. She still was unsure of how they’d escaped asking the night before. Something to do with Louis—his eyes, his voice. It was blurry in her mind. She must have been more weary than she’d imagined, for the moment she’d left the two of them with their unearthed companion, she’d gone straight to her room to a deep, unshakable slumber. She hadn’t known when Louis had left the house or heard any of the commotion Bessie muttered about as breakfast was brought in. But she would have her answers now. Stuart, recognizing her expression, sat down warily and waited in silence for Bessie to serve him. Then, as soon as the servant left the room, he readied for the onslaught.
“Why did you have a body, still reeking of the grave, in your office last night?”
“Arabella—”
“I will not be put off like some child, Father. There were bodysnatchers at our door.” Her voice had lowered out of respect for the subject matter, but it was no less intense. “I would like to know why you paid resurrectionists to bring the dead to our home.”
“If they would change those damned restricting laws, we in the medical field wouldn’t be forced to deal with men such as Reeves to see our research done. It’s ridiculous to think the community could be served by the corpses of executed criminals when the number of medical students far outnumbers capital convictions.”
“We are not arguing ethics here, Father, nor the law as it exists. I want to know what you were doing here in our house with that corpse.”
Stuart took a moment to frame his answer as Bessie brought in a refill of coffee. Then he stated coolly, “As I said, research.”
“On Louis Radman’s blood disorder?”
His startled look said more than vague words.
“He told me,” she continued smugly, pretending to know more than she did. But when her father’s brow lowered in consternation, she wondered how wise that was.
“What did he tell you?”
Carefully, she sketched out the conversation she’d had with the marquis, and she couldn’t miss the relief that colored her father’s features. And she realized there was much about this research that she still didn’t know. More secrets.
“So, exactly how does the deceased figure into your studies?”
“What do you know of blood transfusions?”
“I know that there have been cases of infusing the blood from one animal into another and that in France, lamb’s blood was successfully transfused into a boy, but all that is highly experimental.”
Calmly, as he was cutting his breakfast kidney, Stuart told her, “In Radman’s case, what’s required is a full fluid exchange.”
Arabella stared at him, not understanding the connotations, and at the same time, very afraid she did. “You mean transferring the blood—”
“From one man into another. In Radman’s case, from a recently deceased man.”
Arabella struggled to absorb the enormity of this plan. And the consequence. “You’ll kill him. Father, you’ll kill him.” And a terrible panic settled inside her.
But Howland only smiled and chewed. “His lordship’s mortality is the least of my worries. That he’ll survive is not the problem. That it will be successful is.”
“How could you endanger his life with such an untried practice?”
He quieted her outrage with the reassuring wave of his hand. “Radman is in no danger, Bella. Trust me on that. He realizes that this could be the only hope of curing his—condition, and he is prepared to take any chances necessary. And if it is successful, imagine the consequences.”
That glaze of hard ambition crept into her father’s face, the same look she so despised in Wesley Pembrook. Seeing it there upon his beloved features alarmed and appalled her. Because it told her he valued Louis Radman’s life a lot less than the fame he might obtain from his manipulation of it.
“And another thing, my dear.” He said that casually, in a manner that automatically alerted her. “I would prefer nothing of this go beyond the two of us. I needn’t advise you of the danger should rumor spread that I am attempting such radical experimentation.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’ll say nothing, but you’d be wise to guard yourself around Mr. Pembrook. He smells glory and will not be put off with pat answers.”
“Leave Wesley to me.”
“And what of Louis—his lordship?”
“What of him?”
“Does he know your plan to use his case in medical journals to further your own fame?”
He frowned at her. “That’s a rather cold assessment, Bella.”
“Am I wrong? If so, correct me.”
He said nothing to alter her assumption. So she went one step further. “I would like to assist you.”
“What?”
“I would like to help during the procedure—if his lordship has no objection.”
Stuart smiled wryly. “Oh, I think he’ll have plenty of objections, but you can help me prepare my office.”
She took that small concession eagerly because she needed to be involved, needed to assure herself that Louis’s life was not in grave jeopardy. But she couldn’t. Because she was terribly afraid that the untested experiment would end in tragedy, and with it, all her faint hopes of personal happiness.
She was in love with Louis Radman. She had no great experience in the matter, but the symptoms were all there. He was constantly upon her thoughts. She craved the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand. He was everything she’d ever dreamed of... and more. And if that “more” was slightly scary, she was not discouraged. The attraction overwhelmed the apprehension. She only knew she wanted to be with him and that she wanted that togetherness to extend beyond the kisses they’d exchanged.
Now her father was threatening her dearest expectations, threatening the very man she loved by the greed of his ambition. She was well aware of the value the medical professionals placed on human life. Theirs was an empirical and unemotional view in which the one could be easily sacrificed for the sake of many. That callous attitude had never frightened her more than it did now. Because now, the man she wanted a future with was the source of her father’s experimentation, and that placed her future upon very precarious ground. There was nothing she could do except hold on to what she could and be there in case she could do more.
The condition of her father’s office came as a shock. It looked as though a boxing match had been held in its interior. And then there was the table, with its gruesome stain of blood. She didn’t want to think about what had gone on there or what would transpire that evening. She concentrated on the work at hand and as she tidied and organized, she grew more intrigued by the medical precedents her father was about to set.
“What’s to keep the blood from coagulating before it’s absorbed in the recipient’s system?” In her curiosity, Arabella found her thoughts taking a clinical turn. That, she’d learned from her father. Professionalism meant a certain degree of distance, and she couldn’t speak coherently on the matter if she thought of Louis’s involvement.
“That took some trial and error, but by coating all the tubes and containers with moisture-resistant wax, I’ve found the clotting fails to occur if there’s no contamination by air.”
“And if his system fails to accept the donor’s blood?”
“I don’t anticipate that happening,” came an unusually dry retort.
“If it does, what happens then?”
“In some cases, there’s a rapid destruction of red cells which produces haemolytic shock and after extreme allergic manifestation, death.” He spoke this matter-of-factly, then fixed his daughter with a piercing gaze. “Bella, what is your interest in this man?”
“I’m... interested, is all,” she replied, bending quickly out of his sight to retrieve the physician’s tools that had scattered beneath the table.
“And if I was to tell you this interest is very ill-advised, would you heed me and stay away from him?”
She straightened and gave him a straight-on look and a painfully straight reply. “No.”
Stuart sighed. “I was afraid that was the way of it. Bella, you are a most sensible girl. Surely you’ve realized that his lordship’s condition is a grave one, and often manifests aberrant and sometimes even dangerous behavior.”
“But you can cure it,” she concluded, with a poignant tug of hope.
“I believe so. But until we are certain, I want your promise that you will not spend time alone with him.”
“But—”
“It’s for your own safety that I make this request—as a doctor, not as an overprotective father. Please say you’ll heed me on this.”
Very quietly, she said, “I will,” because she knew there was something not right with Louis Radman, something volatile and seducingly lethal, though every time she was with him, emotion overruled logic. Better she show some caution than regret impulse. There was no rush. He’d said his condition was not fatal, and her father had assured her he would survive the procedure. There was no reason for her to worry—except when her father brought in a second table and began to set up his experimental device for the pumping, storing, and delivering of blood, and she felt a certain faintness of heart that would not leave her.
