Connects with: The Stream of Life, Angel of Death, Sepia and Silver & The Libelle Papers
Gift of the Dark © May 2020 E. C. Hibbs
London, England
February 1769
The cartwheels rattled across the cobbles, slipping here and there where the stone was still slick. It had been raining all night, and the dampness had brought forth all manner of offensive aromas: the decay of discarded garbage; the bitterness of urine and cheap alcohol. And then another: the collective stink of the people who dwelled among it all, themselves hardly above rats who wore clothes and walked upon two legs.
How could these peasants still live like this in our modern eighteenth century? They were a disgrace upon every advancement of the era.
Whitechapel. The name sounded so inviting. In truth, it was the complete opposite of its pleasant moniker. The entire area hung so heavy with depravity, any true house of God would be more out of place than hen’s teeth. And there was nothing white in sight. Anything which may have once been so was soiled and stained. Even the whites of men’s eyes were watery and yellowed, and I turned away in disgust as they leered at the cart.
One came too close and Renley kicked him away. He landed on his backside in a puddle – I could tell from the smell of it that it was not rainwater.
I covered my face with a handkerchief and breathed through my mouth. Luckily, I had learned long ago to steel my stomach against the foulness of the outside world. This existence was disgusting, but separate from myself. There were more important matters than drink and whores. Let these beggars find their simple contentment in their own accumulated filth. Their lives hardly mattered.
Unless, of course, they were young and strong, and nobody would turn a head if they were to disappear.
I surveyed the scene before me: a winding street, heaving with bodies. So many walking skeletons: bags of bones and blood held together by thin flesh and even thinner morals. Then I saw what I had been hoping for: crouched in a doorway, three young men, huddled close to each other for warmth. Perfect.
I tapped Renley’s arm and nodded at them. He smirked, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
“You has a wonderful eye for ‘em, Doc,” he said.
“Doktor,” I corrected sternly.
“Aye, that,” said Renley as he turned the cart down a dingy alley.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Like the vermin around us, Renley was a simpleton, but he had his uses. A body-snatcher by trade, Father had bought his silence and loyalty; now he helped us to acquire the living alongside his own preference for the dead. And if our living happened to join the ranks of the dead, he had an exclusive commission. It was a fortunate collaboration, especially since Father had threatened to cut out his tongue if he ever became wayward. Or even to keep him underground forever, with those he helped me to bring in. Renley knew which was worse.
As soon as the cart was still, the two of us disembarked. I was dressed like the locals, but it was nothing more than disguise. I drew out a bunch of grapes from beneath my shirt and Renley eyed them hungrily. The only time he ever saw grapes was when he was with me. They were expensive, luxury things from climes far warmer than this dismal English hole. Even Prussia was not much warmer, but how I longed for it over this foul cityscape! How I dreamed to be back there: home. But when Father pioneered our new science over a decade ago, when I was still a fresh-faced youngster, he and our fellow Doktors realised the best place for application was here. London: the largest city in Europe, the centre of the British Empire, the heart of rising industry and progress. And yet with more than its share of slums and rats for the taking.
One day, I would bring everything back to Prussia where it belonged. But until then, there was work to be done.
Aware that a dog must be rewarded to continue behaving, I pulled off a grape and tossed it at Renley. It slipped through his fingers and landed on the ground. He swept it up anyway and stuffed it into his mouth. I did not hide my disgust.
“Be ready,” I instructed him.
“Aye, sir,” said Renley
I held his eyes for a moment longer than I needed to, until he lowered his head in submission. Then I walked away, in the opposite direction, until I was back on the main road. I set my attention on the three men in the doorway, wove through the sea of filthy bodies, and let a single grape drop from my hand.
I carried on walking, feigning ignorance. But in my periphery, I saw one of the men look straight at me. The smallest one darted forward and snatched the grape. I heard them muttering among themselves, then he handed the fruit over to his fellows and began tailing me.
The bait was taken, as it always was. They were all the same.
I had been hoping two of them might have followed, or even all three, but one would do. The urchin crept behind me, sticking to the shadows like the rat he was. I quickened my pace; he did the same. I dropped another grape; he pounced on it. No doubt now, he knew I had more of them. Or even perhaps a gold coin.
Oh, these simple people, and their simple dreams and desires! A gold coin for a life. A fair exchange, but only in the right hands.
I led him into the alley until we were shrouded in darkness. As soon as I passed the cart, Renley pounced.
There was a muffled yelp; the sounds of a scuffle. Renley pressed on the urchin's neck until his limbs became limp, then hoisted him onto the cart and I checked his vital signs. He looked about nineteen or twenty years old; only a handful of years younger than myself. His heartbeat was regular and strong. Good. He might be as thin as a broom handle, and was probably infested with all manner of worms, but he would not expire. And if there were any underlying conditions, we would soon fix that, until they would be a risk to us no more.
We covered him with a tarp and tied it down. To a passer-by, we could be undertakers, moving a corpse to where it could not foul the air with its stench. Nobody would notice. Nobody would care. And sure enough, not a single head was turned in our direction as we drove away. I did, however, hear the voices of the two other men rising above the cacophony of others.
Apparently, the urchin’s name was Jack. I hardly cared. His name did not matter anymore. I could argue that, among this worthless way of life, it never had.
How could these peasants still live like this in our modern eighteenth century? They were a disgrace upon every advancement of the era.
Whitechapel. The name sounded so inviting. In truth, it was the complete opposite of its pleasant moniker. The entire area hung so heavy with depravity, any true house of God would be more out of place than hen’s teeth. And there was nothing white in sight. Anything which may have once been so was soiled and stained. Even the whites of men’s eyes were watery and yellowed, and I turned away in disgust as they leered at the cart.
One came too close and Renley kicked him away. He landed on his backside in a puddle – I could tell from the smell of it that it was not rainwater.
I covered my face with a handkerchief and breathed through my mouth. Luckily, I had learned long ago to steel my stomach against the foulness of the outside world. This existence was disgusting, but separate from myself. There were more important matters than drink and whores. Let these beggars find their simple contentment in their own accumulated filth. Their lives hardly mattered.
Unless, of course, they were young and strong, and nobody would turn a head if they were to disappear.
I surveyed the scene before me: a winding street, heaving with bodies. So many walking skeletons: bags of bones and blood held together by thin flesh and even thinner morals. Then I saw what I had been hoping for: crouched in a doorway, three young men, huddled close to each other for warmth. Perfect.
I tapped Renley’s arm and nodded at them. He smirked, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
“You has a wonderful eye for ‘em, Doc,” he said.
“Doktor,” I corrected sternly.
“Aye, that,” said Renley as he turned the cart down a dingy alley.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Like the vermin around us, Renley was a simpleton, but he had his uses. A body-snatcher by trade, Father had bought his silence and loyalty; now he helped us to acquire the living alongside his own preference for the dead. And if our living happened to join the ranks of the dead, he had an exclusive commission. It was a fortunate collaboration, especially since Father had threatened to cut out his tongue if he ever became wayward. Or even to keep him underground forever, with those he helped me to bring in. Renley knew which was worse.
As soon as the cart was still, the two of us disembarked. I was dressed like the locals, but it was nothing more than disguise. I drew out a bunch of grapes from beneath my shirt and Renley eyed them hungrily. The only time he ever saw grapes was when he was with me. They were expensive, luxury things from climes far warmer than this dismal English hole. Even Prussia was not much warmer, but how I longed for it over this foul cityscape! How I dreamed to be back there: home. But when Father pioneered our new science over a decade ago, when I was still a fresh-faced youngster, he and our fellow Doktors realised the best place for application was here. London: the largest city in Europe, the centre of the British Empire, the heart of rising industry and progress. And yet with more than its share of slums and rats for the taking.
One day, I would bring everything back to Prussia where it belonged. But until then, there was work to be done.
Aware that a dog must be rewarded to continue behaving, I pulled off a grape and tossed it at Renley. It slipped through his fingers and landed on the ground. He swept it up anyway and stuffed it into his mouth. I did not hide my disgust.
“Be ready,” I instructed him.
“Aye, sir,” said Renley
I held his eyes for a moment longer than I needed to, until he lowered his head in submission. Then I walked away, in the opposite direction, until I was back on the main road. I set my attention on the three men in the doorway, wove through the sea of filthy bodies, and let a single grape drop from my hand.
I carried on walking, feigning ignorance. But in my periphery, I saw one of the men look straight at me. The smallest one darted forward and snatched the grape. I heard them muttering among themselves, then he handed the fruit over to his fellows and began tailing me.
The bait was taken, as it always was. They were all the same.
I had been hoping two of them might have followed, or even all three, but one would do. The urchin crept behind me, sticking to the shadows like the rat he was. I quickened my pace; he did the same. I dropped another grape; he pounced on it. No doubt now, he knew I had more of them. Or even perhaps a gold coin.
Oh, these simple people, and their simple dreams and desires! A gold coin for a life. A fair exchange, but only in the right hands.
I led him into the alley until we were shrouded in darkness. As soon as I passed the cart, Renley pounced.
There was a muffled yelp; the sounds of a scuffle. Renley pressed on the urchin's neck until his limbs became limp, then hoisted him onto the cart and I checked his vital signs. He looked about nineteen or twenty years old; only a handful of years younger than myself. His heartbeat was regular and strong. Good. He might be as thin as a broom handle, and was probably infested with all manner of worms, but he would not expire. And if there were any underlying conditions, we would soon fix that, until they would be a risk to us no more.
We covered him with a tarp and tied it down. To a passer-by, we could be undertakers, moving a corpse to where it could not foul the air with its stench. Nobody would notice. Nobody would care. And sure enough, not a single head was turned in our direction as we drove away. I did, however, hear the voices of the two other men rising above the cacophony of others.
Apparently, the urchin’s name was Jack. I hardly cared. His name did not matter anymore. I could argue that, among this worthless way of life, it never had.
*
It was only a short journey to the Haus des Giftes. From the outside, it was a dilapidated building, falling in upon itself, too dangerous for even the most determined squatter to enter. But I kicked some rubble aside to reveal a manhole bolted with a heavy padlock. I quickly unlocked it, and descended the ladder below. Renley followed, the unconscious man slumped over his shoulder.
Then he groaned.
“Verdammt!” I snarled. “Hurry, you idiot!”
“I am!” Renley replied.
He slammed the manhole shut. For a moment, we were cast into darkness, but then my eyes adjusted to the tiny flickers of candlelight shining against the walls. They were sparsely-mounted, made from cheap tallow which made the air stink of burning fat, and over a year of their smoke had left a trailing black residue over the bricks.
Renley moved the urchin, to get a better grip on his legs. The movement jarred him, and he opened his eyes. I stood before him and inspected his grimy face. Dirt had worked its way into his pores and either side of his nose, so he looked like a graphite sketch somehow come alive. He would have made a fine chimney sweep, thin and twig-like as he was.
He was fine for us too. His strong pulse had proven that.
The rat looked straight at me with a lucidity which took me by surprise. His eyes were a startling green colour, and the dirt surrounding them made them appear as bright as stars.
Yes, he was a sharp one.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Be silent,” I snapped.
But the urchin only looked around, his movements becoming more frantic by the second.
“Oliver?” he cried. “Charley! Where are you?”
I stepped forward and slapped him. Blood began to trickle from his nose, and somewhere deep in the bowels of the tunnels, I heard a screech.
They had smelt it. It was an appropriate reminder – several of them were due their fill. But the other Doktors could see to that. It was my job to find them, not to feed them.
The urchin struggled like a worm on a hook. Renley held him tighter, pinning his arms.
“We should’ve bound his wrists, Doc,” he said. “We got ourselves a wriggler!”
“Doktor,” I snapped. “And he will not be wriggling for long.”
“What are you going to do to me?” the rat shrieked. “Let me go! Oliver! Charley! Help!”
Renley carried him down the tunnel. I walked in front of them, leading the way to the holding room. Renley did not come down to this level as often as I. He could never find the way by himself.
I reached the door and swung it open. But before Renley could throw the urchin inside, I noticed the glow of another candle at the end of the tunnel; separate from the others: handheld. Then I heard Father’s voice.
“What have you found today, Felix?”
In response, I bade Renley put the urchin down. He stumbled weakly as his feet hit the floor, and Renley held his thin arms in his massive hands. Father approached from the darkness, the candle throwing shadows upon the pale curls of his powdered wig. He held the candle close to the man’s face.
He nodded to himself.
“Well done,” he said. “Have you noticed anything worth knowing?”
“He is in good health, as much as can be expected,” I replied.
We spoke in German – these words were meant solely for the two of us. There was no need to involve the dog or the rat in high conversation.
“Do you wish to turn him tomorrow?” I asked.
Father inspected the man again. “Nein. I think this one will give us trouble if we do not sedate him immediately. And there is no point wasting valuable chemicals when venom is also perfectly serviceable.”
The urchin glared between us with a hatred out of Hell itself. Then he suddenly lunged forward, with such sudden intensity, he broke free of Renley’s hold. He flung out a hand and raked his long fingernails across Father’s face.
Father spun away with a cry. Renley hurriedly restrained the urchin again, and I yanked on a rope on the wall. A bell sounded through the tunnels, followed by footsteps, as several of our fellow Doktors approached. They took one look at the scene and swept in to grab the struggling rat.
“Take him to the giftkammer and prepare him for the procedure!” I snapped.
The Doktors did not waste a moment, and bundled him away. Even when they were gone from sight, I could still hear his frantic yells. But I paid no heed. Even in the low light, I could see Father's injury: a gash down his right cheek, stretching his lips into a grotesque half-smile.
I took him to the office and sat him down, then set about gathering bandages. Father inspected the wound with his fingertips.
“He managed to cut me deep,” he said in surprise.
“It may scar,” I warned as I held a compress to his face. “Disgusting maggot.”
“You forget, he is human still, Felix,” said Father. “Granted, not for long, but he is bid to act as our fellow man would until that moment.”
“He is no fellow of ours,” I muttered. "None of them are equal to us."
I fetched a needle and thread. Father gripped the arms of the chair as I drew the instrument through his flesh. I worked as quickly as I could, then bound a dressing over it.
“He is spirited,” said Father. “He should have the strength to survive. So, let's not keep him waiting.”
“Do you feel able?” I asked.
“Of course. Only a scratch, after all. I shall respond to him in kind.”
With that, the two of us walked through the tunnels. Along the way, we passed the blutkammer: the blood chamber, and I stole a glance inside to check the process. Several bodies were suspended from the ceiling by the ankles, and blood drained from an incision in their throats into waiting containers below. These people were all old or wracked with advanced disease: lepers or lunatics, mainly; ones who had been deemed unworthy of our limited supply of venom, but could still serve a purpose.
Even before our science was truly established, Father knew the subjects needed the lifeforce of humans to survive. Tapping it in this way was the most humane manner in which to do so.
I inspected the containers. One was almost full. I made a mental note to return in half an hour and tie off the pipe.
Father and I entered the giftkammer: the room of venom. It was aptly named. It was larger than the other chambers, converted from a long-forgotten cellar into a makeshift operating theatre, surrounded by steep tiers of standing stalls where our fellow Doktors waited. In the centre, the urchin was strapped to a table by the wrists, ankles and head. As Father and I approached, he watched us with huge eyes, his entire body trembling.
“Please…” he breathed, “I’m sorry… Please just let me go! I won’t tell anyone about this, just let me go to my brothers! I beg you!”
Father thanked the Doktors for restraining him so well, and asked me to prepare the syringe. I fetched a jar of venom, which we had milked from a previous subject, inserted the needle into it, and drew up the plunger, until the glass chamber filled with thick black liquid. I flicked the top to remove any bubbles, then handed it to Father.
He pointed to the man’s neck.
“The ideal points are the jugular and the carotid. I shall be using the former today,” he announced. “Approximately two inches below the temporomandibular joint, here, at a depth of half an inch. Observe, gentlemen.”
“What are you saying?” the urchin cried. “Don’t hurt me! Please! No!”
I took out my pocket watch, waited until the second hand reached the top, and nodded. Father slid the needle into the urchin's neck and pressed the plunger down.
His scream pierced the air. The venom immediately ran under his skin like the branches of a grotesque tree. I could see every vein and vessel as the substance worked its way through his system. His entire body jolted as though he were having a fit, then he fell limp, gasping for breath, eyes fluttering as he fought to stay awake.
Finally, they closed.
“Thirty-four seconds,” I said, lowering my watch.
The Doktors rapped their knuckles on the railing in applause. I threw them a smile before unstrapping the rat. Doktor Veidt approached to assist me, and together we carried him down the tunnels to the cells.
They were slowly filling up with subjects we had accumulated from the streets. Some had come of age already and were full vampires. Others were still undergoing the transformation, and begged for us to see them as human. They cried for mercy, food, warmth; but we ignored them, as we would an animal.
At first, such sounds had disturbed me, as it would any man. But that was a long time ago, and I had seen things since which had left me stone-hearted to anything, save for the greater good. And was that not what we, as pioneers of the great new science, had to put first? If studies had shown anything, it was that the minority must sometimes be sacrificed for the majority – and what was that majority if not knowledge? Intelligence? The banishment of the old wives’ tales and fairy stories?
These were not human cries. These creatures were no more than machines, as Descartes had so eloquently claimed. The only sound was merely the grinding of the mechanisms within. Heart beating. Blood flowing. Bones moving. Nothing more.
This man in my arms was like them now. Therefore, there was to be no attachment. No emotion. I would treat him as I would anything nonhuman, for that was what they all were.
We laid the rat in an empty cell, upon the straw mattress. He would awaken in time. When he did, I would see that he was fed and watered.
I locked the door and was about to thank Doktor Veidt, when I caught an unmistakable smell from the neighbouring room. I peered through the small hole in the top of the door, and noticed the woman within lying on her back, arms splayed and mouth open. Her skin was shot through with black, and a dull bruise had started to form on her side. That told me all I needed to know: she had come of age and not survived as the venom ravaged her tissues, so the blood had ceased flowing and pooled wherever gravity pulled it.
I sighed. “Fetch Renley. It seems he has a commission tonight, after all.”
“Ja, Doktor Bernstein,” said Doktor Veidt. “A shame. She was a strong one.”
“Not strong enough.”
“Did we not feed her?”
“Obviously not,” I said.
I walked to Father’s office. He was seated at his desk, as I knew he would be, his face highlighted by a single oil lamp. This far underground, no sunlight could penetrate, but that served our purposes well. We had learned early in our studies that the touch of the sun cast a peculiar effect upon the subjects. It burned them as full vampires, and caused them to break out in a rash as juveniles. It was another topic of this field yet to be fully explored.
In a silent wistful manner, I turned my eyes skyward and imagined the touch of the sun upon my skin. There was little of it to be had at this time of year in any circumstance, but what could it possibly be like to never know it again? I supposed I could sympathise to a point, living beneath the streets as I had for so long, but that was a necessity. To be one of them, hidden forever, leeching the blood from innocents... and yet I wondered, could it be done without killing the victim? Might the juveniles yet survive if left to their own devices; take only a minimum amount of blood from a living person and then continue as any human would? What was it about full vampires which granted them the ability to move or restrain objects by force of the mind, or sprout wings from their shoulders, or be ageless as a marble statue, all whilst becoming completely unable to withstand daylight?
And, my most perplexing thought of all: how could one reckon with this condition if it were not inflicted against one's will? I doubted the impact would be any less monstrous, but it was food for thought. Perhaps one day we would know. It was far too much for any single lifetime, and I felt, with some disgust, that we Doktors would be required to come even closer to the rats to observe the effects.
I pulled myself from my reverie, and took my place in the chair opposite Father.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him.
“Just fine, Mein Junge,” he said, and absently touched the bandage with his finger. “I have suffered worse than this. No need to concern yourself.”
He returned to his work. A small book was open in front of him, loose papers splaying from the leather covers in careful order. Each one was written in no language a man would understand, save for those of us within the Haus des Giftes. It was a special code which Father had devised himself. Therein lay the accounts of our findings, all of Father’s musings and hypotheses, everything concerning the nature of these devils in our midst. It was deathly important that our work not be discovered and published until the time was right. Until we had ourselves found all we needed to know. These creatures of darkness were too dangerous to unleash upon an unsuspecting world.
“Do you have anything to report on our latest addition?” asked Father. “I shall call him Male 12. Remind me of the date again, please.”
“February 20th. And the same as the others,” I said. “Female 13 is dead. I arranged for Renley to take care of it.”
Father rolled his eyes. “Another one? Good God. I fear we may need to give them more food.”
“They receive enough to survive and enough that we can spare,” I insisted. “I'm afraid ours is an expensive enterprise.”
“But a necessary one.” Father laid down his quill and looked at me. “Remember what we are doing here is a mighty work. One day, those in our new field and outside it, all over the globe, will sing praises of the wonderful discoveries brought to light in this place. We will be remembered forever, and you and I shall be at the helm in history. Imagine it: Doktors David and Felix Bernstein, the fathers of modern vampirism.”
I smiled. “I know, Father.”
“And one day,” he continued, closing the book, “you will take charge of this: the Bernstein family legacy.”
As he lifted it, the gilt letters on the cover shone in the low light.
Die Gift. The Venom.
Then he groaned.
“Verdammt!” I snarled. “Hurry, you idiot!”
“I am!” Renley replied.
He slammed the manhole shut. For a moment, we were cast into darkness, but then my eyes adjusted to the tiny flickers of candlelight shining against the walls. They were sparsely-mounted, made from cheap tallow which made the air stink of burning fat, and over a year of their smoke had left a trailing black residue over the bricks.
Renley moved the urchin, to get a better grip on his legs. The movement jarred him, and he opened his eyes. I stood before him and inspected his grimy face. Dirt had worked its way into his pores and either side of his nose, so he looked like a graphite sketch somehow come alive. He would have made a fine chimney sweep, thin and twig-like as he was.
He was fine for us too. His strong pulse had proven that.
The rat looked straight at me with a lucidity which took me by surprise. His eyes were a startling green colour, and the dirt surrounding them made them appear as bright as stars.
Yes, he was a sharp one.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Be silent,” I snapped.
But the urchin only looked around, his movements becoming more frantic by the second.
“Oliver?” he cried. “Charley! Where are you?”
I stepped forward and slapped him. Blood began to trickle from his nose, and somewhere deep in the bowels of the tunnels, I heard a screech.
They had smelt it. It was an appropriate reminder – several of them were due their fill. But the other Doktors could see to that. It was my job to find them, not to feed them.
The urchin struggled like a worm on a hook. Renley held him tighter, pinning his arms.
“We should’ve bound his wrists, Doc,” he said. “We got ourselves a wriggler!”
“Doktor,” I snapped. “And he will not be wriggling for long.”
“What are you going to do to me?” the rat shrieked. “Let me go! Oliver! Charley! Help!”
Renley carried him down the tunnel. I walked in front of them, leading the way to the holding room. Renley did not come down to this level as often as I. He could never find the way by himself.
I reached the door and swung it open. But before Renley could throw the urchin inside, I noticed the glow of another candle at the end of the tunnel; separate from the others: handheld. Then I heard Father’s voice.
“What have you found today, Felix?”
In response, I bade Renley put the urchin down. He stumbled weakly as his feet hit the floor, and Renley held his thin arms in his massive hands. Father approached from the darkness, the candle throwing shadows upon the pale curls of his powdered wig. He held the candle close to the man’s face.
He nodded to himself.
“Well done,” he said. “Have you noticed anything worth knowing?”
“He is in good health, as much as can be expected,” I replied.
We spoke in German – these words were meant solely for the two of us. There was no need to involve the dog or the rat in high conversation.
“Do you wish to turn him tomorrow?” I asked.
Father inspected the man again. “Nein. I think this one will give us trouble if we do not sedate him immediately. And there is no point wasting valuable chemicals when venom is also perfectly serviceable.”
The urchin glared between us with a hatred out of Hell itself. Then he suddenly lunged forward, with such sudden intensity, he broke free of Renley’s hold. He flung out a hand and raked his long fingernails across Father’s face.
Father spun away with a cry. Renley hurriedly restrained the urchin again, and I yanked on a rope on the wall. A bell sounded through the tunnels, followed by footsteps, as several of our fellow Doktors approached. They took one look at the scene and swept in to grab the struggling rat.
“Take him to the giftkammer and prepare him for the procedure!” I snapped.
The Doktors did not waste a moment, and bundled him away. Even when they were gone from sight, I could still hear his frantic yells. But I paid no heed. Even in the low light, I could see Father's injury: a gash down his right cheek, stretching his lips into a grotesque half-smile.
I took him to the office and sat him down, then set about gathering bandages. Father inspected the wound with his fingertips.
“He managed to cut me deep,” he said in surprise.
“It may scar,” I warned as I held a compress to his face. “Disgusting maggot.”
“You forget, he is human still, Felix,” said Father. “Granted, not for long, but he is bid to act as our fellow man would until that moment.”
“He is no fellow of ours,” I muttered. "None of them are equal to us."
I fetched a needle and thread. Father gripped the arms of the chair as I drew the instrument through his flesh. I worked as quickly as I could, then bound a dressing over it.
“He is spirited,” said Father. “He should have the strength to survive. So, let's not keep him waiting.”
“Do you feel able?” I asked.
“Of course. Only a scratch, after all. I shall respond to him in kind.”
With that, the two of us walked through the tunnels. Along the way, we passed the blutkammer: the blood chamber, and I stole a glance inside to check the process. Several bodies were suspended from the ceiling by the ankles, and blood drained from an incision in their throats into waiting containers below. These people were all old or wracked with advanced disease: lepers or lunatics, mainly; ones who had been deemed unworthy of our limited supply of venom, but could still serve a purpose.
Even before our science was truly established, Father knew the subjects needed the lifeforce of humans to survive. Tapping it in this way was the most humane manner in which to do so.
I inspected the containers. One was almost full. I made a mental note to return in half an hour and tie off the pipe.
Father and I entered the giftkammer: the room of venom. It was aptly named. It was larger than the other chambers, converted from a long-forgotten cellar into a makeshift operating theatre, surrounded by steep tiers of standing stalls where our fellow Doktors waited. In the centre, the urchin was strapped to a table by the wrists, ankles and head. As Father and I approached, he watched us with huge eyes, his entire body trembling.
“Please…” he breathed, “I’m sorry… Please just let me go! I won’t tell anyone about this, just let me go to my brothers! I beg you!”
Father thanked the Doktors for restraining him so well, and asked me to prepare the syringe. I fetched a jar of venom, which we had milked from a previous subject, inserted the needle into it, and drew up the plunger, until the glass chamber filled with thick black liquid. I flicked the top to remove any bubbles, then handed it to Father.
He pointed to the man’s neck.
“The ideal points are the jugular and the carotid. I shall be using the former today,” he announced. “Approximately two inches below the temporomandibular joint, here, at a depth of half an inch. Observe, gentlemen.”
“What are you saying?” the urchin cried. “Don’t hurt me! Please! No!”
I took out my pocket watch, waited until the second hand reached the top, and nodded. Father slid the needle into the urchin's neck and pressed the plunger down.
His scream pierced the air. The venom immediately ran under his skin like the branches of a grotesque tree. I could see every vein and vessel as the substance worked its way through his system. His entire body jolted as though he were having a fit, then he fell limp, gasping for breath, eyes fluttering as he fought to stay awake.
Finally, they closed.
“Thirty-four seconds,” I said, lowering my watch.
The Doktors rapped their knuckles on the railing in applause. I threw them a smile before unstrapping the rat. Doktor Veidt approached to assist me, and together we carried him down the tunnels to the cells.
They were slowly filling up with subjects we had accumulated from the streets. Some had come of age already and were full vampires. Others were still undergoing the transformation, and begged for us to see them as human. They cried for mercy, food, warmth; but we ignored them, as we would an animal.
At first, such sounds had disturbed me, as it would any man. But that was a long time ago, and I had seen things since which had left me stone-hearted to anything, save for the greater good. And was that not what we, as pioneers of the great new science, had to put first? If studies had shown anything, it was that the minority must sometimes be sacrificed for the majority – and what was that majority if not knowledge? Intelligence? The banishment of the old wives’ tales and fairy stories?
These were not human cries. These creatures were no more than machines, as Descartes had so eloquently claimed. The only sound was merely the grinding of the mechanisms within. Heart beating. Blood flowing. Bones moving. Nothing more.
This man in my arms was like them now. Therefore, there was to be no attachment. No emotion. I would treat him as I would anything nonhuman, for that was what they all were.
We laid the rat in an empty cell, upon the straw mattress. He would awaken in time. When he did, I would see that he was fed and watered.
I locked the door and was about to thank Doktor Veidt, when I caught an unmistakable smell from the neighbouring room. I peered through the small hole in the top of the door, and noticed the woman within lying on her back, arms splayed and mouth open. Her skin was shot through with black, and a dull bruise had started to form on her side. That told me all I needed to know: she had come of age and not survived as the venom ravaged her tissues, so the blood had ceased flowing and pooled wherever gravity pulled it.
I sighed. “Fetch Renley. It seems he has a commission tonight, after all.”
“Ja, Doktor Bernstein,” said Doktor Veidt. “A shame. She was a strong one.”
“Not strong enough.”
“Did we not feed her?”
“Obviously not,” I said.
I walked to Father’s office. He was seated at his desk, as I knew he would be, his face highlighted by a single oil lamp. This far underground, no sunlight could penetrate, but that served our purposes well. We had learned early in our studies that the touch of the sun cast a peculiar effect upon the subjects. It burned them as full vampires, and caused them to break out in a rash as juveniles. It was another topic of this field yet to be fully explored.
In a silent wistful manner, I turned my eyes skyward and imagined the touch of the sun upon my skin. There was little of it to be had at this time of year in any circumstance, but what could it possibly be like to never know it again? I supposed I could sympathise to a point, living beneath the streets as I had for so long, but that was a necessity. To be one of them, hidden forever, leeching the blood from innocents... and yet I wondered, could it be done without killing the victim? Might the juveniles yet survive if left to their own devices; take only a minimum amount of blood from a living person and then continue as any human would? What was it about full vampires which granted them the ability to move or restrain objects by force of the mind, or sprout wings from their shoulders, or be ageless as a marble statue, all whilst becoming completely unable to withstand daylight?
And, my most perplexing thought of all: how could one reckon with this condition if it were not inflicted against one's will? I doubted the impact would be any less monstrous, but it was food for thought. Perhaps one day we would know. It was far too much for any single lifetime, and I felt, with some disgust, that we Doktors would be required to come even closer to the rats to observe the effects.
I pulled myself from my reverie, and took my place in the chair opposite Father.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him.
“Just fine, Mein Junge,” he said, and absently touched the bandage with his finger. “I have suffered worse than this. No need to concern yourself.”
He returned to his work. A small book was open in front of him, loose papers splaying from the leather covers in careful order. Each one was written in no language a man would understand, save for those of us within the Haus des Giftes. It was a special code which Father had devised himself. Therein lay the accounts of our findings, all of Father’s musings and hypotheses, everything concerning the nature of these devils in our midst. It was deathly important that our work not be discovered and published until the time was right. Until we had ourselves found all we needed to know. These creatures of darkness were too dangerous to unleash upon an unsuspecting world.
“Do you have anything to report on our latest addition?” asked Father. “I shall call him Male 12. Remind me of the date again, please.”
“February 20th. And the same as the others,” I said. “Female 13 is dead. I arranged for Renley to take care of it.”
Father rolled his eyes. “Another one? Good God. I fear we may need to give them more food.”
“They receive enough to survive and enough that we can spare,” I insisted. “I'm afraid ours is an expensive enterprise.”
“But a necessary one.” Father laid down his quill and looked at me. “Remember what we are doing here is a mighty work. One day, those in our new field and outside it, all over the globe, will sing praises of the wonderful discoveries brought to light in this place. We will be remembered forever, and you and I shall be at the helm in history. Imagine it: Doktors David and Felix Bernstein, the fathers of modern vampirism.”
I smiled. “I know, Father.”
“And one day,” he continued, closing the book, “you will take charge of this: the Bernstein family legacy.”
As he lifted it, the gilt letters on the cover shone in the low light.
Die Gift. The Venom.
*
Our work was one which called for great patience as well as precision. The earliest we had observed a transformation from juvenile to full vampire was six months. The venom required time to travel throughout the body and spread its influence upon the tissues, as well as into the bloodstream. As it swept along its path, it delivered the recipient from any maladies which had previously plagued them. I witnessed it do away with consumption and influenza in many subjects. All were documented meticulously from the safety of the giftkammer, or through the windows in the doors.
But none concerned me more than Male 12. We had brought others to the Haus since Renley and I captured him. Most of those others had since come of age or died. Yet he endured – that scraggly insufferable urchin from the Whitechapel gutter – for ten years.
Ten whole years.
He was ageing as a human would, and now appeared almost thirty – but he was not human. I always reminded myself of that. Every single time I looked upon him, he lay on his wooden bench covered by straw, staring at something only he could see. He had attempted to kill himself several times, resulting in his clothes being taken away. One night, he had even turned a spoon upon his own wrists and so his eating utensils were also removed.
I would regard him with a strange perverse fascination; stare at his skinny naked body, as he ate with bare hands, long hair around his face. His endurance interested me, but I could not wait to be shot of him. Almost all the vampires were destroyed after coming of age, in order to reduce risk. However, I had convinced Father to vivisect this one, once the transformation was complete. I wished to see what it was about his unremarkable form which facilitated such a long latency period.
My musings were interrupted by the arrival of Renley. A small figure was slumped over his shoulder, a threadbare skirt around its ankles. It was tiny compared to the others in residence here.
“Let me see,” I said with a smile.
The figure was an unconscious girl, about twelve years old. I checked her vitals and found them strong.
“Take her to the room down there, with the open door,” I instructed. “Then wait for me in the leichenkammer. There are two you can deliver to the medical school.”
“Aye, Doktor,” said Renley. After a fashion, he had finally learned to refer to his betters by our proper titles.
I watched him as he walked away with the girl. She was to be the first in my own branch of study. A year ago, after assisting and observing Father for so long, I developed a hypothesis concerning how the venom might affect children on the verge of menarche. Thus far, we had only investigated adults and teenagers, but none younger.
A cry broke out behind me.
I spun around. It was a sound I knew well. And it was coming from Male 12 – at last!
I pulled the emergency bell. Within moments, the other Doktors were hurrying towards me, Father at the head of them. His old scar shone in the low light.
“It is time!” I exclaimed.
We pressed ourselves to the window in the cell door. I retrieved my watch, and turned to observe with bated breath. It was nothing I hadn't seen before, but this stage of the condition fascinated me.
Male 12 was on his side, convulsing violently. His veins turned black: the venom had returned to the surface and flooded through him, as it had on the day when Father had injected him. His mouth stretched so wide, I thought his jaw might unhinge itself.
He saw us at the door and tried to stretch out a hand.
I glanced at my watch. Seventeen seconds.
He flipped onto his front, eyes bulging, clutching at his neck. He extended his hand again, palm up to expose his wrist. I cocked an eyebrow. They always did that during this stage, and we had not yet found the reason why.
And then, the moment we had been waiting for! Male 12's pupils dilated until his irises were all but lost to darkness, and a pair of great wings thrust themselves out of his shoulder blades. Two gigantic appendages, such as those one might see upon a bat: skeletal and leathery, with small claws upon the end of each limb.
With a final shudder, he collapsed, spent from the transformation. The wings folded down and disappeared, as though they had not been there at all. But I could still see their sites: two small protrusions upon the scapulae.
“Forty-one seconds,” I said.
All the Doktors clapped. I turned to Father and shared a prideful smile with him. His scar gave the impression of his mouth stretching further than its natural boundary, but I didn't care.
“To the giftkammer,” Father said. “We will begin immediately.”
The Doktors unlocked the door and entered the cell. The smell was so offensive, I turned away, and several of the others held handkerchiefs to their noses. It was a terrible, animalistic odour: stale sweat, waste, damp straw and blood. But Veidt and Weber held their nerves and stomachs in order, and took Male 12 by the arms. He hung between them like a dead piece of meat, feet dragging along the floor behind him.
I could barely contain myself. Like any respectable scientist, I had kept my skills sharp upon dogs and monkeys, but it had been too long since we had performed a live vivisection on one of these beasts.
Male 12’s head shot up.
As though struck, Doktor Veidt flew against the wall and cracked his head on the bricks. The vampire tore free and did the same to Weber. The other Doktors sprang forward in alarm, but he also sent them to their knees. A single glance from him, and they froze where they stood, or were tossed through the air like ragdolls.
I leapt forward to restrain him, but he looked at me, and I was thrown to the floor. An almighty pressure pinned me in place, as though the creature was sitting on my chest.
Weber screamed. There was a wet sound, such as a hound tearing into meat. Blood sprayed up to the ceiling.
The entire Haus exploded into cacophany as the other subject smelled it. They knew.
Suddenly, I felt the pressure lift as Male 12 turned away from us. I staggered to my feet, snatched Father, and the two of us fled. The other Doktors followed, shrieking like women.
Panic turned my muscles to liquid. I had lived my life working in these dark tunnels beneath the Earth. But now, the once-familiar shadows seemed stretched out to catch me. We had experienced escapes before, but not like this. Never a full vampire.
All safety was gone. There was a creature on the loose; a demon filled with a decade of hatred and cruelty and bloodlust. Vengeance had shone like wicked stars in those bottomless black eyes. It would kill us all.
We split up, each desperate to find somewhere to hide. Only Father and I stayed together. With every step, we heard another scream, followed by an inhuman hiss, coming closer and closer. The beast was moving after everyone, taking them one by one. We would be next.
“Wait!” Father cried, and dashed inside his office. He returned with a bag and the dark shape of Die Gift under his arm.
We reached the giftkammer. Father locked the door, and bent over the table in the centre of the stalls, struggling to breathe.
I looked around. There was only one other exit from this chamber, beside the venom jar cabinet. But it led to the surface.
The hissing grew louder. I let out a cry of dread. The creature was outside, separated from us only by a thin plane of wood. It would drain us dry. We were going to die down here.
Father suddenly thrust Die Gift into my hands.
“You must go!” he said.
My mind turned blank with panic.
“Nein! You too!”
“It mustn't catch us both!” Father insisted sharply. “Save the book and save yourself! I shall hold it off for you!”
He didn't wait for me to argue. He hung the bag around my neck, opened the exit, and shoved me onto the staircase beyond. The darkness silhouetted his face, but I still saw his eyes looking into mine.
“Know that I am so proud of you, Felix,” he said, then slammed the door shut.
“Nein!” I cried. Before I could even twist the handle, a loud crash from the other side: splintering wood and shattering glass. He had pushed the cabinet over to block the way.
“No! Father!” I screamed, pounding on the door.
“Go! Run!” he shouted back.
Something banged on the opposite side of the room. The hiss filled my ears like icy water. The vampire was in the giftkammer.
“I beg you, no! Please!” Father whimpered, all the honour and placidness gone from his voice.
The creature growled. “You… most of all!”
I shuddered. Even now, after all this time, it could still speak.
There were sounds of a struggle, then a scream which curdled my blood.
I sprinted up the spiral stairs, tumbling and tripping over my own feet. I stretched out one hand to feel my way. The walls pressed around me like a stone coffin.
That thing would know I was here. It would come after me like a rabid animal, pin me down under its terrible gaze and rend the flesh from my bones…
And then, at last, I saw daylight: a tiny white line around the edges of a door.
I threw myself at it so viciously that the old wood broke, and I fell into an old disused building. I hurried ahead, towards a second door, which I knew would open onto the street. I didn't bother with the lock; just kicked my way through.
Fresh air filled my lungs. The sky was open and wide above me, without a cloud in sight: a great, bright May day.
Relief filled my body like stones. I was not a man of God, yet I still turned my face towards the sun and thanked it aloud. Under its glow, I was safe. The vampire could never survive in the light.
But I could. At such cost! My poor, dear Father...
The sting of horror and grief swelled within me like a thundercloud. I collapsed upon the cobbles, Die Gift against my chest, and wept.
But none concerned me more than Male 12. We had brought others to the Haus since Renley and I captured him. Most of those others had since come of age or died. Yet he endured – that scraggly insufferable urchin from the Whitechapel gutter – for ten years.
Ten whole years.
He was ageing as a human would, and now appeared almost thirty – but he was not human. I always reminded myself of that. Every single time I looked upon him, he lay on his wooden bench covered by straw, staring at something only he could see. He had attempted to kill himself several times, resulting in his clothes being taken away. One night, he had even turned a spoon upon his own wrists and so his eating utensils were also removed.
I would regard him with a strange perverse fascination; stare at his skinny naked body, as he ate with bare hands, long hair around his face. His endurance interested me, but I could not wait to be shot of him. Almost all the vampires were destroyed after coming of age, in order to reduce risk. However, I had convinced Father to vivisect this one, once the transformation was complete. I wished to see what it was about his unremarkable form which facilitated such a long latency period.
My musings were interrupted by the arrival of Renley. A small figure was slumped over his shoulder, a threadbare skirt around its ankles. It was tiny compared to the others in residence here.
“Let me see,” I said with a smile.
The figure was an unconscious girl, about twelve years old. I checked her vitals and found them strong.
“Take her to the room down there, with the open door,” I instructed. “Then wait for me in the leichenkammer. There are two you can deliver to the medical school.”
“Aye, Doktor,” said Renley. After a fashion, he had finally learned to refer to his betters by our proper titles.
I watched him as he walked away with the girl. She was to be the first in my own branch of study. A year ago, after assisting and observing Father for so long, I developed a hypothesis concerning how the venom might affect children on the verge of menarche. Thus far, we had only investigated adults and teenagers, but none younger.
A cry broke out behind me.
I spun around. It was a sound I knew well. And it was coming from Male 12 – at last!
I pulled the emergency bell. Within moments, the other Doktors were hurrying towards me, Father at the head of them. His old scar shone in the low light.
“It is time!” I exclaimed.
We pressed ourselves to the window in the cell door. I retrieved my watch, and turned to observe with bated breath. It was nothing I hadn't seen before, but this stage of the condition fascinated me.
Male 12 was on his side, convulsing violently. His veins turned black: the venom had returned to the surface and flooded through him, as it had on the day when Father had injected him. His mouth stretched so wide, I thought his jaw might unhinge itself.
He saw us at the door and tried to stretch out a hand.
I glanced at my watch. Seventeen seconds.
He flipped onto his front, eyes bulging, clutching at his neck. He extended his hand again, palm up to expose his wrist. I cocked an eyebrow. They always did that during this stage, and we had not yet found the reason why.
And then, the moment we had been waiting for! Male 12's pupils dilated until his irises were all but lost to darkness, and a pair of great wings thrust themselves out of his shoulder blades. Two gigantic appendages, such as those one might see upon a bat: skeletal and leathery, with small claws upon the end of each limb.
With a final shudder, he collapsed, spent from the transformation. The wings folded down and disappeared, as though they had not been there at all. But I could still see their sites: two small protrusions upon the scapulae.
“Forty-one seconds,” I said.
All the Doktors clapped. I turned to Father and shared a prideful smile with him. His scar gave the impression of his mouth stretching further than its natural boundary, but I didn't care.
“To the giftkammer,” Father said. “We will begin immediately.”
The Doktors unlocked the door and entered the cell. The smell was so offensive, I turned away, and several of the others held handkerchiefs to their noses. It was a terrible, animalistic odour: stale sweat, waste, damp straw and blood. But Veidt and Weber held their nerves and stomachs in order, and took Male 12 by the arms. He hung between them like a dead piece of meat, feet dragging along the floor behind him.
I could barely contain myself. Like any respectable scientist, I had kept my skills sharp upon dogs and monkeys, but it had been too long since we had performed a live vivisection on one of these beasts.
Male 12’s head shot up.
As though struck, Doktor Veidt flew against the wall and cracked his head on the bricks. The vampire tore free and did the same to Weber. The other Doktors sprang forward in alarm, but he also sent them to their knees. A single glance from him, and they froze where they stood, or were tossed through the air like ragdolls.
I leapt forward to restrain him, but he looked at me, and I was thrown to the floor. An almighty pressure pinned me in place, as though the creature was sitting on my chest.
Weber screamed. There was a wet sound, such as a hound tearing into meat. Blood sprayed up to the ceiling.
The entire Haus exploded into cacophany as the other subject smelled it. They knew.
Suddenly, I felt the pressure lift as Male 12 turned away from us. I staggered to my feet, snatched Father, and the two of us fled. The other Doktors followed, shrieking like women.
Panic turned my muscles to liquid. I had lived my life working in these dark tunnels beneath the Earth. But now, the once-familiar shadows seemed stretched out to catch me. We had experienced escapes before, but not like this. Never a full vampire.
All safety was gone. There was a creature on the loose; a demon filled with a decade of hatred and cruelty and bloodlust. Vengeance had shone like wicked stars in those bottomless black eyes. It would kill us all.
We split up, each desperate to find somewhere to hide. Only Father and I stayed together. With every step, we heard another scream, followed by an inhuman hiss, coming closer and closer. The beast was moving after everyone, taking them one by one. We would be next.
“Wait!” Father cried, and dashed inside his office. He returned with a bag and the dark shape of Die Gift under his arm.
We reached the giftkammer. Father locked the door, and bent over the table in the centre of the stalls, struggling to breathe.
I looked around. There was only one other exit from this chamber, beside the venom jar cabinet. But it led to the surface.
The hissing grew louder. I let out a cry of dread. The creature was outside, separated from us only by a thin plane of wood. It would drain us dry. We were going to die down here.
Father suddenly thrust Die Gift into my hands.
“You must go!” he said.
My mind turned blank with panic.
“Nein! You too!”
“It mustn't catch us both!” Father insisted sharply. “Save the book and save yourself! I shall hold it off for you!”
He didn't wait for me to argue. He hung the bag around my neck, opened the exit, and shoved me onto the staircase beyond. The darkness silhouetted his face, but I still saw his eyes looking into mine.
“Know that I am so proud of you, Felix,” he said, then slammed the door shut.
“Nein!” I cried. Before I could even twist the handle, a loud crash from the other side: splintering wood and shattering glass. He had pushed the cabinet over to block the way.
“No! Father!” I screamed, pounding on the door.
“Go! Run!” he shouted back.
Something banged on the opposite side of the room. The hiss filled my ears like icy water. The vampire was in the giftkammer.
“I beg you, no! Please!” Father whimpered, all the honour and placidness gone from his voice.
The creature growled. “You… most of all!”
I shuddered. Even now, after all this time, it could still speak.
There were sounds of a struggle, then a scream which curdled my blood.
I sprinted up the spiral stairs, tumbling and tripping over my own feet. I stretched out one hand to feel my way. The walls pressed around me like a stone coffin.
That thing would know I was here. It would come after me like a rabid animal, pin me down under its terrible gaze and rend the flesh from my bones…
And then, at last, I saw daylight: a tiny white line around the edges of a door.
I threw myself at it so viciously that the old wood broke, and I fell into an old disused building. I hurried ahead, towards a second door, which I knew would open onto the street. I didn't bother with the lock; just kicked my way through.
Fresh air filled my lungs. The sky was open and wide above me, without a cloud in sight: a great, bright May day.
Relief filled my body like stones. I was not a man of God, yet I still turned my face towards the sun and thanked it aloud. Under its glow, I was safe. The vampire could never survive in the light.
But I could. At such cost! My poor, dear Father...
The sting of horror and grief swelled within me like a thundercloud. I collapsed upon the cobbles, Die Gift against my chest, and wept.
*
I dragged myself away, hardly caring what I looked like: bedraggled and pale with my stockings splattered with blood. I could purchase new clothes and wigs easily enough, for the bag contained a sum of money. But for now, I must spirit myself as far from the Haus as possible before night fell.
My palm crossed silver with the driver of a carriage, who I ordered to take me as far as he could in any direction he pleased until the sun went down. He was alarmed and amused at my request, but money earns even the lowest of loyalties. I had learned that with Renley, and at least this man smelled better than my old comrade.
By the time twilight fell, I found myself in Farringdon, and took to a room at a local inn. It was a shabby place where, in typical circumstances, I would never have set foot. The people around me smelled like a cesspit, and whores lined the streets. I locked myself in my lodgings, lit a candle, and performed my toilette as best I could in the chipped porcelain bowl. There was little I could manage with my shaking hands, so I sat in a chair stared out of the grimy window.
Throughout my entire journey, Die Gift had not left my grasp.
I ran my fingers over its leather cover in an attempt to derive some sense of comfort and normality. This was the fruit of our labours. Not a page within had not also known my Father’s touch and sharp eye. As I leafed through them, regarded the detailed sketches and read the secret code, my eyes filled with tears.
The fruit of our labours, yes, and also the only relic. Everything we had done, all we had planned, was gone. And my Father, David Bernstein: the Father of Modern Vampirism... dead.
I was disgusted with myself for running. I should have forced the door open. How could I have simply left him there, to die alone, in terror? I only hoped the creature had made it quick, but I doubted it. Ten years of hate would have come down in that killing strike. Father was the one who turned him, after all.
I wished I could somehow escape my own flesh, so I could become unmade and innocent once again. But that was impossible for a man such as I. The pursuit of knowledge was feather-light, when compared to the memory of those faces who had served by my side; the sound of their screams; the smell of their blood as it ran down the walls.
I could not go back to the Haus. If it wasn't discovered by the authorities, then the vampires would likely take it as a hive, and kill anything which ventured inside. And that demon would track me down, like a hound chasing a fox. I would never be safe here. Not anymore.
It was a peculiar sensation. For so long, it was I who brought danger. I who ended lives, and stripped them to primality in support of our beautiful work. And now I was the one in danger.
I fetched the moneybag. It was reasonably heavy despite the day’s expenditures. If I was careful, I might be able to buy passage. Ships often sailed out of London. Surely, I could find one bound for Prussia, and make my way home. Was that not what I had always wanted, after all?
Then I felt something long and hard in the bottom of the bag. I dug among the contents to retrieve it: a small hinged box.
I opened it to find a syringe, filled with venom. Against the white lining, it appeared darker than ever, as though the glass contained liquid drawn from the night itself.
I lifted it with shaking fingers. There was enough in there for one turning.
I glanced between it and Die Gift, and a sharp dart of resolve suddenly overcame me. This was not the end. Father had hidden this precious black gold among his emergency cash for a reason: in case something should happen to uproot all our work.
I would not go quietly into the night and be entombed forever under the streets of London. As long as my heart beat and the book lay in my possession, the Bernstein legacy was alive. I would find the strength to continue, and so would our science – albeit in some new incarnation, like a moth emerging from its chrysalis.
I saw the path I must take. When my grieving was done, I would inject another rat, milk him for more venom, and rebuild a new Haus des Giftes. I would find a woman, and she would give me sons upon sons. Until the end of time, my family would know of our mighty work. All my descendants would know of my Father, and what I chose to do from this moment would stand as his lasting legacy. I swore it upon the names of the old Greek masters, upon the Earth and sky, upon the head of that demon waiting for me in the dark.
But… I paused, and looked again at the syringe.
If the work was to evolve and survive, then in order to understand it, would it not be best to venture into uncharted territory? And if the demon did come after me, I would not be able to hold it off alone. Not unless I consented to share the same powers.
I stood before the window, shifted my focus so I could see my reflection, and rested the needle over my jugular. Then, with a sigh, I closed my eyes.
My palm crossed silver with the driver of a carriage, who I ordered to take me as far as he could in any direction he pleased until the sun went down. He was alarmed and amused at my request, but money earns even the lowest of loyalties. I had learned that with Renley, and at least this man smelled better than my old comrade.
By the time twilight fell, I found myself in Farringdon, and took to a room at a local inn. It was a shabby place where, in typical circumstances, I would never have set foot. The people around me smelled like a cesspit, and whores lined the streets. I locked myself in my lodgings, lit a candle, and performed my toilette as best I could in the chipped porcelain bowl. There was little I could manage with my shaking hands, so I sat in a chair stared out of the grimy window.
Throughout my entire journey, Die Gift had not left my grasp.
I ran my fingers over its leather cover in an attempt to derive some sense of comfort and normality. This was the fruit of our labours. Not a page within had not also known my Father’s touch and sharp eye. As I leafed through them, regarded the detailed sketches and read the secret code, my eyes filled with tears.
The fruit of our labours, yes, and also the only relic. Everything we had done, all we had planned, was gone. And my Father, David Bernstein: the Father of Modern Vampirism... dead.
I was disgusted with myself for running. I should have forced the door open. How could I have simply left him there, to die alone, in terror? I only hoped the creature had made it quick, but I doubted it. Ten years of hate would have come down in that killing strike. Father was the one who turned him, after all.
I wished I could somehow escape my own flesh, so I could become unmade and innocent once again. But that was impossible for a man such as I. The pursuit of knowledge was feather-light, when compared to the memory of those faces who had served by my side; the sound of their screams; the smell of their blood as it ran down the walls.
I could not go back to the Haus. If it wasn't discovered by the authorities, then the vampires would likely take it as a hive, and kill anything which ventured inside. And that demon would track me down, like a hound chasing a fox. I would never be safe here. Not anymore.
It was a peculiar sensation. For so long, it was I who brought danger. I who ended lives, and stripped them to primality in support of our beautiful work. And now I was the one in danger.
I fetched the moneybag. It was reasonably heavy despite the day’s expenditures. If I was careful, I might be able to buy passage. Ships often sailed out of London. Surely, I could find one bound for Prussia, and make my way home. Was that not what I had always wanted, after all?
Then I felt something long and hard in the bottom of the bag. I dug among the contents to retrieve it: a small hinged box.
I opened it to find a syringe, filled with venom. Against the white lining, it appeared darker than ever, as though the glass contained liquid drawn from the night itself.
I lifted it with shaking fingers. There was enough in there for one turning.
I glanced between it and Die Gift, and a sharp dart of resolve suddenly overcame me. This was not the end. Father had hidden this precious black gold among his emergency cash for a reason: in case something should happen to uproot all our work.
I would not go quietly into the night and be entombed forever under the streets of London. As long as my heart beat and the book lay in my possession, the Bernstein legacy was alive. I would find the strength to continue, and so would our science – albeit in some new incarnation, like a moth emerging from its chrysalis.
I saw the path I must take. When my grieving was done, I would inject another rat, milk him for more venom, and rebuild a new Haus des Giftes. I would find a woman, and she would give me sons upon sons. Until the end of time, my family would know of our mighty work. All my descendants would know of my Father, and what I chose to do from this moment would stand as his lasting legacy. I swore it upon the names of the old Greek masters, upon the Earth and sky, upon the head of that demon waiting for me in the dark.
But… I paused, and looked again at the syringe.
If the work was to evolve and survive, then in order to understand it, would it not be best to venture into uncharted territory? And if the demon did come after me, I would not be able to hold it off alone. Not unless I consented to share the same powers.
I stood before the window, shifted my focus so I could see my reflection, and rested the needle over my jugular. Then, with a sigh, I closed my eyes.