“I didn’t,” said Jamie, honestly. “But I knew I couldn’t fight him, and I knew that he knew it too. So I thought that if it looked like I had failed, then he’d be too pleased with himself to notice what I’d really done.”
“That’s a very large wager. You quite literally gambled your life on it.”
“Not really,” replied Jamie, shrugging his shoulders. “I was dead
either way, or worse, and so were my mother and my friends. I had nothing to lose by then.”
Valentin leant back in his chair, and drew a beautiful silver cigarette holder from inside his suit jacket. He plucked a dark red cigarette from beneath a band of white silk, placed it in his mouth and lit it. Pungent, aromatic tobacco smoke wafted into the air, laced with a metallic undercurrent that Jamie recognised instantly.
“That’s Bliss, isn’t it?” he said.
Valentin nodded, cocking his head to one side.
“You’re familiar with it?” the vampire asked.
“I am,” said Jamie, his hand instinctively touching the patch of scar tissue on his neck, the result of a chemical burn he had received in the laboratory where the majority of the British supply of the vampire drug was produced.
“Have you ever tried it?” asked Valentin, offering the case towards Jamie. “I’m told it is quite agreeable to humans.”
“No thank you,” said Jamie, politely. “I’m fine.”
Valentin nodded, then took a deep drag on the cigarette. His eyes glowed involuntarily red, and he threw back his head, the muscles on his neck standing out. When the rush of the heroin and the human blood had passed, he slowly returned his gaze to Jamie, the red light dwindling in his eyes as he did so.
“My brother was a monster,” he said, slowly. “I have come to believe that he always was, since we were children, and probably since birth. He felt nothing for anyone other than himself, with the possible exception of Ilyana, his wife. The world is a better place without him in it; he was cruel, and pitiless, and arrogant. It pleases me that the last of those ended up as the reason for his downfall.”
Jamie didn’t reply; he had no idea what to say to such an admission.
“I thank you for being honest,” continued Valentin. “I would have known if you weren’t of course, but I’m sure it made you nervous to tell me about murdering a member of my family.”
He grinned, and Jamie fought the urge to grin right back.
Don’t do anything to provoke him. Don’t trust anything he says. View everything as a potential trap.
“It wasn’t top of my list of potential topics,” he replied.
Valentin’s grin widened even further, until it looked as though his face was going to split in half. “And what was?” he asked. “What would you like to talk about?”
“My grandfather,” said Jamie. “I know almost nothing about him. It’s crazy to me that you knew him; he died before I was born.”
“Didn’t your father ever speak of him?”
“Not really,” said Jamie. “He told me he flew in the war, and that was about it. Dad never really talked much about him, or any of his family. I only realised why once I was here.”
“And the monster?” asked Valentin. “He was closer to your grandfather than anyone. He told you nothing?”
“He told me that my grandfather saved him,” replied Jamie, feeling a twinge of pain in his chest as he thought about Frankenstein. “He told me that he was the reason he swore to protect my family, because of something that happened in New York a long time ago. He promised he was going to tell me everything, but he never got the chance.”
“You miss him, don’t you?” asked Valentin, softly. “The monster. I can hear it in your voice.”
Jamie nodded. “I do,” he said. “I miss him, and I feel guilty every day. He wouldn’t be dead if I had trusted him.”
“How so?”
“I let Thomas Morris manipulate me,” replied Jamie, feeling his face heat up with shame. “He told me that Frankenstein was there the night my father died, that he was one of the men sent to bring him in. I asked him if it was true, and he admitted it. So I told him to stay away from me, and I went to Lindisfarne with Morris. Right into the trap he’d set for me.”
“But the monster followed you regardless?”
“He had suspected Tom Morris,” said Jamie. “He followed us, and he arrived in time to help. But when we thought it was all over, a werewolf that was loyal to Alexandru attacked me, and Frankenstein stepped in between us. They went over the cliffs together.”
“That doesn’t sound like it was your fault,” said Valentin. “Not to me at least.”
“If I had trusted him, he would have been with us on Lindisfarne. Morris wouldn’t have been able to do what he did.”
“Why not? My brother was more powerful than a hundred Frankensteins combined. Do you really think his being there would have made any difference?”
“I don’t know,” said Jamie, miserably.
“You said he died after the battle with my brother was over,” continued Valentin. “Defending you from a werewolf. How can you say that things wouldn’t have transpired exactly the same way, whether he had arrived on Lindisfarne with you and Mr Morris or an hour after you, as he did?”
Jamie looked at Valentin, searching the old vampire’s face for amusement or enjoyment, looking for any sign that he was being toyed with. He saw nothing; the vampire’s face was open, full of what appeared to be honesty.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just know that it feels like my fault. It feels like he’s dead because of me.”
“It sounds to me,” said Valentin, “that the reason he is dead is because he chose to put your life ahead of his own. You didn’t ask him to, nor did anyone else; he made that choice for himself. Who are you to take responsibility for it?”
Jamie’s throat worked, but no sound came out. His mind was reeling; he had become so accustomed to the weight of his guilt that even the suggestion that he had been carrying it unnecessarily was almost impossible for him to comprehend.
“It was his life, Jamie,” said Valentin. “He lived it as he chose, and it sounds like he ended it as he chose, a luxury not granted to many. I would be willing to wager that he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for what he did. I’m sure that wherever he is now, he’s quite content.”
Frankenstein lay on a sumptuously soft four-poster bed, staring at the gilded golden frame above him.
He had been lying perfectly still for more than an hour; he was trying to wake up, to force the slippery dissolution that marks the collapse of a dream and the return of the real world. He was hoping, futilely, to be returned to a world where his memory was restored, where Latour’s insinuations would not haunt his every waking moment, where he would be a free man instead of a prisoner.
He had no idea how many days it had been since the vampire had brought him home. More than one but less than ten was the best estimate he could make; the time ran like syrup, sticky and nauseating. He had been fed and watered, and wanted for nothing except the freedom to leave the grand apartment, with its high ceilings and towering windows, its salon and study and vast, elegant bedrooms.
He had apparently been here before, had spent many voluntary nights in the bed on which he was now lying; Latour had expressed utter delight when he finally accepted that Frankenstein was genuinely unable to remember any aspect of his life, no matter how small or insignificant, and had taken sadistic pleasure in filling in as many of the gaps as he was able.
For long hours, Latour had held forth with tales of horror and violence in which he and Frankenstein had been the starring participants; numbed by his captor’s stories, unable and simply unwilling to believe that he could have been capable of perpetrating a single one of the acts of savagery being described, Frankenstein had begged Latour for mercy. The vampire had immediately begun to beat him, chastising him with every blow for his weakness, exhorting him to wake up from his daze, to once again be the man that Latour had once considered his friend.
By day Latour slept, but Frankenstein remained a prisoner. The vampire’s house was staffed by an army of servants, many of them human and perfectly capable of operating during the hours of daylight. They were unfailingly polite and attentive, but all were armed with heavy black pistols, and they never entered his room alone. There were always at least two of them, one of whom would approach the bed and enquire as to any needs Frankenstein may have, while the other would remain close to the door, ready to act if the prisoner showed any sign of attempting an escape. He hadn’t, and nor did he have any plans to do so, for one simple reason.
He was absolutely terrified for his life.
Frankenstein didn’t recognise the man that Latour kept assuring him he used to be, a creature of violence and temper, of awful appetites and disregard for the innocence of others, but he wished
that man was here now; it did not sound as though he would have lain passively on his bed, waiting for whatever lay in store for him.
A key turned in the lock, and the bedroom door opened. Latour stepped into the room, his narrow frame covered in an elegant tuxedo. The black was the colour of midnight, the white of the collars and the narrow vertical stripe of the exposed shirt were the colour of the full moon. He smiled at Frankenstein, then flew across the room at such speed that the prisoner’s teetering mind could only perceive it as teleportation; one moment Latour was standing in the open doorway, the next he was beside the bed.
“It’s time,” said the vampire. “We’re going to see an old friend, and I’d prefer we not be late. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Frankenstein nodded weakly.
“Splendid,” said Latour, beaming down at him. “In which case, we’ll take a cocktail downstairs in fifteen minutes, before we set out for the Marais. That is ample time, I hope?”
“Time for what?” whispered Frankenstein.
“For you to dress of course,” said Latour, favouring the monster with the kind of look usually reserved for the simple-minded. He extended one of his long, slender arms, and indicated in the direction of the door. A servant was standing in the empty space, holding a huge leather suit carrier carefully in his hands.
Frankenstein stared, uncomprehending.
“I took the liberty of having you measured while you slept,” said Latour. “An uncivilised way to do things, I appreciate, and I do apologise. However, time was short, and one simply cannot be dressed as you are to attend the theatre, can one?”
Frankenstein looked down at what he was wearing, the same heavy woollen jumper and hard-wearing trousers Magda had given him in Dortmund, a lifetime ago.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Luckily, I do,” replied the vampire. “I’ll leave Lionel here to help you. Fifteen minutes, please; don’t make me come back up here.”
Then Latour was gone, leaving him alone with the servant, who regarded him with professional neutrality and eyes that momentarily flashed a clear warning red.
“Whenever you’re ready, sir,” said the servant, and unzipped the leather case.
Ten minutes later Frankenstein made his way awkwardly to the bottom of the grand staircase that spiralled up through the centre of Latour’s apartment.
The tuxedo he was wearing fitted him perfectly, but he still felt incredibly uncomfortable; he plucked at the sleeves and shook his feet, trying to make the hems of the trousers settle atop his mirror-gleaming shoes. A piece of classical music was floating through the open door of the large salon at the end of the eastern corridor, and he made his way towards it.
Latour was lying on a chaise longue in the centre of the room, his eyes closed and a smile on his pale face; one hand held a dark red cigarette that Frankenstein had come to learn was liberally laced with a drug of some kind, a drug that was distilled at least in part from human blood, while the other floated back and forth in the air in time with the music that was emanating from a sleek black stereo system in the corner of the room.
“Chopin’s
Nocturnes, Op. 27
,” said Latour, without opening his eyes. He had heard his prisoner’s clumsy, uneven footsteps since the monster had stepped on to the first stair, three floors above. “It was your favourite, once upon a time. But I assume you don’t remember that?”
“You know I don’t,” replied Frankenstein. “I remember nothing else, so why would a piece of music be any different?”
“Music has the capacity to lift the soul,” said Latour, swinging his long legs gracefully down to the floor and regarding Frankenstein. “Even a soul as dark and broken as yours. But indeed, I am not surprised; as always, what I feel for you is pity.”
To hell with your pity
, thought Frankenstein.
Latour strolled over to a long wooden bar beneath the wide pair of windows that dominated the room. The sun was long set, and the neon lights of nocturnal Paris glowed through the glass. The vampire poured two glasses full of a clear liquid from a silver cocktail shaker, picked them up and floated back across the room. He handed one to Frankenstein, and raised the other.
“To experience,” he said, softly. “To all the accumulation of a life, both good and bad.”
Frankenstein raised his glass, held it for a moment, then lifted it to his lips and took a sip. The liquid was sharp, and bitter, and felt hot as it rolled across his tongue.
“What is this?” he asked, fighting the urge to cough.
“It’s a martini,” replied Latour. “You used to love them. I thought it might… oh, never mind.”
There was silence in the salon for a long moment. Frankenstein was watching Latour closely, and had seen the momentary grimace pass across the vampire’s face when he had asked what the drink was. Part of it was embarrassment, he knew; the vampire was an epicure, a devotee of the very finest things that life had to offer, and the question had made him uncomfortable. It was an unpleasant reminder that he lived in a world in which there were people who did not know what a martini was, despite his strenuous efforts to avoid crossing their paths.
But it was more than that; it was disappointment, and sadness too, and Frankenstein realised something profound. Latour’s repeated efforts to jar his memory back to life by providing him with familiar objects and sensations from the past were not just a source of entertainment for the vampire; they were genuine attempts by Latour to bring back his friend, a man that, Frankenstein suddenly saw with enormous clarity, the vampire deeply missed.
“It’s good,” said Frankenstein, motioning towards the beautiful, delicate glass in his huge grey-green hand, then drained the rest of the drink. “I can see why I used to like them.”
Latour nodded, then checked his watch and almost sadly announced that there was sufficient time for a second drink, and then they would need to depart.
“Where are we going?” asked Frankenstein, as Latour refilled their glasses. “You mentioned a theatre?”
“Of a sort,” replied Latour. “The place we’re going is the place we met, and where I flatter myself we spent many contented evenings together. It goes by the name of La Fraternité de la Nuit, and it is the home of—”
“The Brotherhood of the Night,” said Frankenstein, softly. The words had appeared in his head from nowhere, translated from the French without his having needed to consider the process. It was a strange feeling, a reminder of the vast realms of knowledge that were locked away inside his mind.
“Exactly,” said Latour, narrowing his eyes. “Clearly, not everything has been lost to you.”
“It would seem not,” replied Frankenstein. “When I saw the word Paris, I knew it was familiar, and it led me here. I understood the words you said, so I said them. My most fervent hope is that more information will be returned to me, in time.”
Latour said nothing; he merely drained his second martini in one long swallow, and set the glass on the varnished wooden surface of the bar. Frankenstein followed suit, his hand trembling ever so slightly.
“It’s time,” said Latour. The warmth that had momentarily infused the vampire’s voice was gone; what was left was cold, and sharp. “Are you ready?”
Frankenstein raised himself up to his full height. He towered over his former friend, his head nearly brushing the lowest crystals of the chandelier that hung in the centre of the high ceiling.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Forty minutes later Lionel brought Latour’s black Rolls Royce smoothly to a halt on Rue de Sévigné and stepped out of the long, angular car. A second later he appeared beside the passenger door, and pulled it open; the door swung from a hinge at the rear, rather than at the front, as Lionel stepped respectfully out of view, and held it open for his master.
Fear welled up inside Frankenstein as he stared at the open door.
“What are we doing here, Latour?” he asked. “Tell me that much, please? I know I can’t stop whatever it is that is about to happen, so just tell me. Please?”
Latour’s face creased for the briefest of moments, and a tiny flame of hope bloomed in Frankenstein’s chest. But then the vampire’s eyes flared red, and it was extinguished.
“Get out,” he said. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Frankenstein swallowed hard, then did as he was told. He clambered out through the door and on to the immaculate pale stone pavement outside, casting a desperate look down the quiet street in the vain hope that there might be someone in sight who
could help him. Then Latour was ushering him towards an ornate black gate, beyond which stood a beautiful pale stone building which Frankenstein couldn’t help but notice had no windows. The vampire produced a key and unlocked the gate, then led Frankenstein up to an imposing wooden door, upon which he knocked three times.
Frankenstein waited silently; fatalism had settled over him, bringing with it an eerie sense of calm. He was under no illusions that what was waiting behind the door was going to be anything other than awful; Latour had not held him against his will to deliver him somewhere pleasant. But he realised that he was no longer scared, and that was a blessing to be appreciated, if only a small one.
The door swung silently open, and Latour looked pointedly at Frankenstein. He took a deep breath and stepped through the door, hearing Latour close it firmly behind them. He found himself standing in a small lobby; to his left was a lectern, behind which was standing an elderly man in immaculate evening wear. The man was staring at Frankenstein with an expression of utter shock on his lined face.
“Staring is generally considered rude,” said Latour, removing his coat and holding it out towards the lectern.
The old man blinked, and his equilibrium returned. He dragged his gaze away from Frankenstein, then stepped smoothly out from behind the lectern.
“Welcome back to La Fraternité de la Nuit, gentlemen,” he said, his voice like oil. He took Latour’s coat, waited for the monster to shrug his over his misshapen shoulders and then addressed Frankenstein specifically. “It is a particular pleasure to see you again, sir. It has been far too long; your presence has been greatly missed.”
“Thank you,” said Frankenstein, warily. He had seen the flicker
of red in the corners of the man’s eyes as he spoke, and it had disconcerted him.
What place is this? Where have I been brought?
“Enough chatter,” said Latour, shooting the elderly man a look of obvious warning. “We have business with Lord Dante; I presume he is in attendance?”
“Of course, sir,” replied the old vampire. “His dining room is open to you both, as it always has been.”
“Fine,” replied Latour. He strode across the lobby to the small door at its rear, and waited. Frankenstein slowly followed him, like a man going to the gallows, and, lowering his huge head below the frame, walked through the door as Latour opened it.
He emerged into a small theatre, and was instantly struck by two contrasting sensations; the first was a churning nausea, as the smell of spilled blood hit his nostrils, and his eyes absorbed the horror of what was playing out before him. On the small stage, in front of the sixty or so seats that were arrayed before it, a vampire man was dancing with the dead body of a woman. Her neck and shoulders were studded with bloody circular holes, her mouth was huge and empty, her eyes wide and staring.
But the second sensation he felt, as he stood unsteadily in this old place of violence and misery, was, if anything, even worse; he felt an immediate comfort, a deep, reassuring feeling that he had been here before, a tangible moment of feeling something other than empty.