His attention was wandering: the whine of the boiling kettle recaptured it just as Ruthven was saying something about a temperature of eighty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, which as far as he, Fastitocalon, knew was pretty much febrile-seizure territory for vampires. “Good heavens,” he said, taken aback. “But he’s … recovering?”
“Yes. Now that the poisonous bit of metal is out of him, he’s improving, but almost as slowly as a human. He ought to have healed within a few hours, at most, from the time it happened; that was in the middle of last night, and he’s still flat on his back.”
“Did … do … you have any idea why?” Fastitocalon looked up at Ruthven, thinking again how good he’d have been in the earliest of the early films, those big shiny silver eyes rimmed with dramatic makeup. Murnau would have adored him. “I mean, why Varney in particular? I didn’t know he was even still in England. Or alive, for that matter.”
“I don’t know. They apparently knew where he lived, broke in to his flat to poison everything with garlic, and then attacked him while he was still incapacitated from the fumes. But the particularly odd thing is that they were dressed up, he said, sort of like monks. Long brown robes, hoods. It’s a bit topically relevant, given the whole Ripper business. Greta is sure there’s a connection.”
Ruthven poured out tea into a mug, a sharp lemony smell filling the kitchen, and then added generous amounts of both honey and brandy. Fastitocalon hadn’t really been listening; he reflected dreamily that he’d never met a sanguivore quite so ineffably domestic, silver-screen looks and all. Ruthven ought to be wearing pearls and a frilly apron. Possibly with little bats on it.
Slowly Fastitocalon was beginning to suspect himself of being ever so slightly feverish, if the quality of his thought process was anything to go by. Nevertheless, the hot mug was extremely welcome, and he wrapped his hands around it and breathed in the steam gratefully. “Thank you. I, ah, I’ve decided to give up protesting. It would in fact be awfully nice to stay here tonight and not have to deal with balky electric fires and obstreperous upstairs neighbors.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Ruthven eyed him thoughtfully. “You ought to have some aspirin or something. Where’s Greta gone?”
“Back to her flat to collect some things. She said she might as well move in for the duration if you’re having houseguests, which struck me as somewhat presumptuous.” He coughed. “I wonder what her poor clinic patients are doing while she’s fussing over me. And Sir Francis, of course, who is actually in need of expert care.”
“I gather she has friends who can step in to run the place when she can’t be there,” Ruthven said. “I shouldn’t worry about that; she has things well in hand. Come and sit in front of the fire.”
Fastitocalon had run out of energy to protest, and just nodded and shuffled on after the vampire into the drawing room and let himself be installed in a chair beside a cheerful applewood fire. His chest ached, muscles sore from the exercise of coughing, and the warmth of the fire and the brandy were extraordinarily welcome.
In fact he was almost asleep when the doorbell rang three times in rapid succession, followed by someone banging on the door with a fist. Ruthven said a forceful word or two and hurried round to see what on earth the matter was, peering through the peephole. Fastitocalon heaved himself out of the chair and followed him, blinking sleepily. Another curse, and Ruthven yanked open the door.
For the second time in as many nights a desperate figure fell forward into the entrance hall. It had begun to rain, a nasty, icy, slimy sort of rain that got down collars and under hoods and up sleeves, and the newcomer was soaked and shivering.
Once Ruthven had scanned the street for any sign of danger and then shut and bolted the door, he helped the new arrival to his feet: a tall, young black man with curly hair. “You do know how to make an entrance, Cranswell,” he said. “Are you all right? What happened?”
The young man looked down at Ruthven, and then at the plastic-wrapped bundle he was still clutching to his chest. “Followed,” he managed through chattering teeth. “Think I lost them but—pull the b-blinds.”
Ruthven’s brows drew together. He turned back to the drawing room doorway, hurrying across to the windows. “Followed by what?” he said over his shoulder as he drew the curtains one by one. “Did you get a good look at them?”
“No,” Cranswell admitted, shivering. “Or not clearly. At all. I don’t … even really know what I saw, Ruthven.” His accent was tinged with American, not strong enough to indicate he’d been there recently or that he had originally hailed from that side of the Atlantic, but noticeable. The current uncertainty in his voice didn’t suit him in the least, Fastitocalon thought.
Ruthven finished with the curtains and came back over to them. “What did you bring? Did you find anything about the weapon?” He glanced at Fastitocalon and sighed, passing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “August Cranswell, may I introduce Frederick Vasse, an old friend of mine. Vasse, this is Cranswell. He’s a junior curator at the British Museum, and my manners have apparently deserted me.”
“Hi,” Cranswell said, glancing at Fastitocalon for a distracted moment before looking back down at the bundle in his arms, as if to reassure himself it was still there. “I looked through the collection and found a couple of books I really, really, really am not supposed to even have access to, and I kind of … got them out anyway—I can’t believe I did that—and I think maybe I have what you’re looking for, but it’s pretty gruesome.”
“So was the attack on Varney, I gather.” Ruthven nodded toward the fire. “Sit down and get yourself warm; you’re shaking. Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know,” Cranswell said, still hugging the books to his chest. “Like I said, I don’t really know what I saw. I was … in the basement, which is creepy to begin with, especially if you’re alone, and obviously I shouldn’t have been there. I didn’t want anybody to know what I was up to. It took me a while to track down the books I wanted, and the whole time I kept thinking I heard someone coming. Or like … a tapping sound. Like water dripping in a cave. Every time I stopped to listen there was nothing there.”
Fastitocalon watched him, no longer feeling even slightly dreamy. Cranswell sat down in one of the chairs by the fire and set the books aside, holding out his hands to the flames: long, well-shaped hands, ringless, smooth with the tight skin of youth. “It would have been okay if I just kept hearing stuff,” he went on. “But—I didn’t have more of the lights on than I absolutely needed, and it’s dark down there even with the lights all on, and I saw—just these two pinpoints of light down one of the aisles. Like eyes. Just for a moment, and then they were gone, but I saw them again a moment later from another direction. I … kind of freaked out, and, well. Got out of there in a hurry.”