“D’you have any idea what it is?” he said. “The, ah, the coating?”
“Not really. My friend’s looking at the bit I took out of Sir Francis’s wound. If it’s the same stuff we ought to know sometime today what it’s made of. But it’s not affected me anything like the way it did him.”
“Because you’re human,” Cranswell said, settling on the side of the bed with his own teacup. “Right? I mean, from what the Museum books say, it’s pretty certain they designed that stabby spike thing to hurt demons, which I guess includes vampires in the definition.”
“Mmh.” Greta didn’t look particularly happy about it. “It’s a pretty vague definition, then.”
“Well, vampires, monsters, undead creatures, demons, all that kind of falls together, right?”
“Not from the medical standpoint,” Greta said. “It makes rather a lot of difference. Anyway, we know it doesn’t do vampyres any good at all, but Varney seems to be on the mend. I really do have to get over to the clinic at least for part of the day. It’s flu season for the ghouls, and I need to see Mr. Renenutet about his feet, and … there’s so much to do and I can’t just let Nadezhda and Anna handle everything on their own. Or refer everybody to Dr. Richthorn, the other specialist. Hounslow’s a long way for them to go.” She tucked hair behind her ear.
“What are you going to do about your car?” Cranswell asked.
Greta looked up at him in shocked realization. “Christ, it’s still up there. In Crouch End. Full of pepper spray. I’ll have to take the tube.”
“You know, I wouldn’t,” Cranswell said, slowly, realizing this even as he spoke. There was a sort of formless fear that had been lapping at his thoughts ever since he’d woken, and the idea of being underground was repellent for no very good reason. “Wouldn’t go down into the dark if you don’t specifically have to. Take the bus. Or have Ruthven drive you over.”
She rubbed at her face, the pale hair slipping forward again to cover her hands. “Maybe you’re right. Oh, hell, what time is it?”
“About half past eight.”
“Mmh. Okay, I suppose that’s not too bad. I’ll have a shower and try to wake up and then see Varney, and then go over to the clinic one way or another. You’re staying here for … for the duration?”
“Yeah. I called in to work, told them I had the flu and I’d be out for a few days. I’m kind of surprised that you’re looking to leave the house, to be honest.”
“If I didn’t have things I really couldn’t put off, I’d stay right here, and maybe hide under the blankets,” Greta said. “I suppose I’ve got to call the police about the attack last night as well, and be shouted at for not reporting it at once.”
He made a face. “You probably should. And I really do have to get those books back to the museum, but Lord knows how without making it obvious that I pinched them in the first place.”
“How’d you get them out?”
“Oh, one of those little cards in each storage locker, you know, Removed for Conservation by Squiggle Signed on Line, that sort of thing. Thank God they weren’t actually on display. I’d have had to mess with the security cameras, and I’m not even remotely secret-agenty enough.” Cranswell dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I can’t actually believe I did that. I’d had a pretty awful day and—sort of acted on impulse, instead of talking myself out of it. I’m kind of amazed I didn’t get caught, to be honest. Maybe I could smuggle them back into the conservation department under the cover of a really big coat.”
“Maybe you could borrow one of the gents who can alter perceptions of reality,” Greta said, not unsympathetically. “If Fass feels up to it, I know he can do things to, say, security guards’ awareness of your presence. I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”
“Who is he?” Cranswell asked her.
“Fass is. … an old friend of the family? To be honest it’s really rather difficult to tell exactly what he is. I mean, he’s known me since I was born, he was one of Dad’s good friends, and he’s looked like that ever since I can remember. It’s … well, you know, it’d be really awkward to sit him down and say to him, ‘Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what sort of creature are you anyhow?’ after all these years.” He wasn’t human, that much she knew for a fact—the longevity and lack of aging were a dead giveaway, plus the grey complexion and the supernatural powers—but physiologically it was difficult to distinguish Fastitocalon from any other fiftyish man with a bad chest.
“What does he do again?” Cranswell asked.
“He’s an accountant. Absolutely loves numbers, you know? He tried to teach me calculus back in school and I wasn’t having any, but I could still see how much he loved the subject. He does math for fun on the back of envelopes. It’s his thing.”
Cranswell shuddered. “But you said he can … manipulate perceptions of reality?”
“Ye-es,” Greta said, finishing her tea. “I’ve certainly seen him do things like convince people he isn’t there, or unlock locks without a key, that kind of stuff. I’m pretty sure if you asked nicely he’d go with you to the museum and help you get those books back to their proper homes.”
He wasn’t wholly convinced, but nodded after a moment. “Maybe you’re right. Not like I have a hell of a lot of choices right now. If I want to keep my job.”
“Pretty much what I was thinking.” Greta gave him a wry look. “Oh, what a huge, gigantic bloody mess this all is. Thanks awfully for the tea, Mr. Cranswell—”
“August. And it’s no problem—I was gonna go see what there is for breakfast, if you have any requests.”
She smiled, an actual honest-to-God smile that made Cranswell feel as if the world might not be spinning entirely off its proper track after all, and said, “Bacon. Lots of bacon, and at least one egg.”
Sometime later, a little more presentable and fortified with breakfast, Greta Helsing knocked gently on the door of Varney’s room. There was a faint stirring within, and then a mellifluous, if rather weak, voice called out, “Enter.”
Greta entered. He was lying as she’d last seen him, propped up on pillows, his grey-streaked hair spread out in tangled waves, but there was a little more color in his face, which was nice to see. “Good morning, Sir Francis. How are you feeling?”