Varney looked up at her as she approached the bedside. His eyes really were metallic, she thought, famously described in the terrible novel as polished tin. She hadn’t been quite sure of her initial observation, but there it was, unmistakable in daylight. The irises were a dark shining grey like tarnished mirrors, catching and reflecting the light in little gleams as they moved. She wondered what was behind the effect, and if that was part of the specific vampyre physiology. Like the beautiful voice. Was that some peculiarity of the larynx common to the species, or was it just Varney himself?
“I have certainly felt worse, Doctor,” he said, and she could hear the capital D. “But what of yourself? I understand from Ruthven that you experienced a terrifying attack last night. I do hope you have taken no serious hurt.”
Greta shrugged, exercising some effort not to reach up to the bandage on her neck. Taken no serious hurt; he sounded so courtly, and she was again vividly aware that she was wearing jeans and a somewhat threadbare sweater, not the ruffles and lace that this house and its decor called for. Vampires and fancy clothing just went together; it was one of those things.
“I’m all right,” she said. “The spike just scratched me, and whatever’s on it doesn’t seem to be doing me anything like so much harm as it’s done you. Under the tongue, please.” She handed him a thermometer, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Varney’s eyes narrowed as he looked from her face to her throat, taking in the light gauze dressing taped over the cut, but he accepted the thermometer with decent grace. His teeth were just as white as Ruthven’s, but the pattern of the dentition was different. His upper pre-canines as well as the canines were a little elongated. She wasn’t likely to forget the sight of those teeth bared in a snarl at her, when she had first woken him out of a feverish doze. That one was going to stick around for a while.
The thermometer beeped, and she reclaimed it for a look, relieved both at the distraction and at the reading. “Not bad at all,” she said. “You’re down to eighty-three; that’s much, much better than you’ve been. Did you sleep all right?”
Varney lifted a hand and let it fall, limply. She wondered if he was aware of the tableau he presented, and she had to admit the effectiveness of the pathetic gesture, whether or not it was intentional. “I suppose I must have,” he said, wearily. “I cannot remember any dreams.”
The clinical picture was a solid improvement, at least so far. There seemed to be more black and less grey in his hair, which she’d seen before as a general indication of increased well-being in several supernatural species. “Well, it seems to have done you no end of good,” she told him. “I want another look at that wound, and then I’ve got to go over to the clinic, but I should be able to bring you back some suitable blood.”
She was leaning over him, extremely glad that her hair was for once behaving and staying in its messy ponytail, and her gloved fingers carefully, carefully removed the tape holding the gauze down over his wound. Again she noticed the latticework of old scars, scars upon scars, a record of what must have been a fairly tumultuous existence, and again she wondered: a lot of lost duels?
The last of the tape came away, and she lifted the gauze pad to reveal his wound; she smiled involuntarily at the improvement. The inflammation was significantly reduced, and there was scab formation in the tips of the cross-shape that had not been there even several hours ago. “That’s lovely,” she said, sitting back and folding the used dressing into a neat square. “Much, much better. I’m very pleased.”
Varney peered down at the wound, looking perplexed, and then back up at her. Greta had seen that reaction before, and knew that to anyone else’s eyes it would probably still appear fairly unpleasant, but she was profoundly relieved at the extent of the healing process. “Your body’s getting on with healing itself quite satisfactorily, if much more slowly than you’re used to,” she told him, stripping open a fresh sterile dressing. “That should be completely closed over probably by tomorrow, and after that you can get up and resume activity—light activity, I hasten to specify.”
She taped the fresh dressing over the wound, not bothering with any further application of ointment, and stood up, still smiling. “In the meantime, is there anything you’d particularly like other than the blood? Special teas? Amusing if unimproving literature?”
He stared up at her, and then, rather astonishingly, began to smile back.
CHAPTER 7
So, uh, Dr. Helsing said you were an accountant.”
“That’s right. Why, do you need one?”
“No, I … was just, uh …” Cranswell trailed off.
Fastitocalon smiled a little, to himself, hunching deeper into his borrowed coat as they walked. He was having to exert a little extra energy, although not much, to project a faint don’t-notice-me field around the pair of them; he was saving most of his strength for the effort it would take to conceal Cranswell and the precious burden inside his jacket from the security in the museum. “You were just kindly making conversation, and also you are wondering why I’m capable of doing magic, I expect.”
“You don’t read minds, too?”
“I try not to, in general, as a matter of etiquette. It’s not common among accountants, magic, except inasmuch as sufficiently sophisticated mathematical theory does overlap with some areas of magical scholarship. But most people who do taxes and balance books aren’t into the purely theoretical end of things.”
Cranswell was still staring at him. “I’m okay with the idea that there’s magic,” he said, “because hell, I know there’s vampires and were-creatures and all the other things that ordinary people don’t actually believe in, but … this isn’t wands-and-pointy-hats stuff you’re doing, is it?”
“No,” said Fastitocalon, “no, it’s not. Let’s just say I used to be a demon and leave it at that? Long, long, utterly uninteresting story.” He deliberately avoided looking at Cranswell, hoping to forestall any interruption. “And I’m jolly glad Greta convinced me to come back to Castle Ruthven with her when she did. Given the damage that blade caused to Sir Francis, I expect it would do something just as comprehensively nasty to me. If we see any monk types I shall hide behind you and whimper.”
He coughed. It wasn’t raining, thankfully, but it was a raw cold morning, and he was very glad it wasn’t far to the Museum.
“You sure you’re okay to do this?” Cranswell asked, frowning. He had been about to say something else, something about what do you mean you used to be a demon, Fastitocalon knew, and was a little glad of the excuse to distract him. “You sound pretty rough.”
“Oh, this is nothing,” said Fastitocalon. “Back in the day I used to get kicked out of lodging houses in Rotherhithe for making too much noise and disturbing the neighbors. These days life is generally easier, but I do miss opium dens.”
Cranswell was definitely looking as if he had a lot more questions on his mind as they reached the bottom of the museum steps. Fastitocalon held up his hand, halting. “All right. It’d be easiest if I could just flip you in and out of the conservation department, but unfortunately I don’t think I’m up to it at the moment and anyway I’ve not been there myself so I don’t have a very clear mental picture of the place to aim for. We’ll have to do this the longer way.”