A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires Page 2

  “At least you are unhurt,” Varanus said. She picked up the fallen lantern and placed it where the light could better serve Ekaterine.

  “The knife,” Korbinian said, in his rich German accent.

  “What?” Varanus asked, looking back at him. She kept her voice low. Only she could see and hear him, and there was little purpose in making Ekaterine think that she made a habit of talking to herself.

  “The knife,” Korbinian repeated, pointing to the weapon where it lay on the ground. “You are hungry. Best get to it, ja?”

  Of course. How clever of him.

  Varanus snatched up the knife with her wounded hand; or more accurately, her formerly wounded hand. The blood had stopped flowing and the flesh had already begun to knit together. Soon there would be no sign of injury.

  Behind her, Ekaterine continued to grumble about the state of her dress. Her hair had come free in the fall, the dark brown curls spilling about her face and shoulders. The hat had also fallen, but she seemed not to mind it much. Instead, she hiked up her skirts and looked at her legs.

  “My stockings are torn,” she announced, letting her skirts drop with a sigh.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Varanus said. She hadn’t meant for the excursion to result in damaged accouterments.

  Ekaterine waved the apology away and said, “Oh, think nothing of it. It was my own fault for thinking that I could move properly in these damned English boots.”

  “They’re quite lovely,” Varanus said.

  As she spoke, she cut the throat of the ruffian beneath her. She removed one glove and used her fingertip to taste the blood that gushed out onto the street. It was delicious, probably fattened on beef and potatoes.

  “Lovely they may be,” Ekaterine said. She paused and turned her foot from one side to the other to inspect them. “Yes, they are rather, aren’t they?” She caught herself and said, “But they are abhorrent. They’re quite tight around the ankle, and the heel is far too small. How am I expected to perform any sort of athleticism while wearing them?”

  “You aren’t, obviously,” Varanus said.

  She leaned down and drank deeply of the dead ruffian’s blood. The experience was as delicious as the meal. It had been weeks since she had tasted anything but solid food.

  After a short while, she felt Korbinian stroke her cheek, distracting her from the blood drinking.

  “That is enough, liebchen,” he whispered. “You should not dally. Your clinic, remember?”

  Varanus sat up, her head spinning from the fresh blood. She had forgotten how incredible a proper meal was. With each drop of liquid that passed her lips, her body felt stronger, livelier, more awake. Mortal food simply could not compare, certainly not the bland palate of her English relatives. Whatever her qualms about French cuisine—and she had many—at least they knew how to give food flavor.

  But Korbinian was right. She had her clinic and her patients to attend to. There was always the risk of discovery, limited though it might be in the depths of the rookery.

  “Come Ekaterine,” she said, standing, “we should be on our way.”

  Ekaterine smiled and asked, “Are you properly sated?”

  Varanus removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her mouth clean.

  “For now,” she said. “Are you in order?”

  Ekaterine straightened her hair and brushed out the wrinkles in her skirt until she looked properly presentable again.

  “Quite so,” she said. “Though I fear, alas, that the hat is gone. And there is nothing to be done about that.”

  “Is that so?” Varanus asked. She walked to where the hat lay in the street, concealed only by shadows. She picked it up, brushed it off, and handed it to Ekaterine with a smile.

  Ekaterine frowned for a moment before placing the hat back on her head and securing it with a pin.

  “Well,” she said, “you can’t fault me for trying.”

  “Ekaterine,” Varanus said, “I doubt very much that I could fault you for anything.”

  “Nor I, you,” Ekaterine said. “I suppose that’s why we are so good at getting things done.”

  “Yes,” Varanus agreed, as they walked back toward the street. “If only everyone else agreed with us on that point.” There was a lengthy pause, but at the mouth of the alley she spoke again. “Mildred?” she asked. “Really? Mildred?”

  “It was the first English name that came to mind,” Ekaterine said.

  Varanus made a “humph” noise and repeated the name: “Mildred.” She shook her head and said, “In that case, Ekaterine, next time we impersonate lost pedestrians, I shall be forced to call you Constance.”

  “Constance?” Ekaterine asked. “From Constantine, yes? I rather like that.”

  “You’re not supposed to like it!” Varanus protested.

  “Hush,” Ekaterine said. “It’s not my fault that you’re better at naming people than I am…Mildred.”

  They looked at one another and laughed almost in unison. With a few more titters and chuckles, they set off down the street, arm-in-arm like two sisters off to do great things and cause a world of trouble in the process.

  Chapter Two

  Varanus’s clinic was located at the back of an only slightly derelict courtyard, known locally as Osborne Court, in the periphery between Spitalfields and the notorious Old Nichol. The place was tolerable but impoverished, filled with people who had largely resisted the worst urges of the criminal classes despite their destitute situation. Sadly, their desperate virtue only made them that much more susceptible to the criminal element in their part of the city. Like the rest of the East End, it was home to misery and hopelessness, which was precisely why Varanus had chosen it for her clinic.

  At her instruction—and payment—the inhabitants of the surrounding buildings had agreed to hang lanterns from their upper windows each night, and the courtyard was granted some small amount of illumination. It was enough for visitors to manage, though only just. The windows of the clinic were protected with metal shutters, which Ekaterine opened while Varanus unlocked the front door. Everything had to have locks, of course. It was no good maintaining a place of healing when any ruffian could burgle it during the daytime.

  The sign over the door read “Doctor Sauvage”, a necessary subterfuge given the nature of the work. Though she had cast off the trappings of mourning six months ago—the prescribed one year after the death of her father—it would not be seemly for Babette Varanus, the Lady Shashavani, to be seen in such a place, even—or perhaps especially—for the purpose of dispensing medical assistance to those in need. So she had invented her own private physician, Hippolyta Sauvage, to conceal her work. Fortunately, none of the people who had met Lady Shashavani would dare set foot in the vicinity of Osborne Court, and so she remained incognito.

  Once inside, Varanus and Ekaterine removed their hats and jackets and set about making the place ready in case any patients ventured in. Varanus had no house calls to make, which was good given their earlier delay, but it was not unusual for locals with medical complaints to visit during the first few evening hours. After midnight the visits grew far less common, but in contrast they became much more serious in nature. The only reason someone would venture out in such a place during the small hours of the morning would be the grave illness of a loved one or bodily harm that threatened death, and neither of those was uncommon in the East End.

  To call the building a clinic was somewhat charitable, more a reference to its purpose than its capacity. There was little space for patients to convalesce—only two beds in a rather small back room—and besides it was impossible for people to remain during daylight hours, when Varanus and Ekaterine had to attend to their public duties as women of means. But the front room, which had once been a shop, was nevertheless sufficient for its purpose. Serving as a surgery, it held the table that Varanus used for operations, some chairs for sitting, and a comfortable if somewhat worn sofa where patients could sit and rest before returning to their homes.
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br />   Varanus checked their stock of supplies in the adjacent storeroom—also under lock and key—while Ekaterine lit a fire in the stove and began heating some water. With the aid of some half dozen oil lamps, the main room of the clinic was decently illuminated. Thanks especially to her improved vision, Varanus could perform the fine work of surgery and suturing under the rough conditions. It was certainly better than anyone in the neighborhood could have expected before her arrival.

  Ekaterine unlocked the desk in the main room of the surgery and opened the logbook that she kept, preparing a new entry for the night. Her knowledge of medicine was rudimentary at best, but she proved a meticulous secretary.

  They did not wait long for their first patient of the evening. After scarcely half an hour, the bell outside the front door rang. Ekaterine answered it and ushered in a pair of men who were supporting a third of their number between them. The supported man—a laborer named Bates as memory served—looked at her with pain in his expression and hobbled to one of the chairs, where he collapsed. His face was bruised, and blood was staining his shirt and one leg of his trousers. The other men were in a similar state.

  “And so it begins,” Ekaterine whispered in Svan, her native tongue.

  “It does indeed.”

  Varanus crossed to Bates and bid the other men to sit down—on chairs of course, for she saw no reason to risk them bleeding on the sofa.

  “Now then, Monsieur Bates,” she said, speaking with a flawless and completely natural Norman accent, “what ever has become of you? Come, come, lift up your shirt.”

  Bates did as he was bidden, wincing in pain with the movement. There, on his side, were a series of narrow cuts, scratches, and small punctures. They had bled a fair bit, but by now they were beginning to dry. Still, infection was rather likely.

  “And the leg?” Varanus asked.

  Bates hesitated. The blood was pooled around the middle of his thigh.

  “The leg,” Varanus repeated firmly.

  Grunting, Bate unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down to his knees, revealing more bruising and a long gash along the thigh that still seeped blood. The wounds would all need cleaning and binding.

  “Well, doctor?” Bates asked.

  “You were right to come to me,” Varanus said. “By morning your wounds would have become infected. What have you men been doing, eh?”

  The men looked at one another. Varanus’s tone was sharp and accusatory, like a mother scolding her children.

  “Shut yer mouth!” one of the men snapped at her.

  “’Ey, you shut yours!” Bates’s other companion retorted.

  The two men leaned away from Varanus and whispered to one another, though she had no difficulty hearing:

  “Why we takin’ ’im to a woman doctor?” the one demanded. “Ain’t natural.”

  “’Cos she’s ’ere an’ she’s good,” the other told him. “She ’elped my missus through ’er trouble a while back an’ she ’elped my little Johnny when ’e broke ’is ’ead, so she’s gonna ’elp us, and if you don’t like it, you can clear out.”

  Varanus cleared her throat and said, “Gentlemen, though I am flattered at being argued over, Monsieur Bates will need to be attended to, as will the both of you. Now kindly place Monsieur Bates on that table there.” She turned to Ekaterine and said, “Hot water, spirits, and sutures, Catherine.”

  Bates’s companions helped him to the table and laid him down. Varanus and Ekaterine carried their supplies to the table and set them down nearby. Varanus began cleaning the various wounds, dictating to Ekaterine the details of the injuries and the steps she would take to take care of them. Ekaterine dutifully recorded everything with a neat hand.

  “I will ask again,” Varanus said, as she worked, “what have you men been up to?” When Bates hesitated, she said, “You were stabbed with a broken bottle and cut with a knife, Monsieur Bates. You and your friends have also been hit. With clubs, non? As well as fists?” She took Bates’s hand and sniffed it. “And you have fired a pistol.”

  “Look,” Bates said, “it ain’t—”

  “It ain’t none ’a your concern!” snapped the hostile man, grabbing Varanus by the shoulder.

  Varanus went still for a moment, resisting the urge to break his arm.

  “Unhand me, monsieur,” she said coldly, glaring at him.

  The man met her eyes confidently. Then his expression fell and he backed away.

  “Shut it, Jerry!” Bates shouted at the man. He groaned in pain and waved his hand at Varanus. “Can I ’ave some brandy, doctor? I’m dyin’ ’ere.”

  “You are not dying,” Varanus said. “Though I wonder if the same is to be said about the man whom you shot.”

  “We was in a fight,” Bates said.

  “With a gang?” Varanus asked. “With another gang?”

  “No, nothin’ like that,” Bates quickly replied. “We ain’t a gang, an’ neither was the others.”

  Varanus began sewing shut the gash on Bates’s leg.

  “Who then?” she asked.

  “Just some toughs,” Bates said. “Been causing trouble for a mate of mine over by Saint John’s Row. We went to sort ’em out.”

  “Trouble?” she asked. “How?”

  “They wanted money,” Bates said. “To protect ’is tavern, they said. Ain’t gonna stand for that, are we?”

  He sounded sincere.

  “Did you win?” Varanus asked.

  Bates grinned against the pain and said, “’Course, doctor.”

  “Good,” Varanus said with a smile. “I have a strong dislike for bullies.”

  * * * *

  After attending to Bates and his friends, Varanus sent them on their way with a strong admonition to stay out of further trouble. She doubted very much that they would, but she hoped that they would at least confine their violent activities to sorting out interlopers and ruffians. Once a gang—for in truth, that is what Bates and his companions were fast becoming—it would not be long before they began taking the place of the criminals they had sent packing, or before they were killed in the act of clearing them off. Life had a way of staying short and bloody in the East End, however one carried out one’s affairs.

  Things were generally quiet for the remainder of the evening, save for a brief visit from a local woman and her sick child. The child’s cough, while severe, was accompanied by clear lungs and strong breathing. Varanus suspected that the local atmosphere had as much to do with the cough as any sort of illness.

  In the stillness of the late night, Varanus occupied herself with the composition of a monograph, as she often did in quiet moments. While she worked, Korbinian sat with her and read aloud from Plutarch. Ekaterine, who could not hear him, reclined on the sofa and read a copy of Gray’s Anatomy that Varanus had bought for her. It pleased Varanus that Ekaterine wished to familiarize herself with the details of their work. Indeed, her eagerness to learn was astounding in itself. Varanus had scarcely seen such a thirst for knowledge before she had joined the Shashavani.

  Around midnight the bell rang. Ekaterine stood, but before she could answer, it rang again and someone began pounding on the door. Varanus jumped to her feet in alarm.

  Whatever can be the matter? she wondered.

  Ekaterine pulled the door open to reveal a young woman—scarcely eighteen, if she was even that old—dressed in worn and dirty clothes. Both she and her dress were covered in blood, which trickled from her nose and mouth and pooled beneath the skin in great bruises across her face.

  Varanus recognized the girl as one of her regular patients, a local prostitute named Sally Conner.

  “Help—” Sally managed before tumbling forward in a swoon.

  Though startled, Ekaterine reached for Sally without hesitation and caught her before the poor girl hit the floor.

  “What have we here?” Korbinian inquired, appearing at Varanus’s shoulder. “An unfortunate in need of assistance?”

  Varanus ignored him and hurried to Ekaterine’s
side. Together they carried Sally to the sofa. Varanus shut the door while Ekaterine revived Sally with some smelling salts. Presently Sally came round, waking with a start. Varanus quickly laid a hand on her chest to calm her, but Sally winced and gasped in pain, and Varanus withdrew her hand.

  “Hush,” she said. “You’re safe.”

  Sally looked around frantically for a moment before her eyes focused again, and she seemed to recognize Varanus.

  “Doctor!” she cried, grabbing Varanus by the arm. “Doctor, you must ’elp me! I don’t know where else to turn!”

  “What happened, Sally?” Varanus asked, looking her over. The girl had been beaten, severely by the looks of it. Her face and neck were bruised horribly, and God only knew what other injuries lurked beneath her clothing.

  “They’re comin’ for me!” Sally cried, hysterical. “I worked me hardest, but they said it weren’t good enough! But I tried, I did! I tried! Only ’tweren’t enough!”

  Varanus and Ekaterine exchanged glances. They both understood what had happened.

  “Did you lock the door, liebchen?” Korbinian asked. He turned his head and looked across the room.

  Varanus looked toward the door as well. She hadn’t locked it.

  A moment later, the door was flung open. A tall man of tremendous girth pushed his way in through the doorway, followed by three others of normal stature. They were dressed in shabby suits and battered hats, though their clothes were far more flash than most men of the streets—toughs with pretensions to respectability perhaps.

  Members of a gang.

  “There’s the ’ore!” the giant shouted.

  “Thought she could run,” said one of the others—a scrawny lad of perhaps fifteen. “But she can’t!”

  He and the other two shared a cruel laugh. The giant merely advanced, turning a large club over in his hands.

  “’Ere poppet…” he said, looking directly at Sally.

  Varanus rose up to her full height—which was not terribly impressive, truth be told—and planted herself directly in the man’s path.