Being Human: Ausencia [Hal/Eve, sequel to Lonely Rivers] 2/3
Title: “Ausencia”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: AU!future as shown in episodes 4.01, 4.07, 4.08.
Summary: To save humanity the War Child must die. Eve found a loophole but humanity isn’t as grateful as it should be. Sequel to Lonely Rivers. [Hal/Eve, side Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title is Spanish for absence.
Dedication: for shirogiku and non-canonical.
A/N: It´s funny that I should fall ill while proofreading this chapter. It´s bloody ironic. XD
Part 1
Part 2
Hal likes to make an entrance. He likes it when heads turn and spines go rigid and knees hit the ground and eyes reflect fear and admiration. It is his way of collecting obligatory tributes for the Old Ones.
He appears to have grown tired of that lately. These days he is just running horribly late for every appointment. Making people wait is an exquisite torture if you know how to do it right.
It is Eve’s first time at the council table. This is where decisions regarding the future of the state are made. It seems rather unimpressive: a bunch of vampires sitting in their fancy chairs like dressed up mannequins, glowering at each other in dismal silence. Eve observes them surreptitiously. All the usual suspects are present: Fergus, looking around the room with feigned indifference (when their eyes briefly meet, Eve stands her ground, waiting for him to look away first); Jacob, sipping scotch and proudly demonstrating how bored he is; Cutler, locking and unlocking his hands as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them; Regus, scribbling something in a thick notebook; a couple of others whose names Eve never bothered to memorize; and of course Hettie, Mr Snow’s envoy, surrounded by her retinue of recruits. Last time she visited, the resistance tried an assassination attempt on her.
Hal deigns to appear over an hour after the planned start of the meeting. He flashes Hettie a radiant smile. The girl’s face contorts but she moulds her features into a mask of courteous indulgence.
“L’exactitude est la politesse des Rois-,” she remarks in her high-pitched, childish voice, stretching the words unpleasantly.
“Et le devoir de tous les gens de bien,” Hal finishes with condescension. He doesn’t like Hettie; everyone knows that. There are many theories why but the fact remains.
The girl scoffs.
“What’s she doing here?” she asks. She isn’t looking at Eve but it’s obvious she means her.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’m asking you.”
They glare at each other for a moment. Eve says coldly:
“I am here as the liaison between the vampire government and the human resistance as per the arrangement between Lord Hal and me.”
She doesn’t need Hal to speak for her.
“The vampire government,” Hettie drawls. “Funny you should call it that. Last time I checked there was no other government. The whole world is still standing only thanks to us. Whereas the humans seem to have acquired a new fad: now they’re not only killing us but also themselves. Oh well. Anything for a quiet life.”
A few chuckles follow. Hal smiles a calm, gentle smile, which, Eve knows, is the most dangerous expression on his face.
“I am sure things are going a lot smoother in that heavenly corner of the world Mr Snow has given you to play with, Hettie. Wherever that may be. However, we are here to discuss the solution, not complain about the problem. Let’s get to it.”
Eve listens to the reports with half an ear. It’s been almost a month since Lucas attacked and a week since she had her first official meeting with the leaders of the resistance on neutral grounds. Some of those men were old and seasoned, they had fought alongside Tom and remembered Annie or at least recognized her name. They had been Eve’s war council, her protectors and her jailers for a long time. It felt surreal to stand before them and speak for the vampires.
But of course Hettie has a point. Their glorification of sacrifice has exploded into full-blown suicide attacks. Humans used to kill themselves for religious and ideological reasons; now they do it out of spite. They do it because they don’t care to live anymore but they still care enough to take as many people with them as possible.
One of Hettie’s vampires clears his throat. Fergus who is reporting at the moment flashes him a scathing look. The boy (he looks but a few years older than Hettie though he must have been at the very least born before the pregnancy embargo) apologizes, his ears flushing red. Fergus continues speaking. Eve suppresses the urge to yawn.
A few minutes later the sound repeats, growing louder, and turns into a hacking cough. Eve glances at Hal: he tenses in his chair, a small frown creasing his face. The boy twitches and throws up a clot of black blood-like substance. Hettie jumps to her feet. Cutler exclaims: “What the hell is that?” Convulsions joggle the boy’s body once more, and he collapses on the floor, the same black fluid frothing on his lips.
For a moment, the vampires just watch the fit in morbid fascination. Regus is the first to recover. He gets up so quickly that his chair drops on the floor and he runs out of the conference room. Eve looks round the room and fixes her gaze on Hal once more. Everyone looks, for want of a better word, ill at ease. They don’t understand what is happening. Even Hal seems to be at a loss. This is what alarms Eve the most.
Regus returns, accompanied by two guards pushing a gurney. They carefully place the still shivering body on it and leave. Regus catches Eve’s bewildered look and gives her a small smile, not nearly comforting enough. But then, she doesn’t expect to be comforted. She wants answers as do all of them.
Hettie lowers herself back in the chair. Fergus examines the splatter on the table from a safe distance while the others do their best to look the other way. Eve glances at Hal, waiting for him to break the silence, but he does nothing. His fingers flex, as if looking for something to grasp. The hands of the clock crawl slowly upwards. It’s been a few hours, and she hasn’t even noticed.
A tall, grey-haired man enters the conference room, leaning heavily on a cane. His name is Stromann. Eve has seen him a few times in the remote corridors of the palace. They say he is a medic but he seldom deals with prisoners and why else vampires would need a medic, Eve has no idea. He appears to be in his sixties, sinewy and strong for his age, with a lean, noble face and thin, clean-cut eyebrows.
“I regret to inform you,” he says, looking at Hettie, “that the boy is dead.”
Hettie stiffens, lips forming a silent question. Cutler voices it:
“Of what?”
“Blood disease by the looks of it.”
Stromann’s voice sounds huskier than Eve has expected, gentler somehow. He stands taller than any man in the room and she has no trouble picturing him as a character in some medieval tale of chivalry. Perhaps that is where he comes from. The cane in his hand might as well be a sword.
“Vampires don’t get sick,” Fergus protests. “Was there dog blood-?”
“We found no traces of it in the boy’s system,” the doctor interrupts coolly. “Need I remind you that werewolf blood is a strong toxin, which burns and poisons a vampire from the moment they come in contact with it? This disease appears to have an incubation period.”
His eyes travel from one face to another, taking in the same befuddled expression. He looks Eve over briefly and turns to Hettie again.
“My condolences, Miss Hettie. What was the boy’s name?”
Eve half-expects her not to answer.
“Mulligan,” Hettie says in a small, tired voice. For once, she looks every bit her human age.
“And what are we to do,” Hal asks, a tense mixture of causticity and worry in his voice, “to keep from following Mr Mulligan to the grave?”
“Too early to say, my lord,” the doctor answers. “We need to run more tests. But if I were you,” Eve could swear she hears and thank heavens I am not! in his tone, “I would mind what I drink and from whom.” He makes a shallow bow and heads for the door. “Regus. Would you be so kind as to document our research?”
Regus glances at Hal who nods curtly. Eve thoughtfully watches them leave. She’s glad Stromann has requested Regus’s presence: she can keep track of their progress through him.
Hal taps his fingers on the table top.
“Well, I suppose that solves our potential rationing problem,” he drawls. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hettie dearest?”
The girl turns her head slowly and says very clearly:
“Stuff it, Hal.”
She exits the room with her head raised proudly to the accompaniment of an outburst of laughter.
* * *
Cutler remembers rationing during World War II. He remembers National Registration Day and food disappearing, coloured ration books and going half-hungry for what felt like forever. Some people had it worse, he supposes, but he was always far too focused on himself to waste his sympathies on someone else.
He was already a vampire when food rationing ended, only a year before Hal left. Food had lost most of its appeal but he still welcomed the freedom of choice. He looks at the sheet of paper in front of him, one of Hal’s many new decrees inspired by his alliance with the yellow-haired bitch, and he tries to imagine what rationing humans will be like. Will there be coupons and priority categories? Will vampires riot against it? Will they fight in the streets for a pint of blood from a living vein?
There are other changes as well. The pregnancy embargo has been lifted and replaced by the recruitment ban. This one, Cutler doesn’t mind. Ever since the revolution vampires have been recruiting indiscriminately and most newbies have turned out to be brainless cunts who believe that having sharp teeth is enough to be a part of the master race. That is an almost Fergus-like level of stupidity.
“Tell me,” Hal demands (no, perhaps that is the wrong word for it; these days he mostly asks). “What do people say about the new laws?”
Cutler fumbles for words. Asking doesn’t make it any less dangerous: Hal can still put a stake near his heart or burn him with crosses if he feels like it.
“They aren’t thrilled about recruitment requiring special papers and being otherwise punishable by death. And they’re hardly on board with the whole rationing idea.” He adds hastily: “But it’s temporary, isn’t it? Now that humans are allowed to breed freely-.”
“Are they scared?”
Cutler frowns. Is that a trick question?
“I’m not quite sure-.”
Hal chuckles. He is standing by the tall, half-curtained window, his back on Cutler; he looks like a ghost. Of course they are scared. They think Lord Hal has gone mad. They blame the War Child, the resistance, the strange virus that has been sweeping through the city. It’s a veritable dystopia and it’s not nearly as thrilling as writers and pop singers make it out to be.
“You can take my supper if you like,” Hal says. “I’m not hungry.”
Cutler bites back the what!? Since when? Maybe Hal has indeed gone mad. Maybe they all have.
He walks round the table and touches Hal’s shoulder, indecisively at first. Meeting no resistance, he trails his hand down to the small of his back and whispers in Hal’s ear:
“I’ll make it up to you.”
He wants Hal to look at him. Hal hasn’t looked at him for months. He only has eyes for her these days. Maybe Nick is seeing things. Maybe he is too caught up in his jealousy and resentment. Perhaps he’s imagining the smell too.
Hal turns around and pushes Cutler against the table. He’s still not looking at him but his knee is lodged between Nick’s legs and his teeth are at Nick’s throat, grazing the skin suggestively. Please, Cutler wants to say but doesn’t. He’s safe, he tested negative for the virus only a day before (that monster of a doctor insists on pumping out their blood every week as if they are not starved for it as it is) but he doesn’t want to push his luck.
He runs his fingers through Hal’s hair, cups the back of his head and makes him look up. He kisses Hal’s mouth, keeping his eyes open and focused on Hal’s face. He moans into the kiss when Hal’s fangs pierce his tongue and he chokes on his own flavourless blood. He palms Hal through the trousers as he bites back but before he can split the skin, Hal pulls away and latches onto his neck. The bite is vicious and uncontrolled, a strong echo of the very first one, decades ago in that small holding cell. Nick arches his back, rubbing against Hal, silently begging for more. Pain is the only thing Hal has ever given him for free.
Hal shrinks back all of a sudden. He looks like he’s going to spit but he licks the blood off his lips and says quietly:
“You just have.”
His tone carries that oppressive finality of dismissal that Cutler always secretly dreads to hear. He draws himself up. Blood is dripping on the collar of his white shirt; he doesn’t care to stop it. He tries to catch Hal’s look but Hal has already forgotten about him.
* * *
They say those who catch the disease die within a few hours. It starts with a cough that gets progressively worse until you begin to vomit black blood. You lose control of your body and the cramps become so violent that your teeth might shatter. When you’ve worn yourself out so that you can’t lift a finger, your skin turns ash-grey and black veins mottle your face. Every inhalation hurts, so you have to stop breathing, which means you can’t speak anymore. Stromann forces you to speak. He makes you describe the intolerable pain gutting you, makes you rate it on the scale of one to ten and watches your skin wither and wear paper-thin until your whole body falls to dust. You remain conscious throughout every step of the way and you know what’s coming but there isn’t a single thing you can do about it. There have been thirteen terminal cases in the past two and a half weeks, all of them vampires.
Stromann gives Cutler the creeps. He usually avoids the so-called hospital wing unless he needs to do a blood test, but he finds himself drawn to it now. It’s quite a popular hang-out these days. The Vampire Recorder practically lives there; maybe Cutler could trade insults with him and feel better.
He scrapes mindlessly at the crust of blood over the fresh bitemark on his neck. His body is still tingling with an aftershock and arousal. There is fear too. Damn right, they are scared. They are all terrified, even the toughest ones like Fergus and the War Child. They try not to think about the disease that has struck out of nowhere, the sickness that afflicts even such invincible creatures as vampires. They do their best to downplay it but Cutler has heard some people call it “plague”. Quite a big name for a trifle of an illness.
Maybe that’s why he needs to go in. He wants to see the lab workers. He wants them to tell him there is nothing to fear.
He catches sight of the War Child coming out of the lab. He can see the same need in her face and he can tell she has not been reassured.
He changes his mind and turns back. This place makes his stomach turn. He always hated clinical smells. The War Child walks beside him, silent, pensive. He imagines her squirming underneath Hal, pure instinct and passion. He doubts there are any special skills on the menu but there must be lust and frenzy and stamina. Hal likes that best of all. Does she give head? Does he caress that ugly brand on her arm with his tongue? Is he allowed everywhere or is there any part of her that is off limits?
“Do you drink?” he asks because silence is getting on his nerves as do the thoughts in his head.
“You can tell I don’t.”
There is nothing to be proud of, not really.
“I can smell Hal’s blood on you,” Cutler says. “I can smell other things too.”
“So can I. What I do in my free time is none of your business.” She pauses, then adds: “Actually, what I do in my working hours is none of your business either.”
Cutler smirks. “So you do that professionally, huh?” She looks like she’s going to hit him. He takes a few steps aside, closer to the opposite wall. “If your abstinence proves to be detrimental to Hal’s well-being-.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She doesn’t know that he’s giving up blood. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about after all. Maybe it was just a single instance.
“He’s not your personal blood bank,” Cutler grouches. “Find somebody else to leech on.”
The War Child snorts. She must be thinking that he’s worried there won’t be enough blood left in Hal for both of them. Let her think what she will.
“Do you even know what real hunger is?” she asks archly.
“I’ve been a vampire for eighty-seven years. What do you think?” He had been hungry as a human as well. His family arguably had it better than some during the war but there was always room for envy. “You know,” he sighs, “vampires aren’t the only ones who do horrible things. I could name quite a few moments in history when horrible, unspeakable things happened and vampires weren’t even there. So spare me your holier-than-thou, resistance martyr attitude, Goldilocks.”
* * *
Three weeks after Mulligan’s death they are back in the conference room, waiting. Their poker faces are slipping.
“I, uh… I’ve got bad news,” Regus announces, “and… well, badder news.”
“Just get on with it,” Hal huffs impatiently.
Regus leafs through his papers and looks back up.
“The, uh… disease affects only our kind. So… the humans are safe. In case you’ve been worried about the food and all. The werewolves also seem to be immune.” Regus snuffles and chews on his lower lip thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, everyone on Dr Stromann’s team has caught the disease. Some have already died, others are quarantined, including Dr Stromann himself. That, uh… proves you don’t have to drink the infected blood to… er… It also means we’ve got no medical personnel left but that’s okay because we have no idea how to treat this thing anyway.” He attempts a reassuring smile. It meets no approval from anyone in the room. “So… there.”
Eve didn’t expect this. No one did. They are all just as dumbstruck as she is. The thought of some mystical plague cutting the vampires down like blades of grass would have seemed ludicrous only a month before. Some fifteen years ago humans tried biological warfare on the invaders; it never worked.
“Where does it come from?” Jacob asks. His voice is all but trembling.
Regus shrugs.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hettie exclaims and points at Eve. “It’s her fault!”
“My fault?” That’s new. Eve has never had a plague blamed on her before. “How on earth-?”
“You’re the War Child, sweetie. You’re supposed to destroy us all. It’s written. There you go.”
“This is ridiculous,” Hal interjects. “You can’t seriously believe-.”
Hettie narrows her eyes dangerously.
“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot believe in. You should never have recruited her, Hal. You brought this on us!”
Hal’s face darkens.
“Shall I remind you,” he says through gritted teeth, “that the first victim was your recruit?”
“We’ll see what Mr Snow has to say about this.”
Hal laughs. There is a hysterical edge to his laughter.
“Wake up, Hettie! How long has it been since you last heard from him? Mr Snow won’t have anything to say about any of this because he doesn’t care. He left us.”
Hettie leaps off the chair and heads for the door. She casts a scathing look at Eve but it does nothing. Eve knows they won’t be seeing each other again. A few weeks ago Regus advised her to watch out for Hettie just in case. He said she could be very vengeful. Eve wondered if Hettie had other reasons to hate her aside from her being the prophesied War Child. “Your father did kill her favourite recruit,” Regus told her. “And then he killed two more Old Ones. It’s not the kind of thing someone like Hettie would let go of willingly.”
And yet, Hettie has never made her move. She won’t make it now either. Suddenly all the old scores seem meaningless in the face of the plague.
“No,” Hettie says, without looking at Hal. “He left you. And for a good reason.”
Eve looks for any reaction on Hal’s part but he stonily watches Hettie leave. The room remains quiet for a while as everyone processes the news.
“What if it’s not supernatural?” says Jacob. “The resistance must have created some sort of a biological weapon. Maybe they found a way to poison their blood. There must be an antidote.”
“You think we haven’t tried?” Eve chuckles. “Hasn’t Regus just said you don’t have to drink the blood to catch the virus? Trust me, if it were us… if it were humans, I’d know about it.”
“Hettie’s right about one thing,” Jacob says after a pause. “We can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I’m sorry, Hal. I can’t die like this.” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”
“If you walk out of here, I’ll stake you as a deserter,” Hal says calmly.
An indulgent smirk twists Jacob’s lips. “We’re not at war anymore. We lost the war.”
No one dares to shut him up because it’s true and no one dares to stop him when he follows Hettie because there will be no safety in numbers when the plague strikes at full force. From now on, they are alone.
* * *
Eve visits the quarantine zone after the meeting. There is no reason for her to be here: the dying vampires will not tell her anything new and she has never been fond of looking at death for too long. Old men of the resistance warned her not to give death any reasons to stare back.
She looks decidedly away from a few piles of ash on the floor. Dr Stromann is still alive. He doesn’t look well but his skin hasn’t yet acquired that ashen hue that reminds her strongly of Mr Snow. He spots her and beckons her closer. She stops a few steps short of the transparent vinyl wall of the hastily erected isolation room separating them and takes in Stromann’s chapped, greyish lips and his feverish eyes. There are plenty of things she could say to him. He was always more interested in studying the plague than treating it. She could throw it in his face now and she almost does, wanting for once to be mindlessly cruel.
“Is it true?” she restrains herself to ask. “Is it incurable?”
“It’s true that I shan’t be the one to find the cure,” Stromann replies calmly. “Let me give you one piece of advice, child. Pass it on to Lord Harry, will you?” She nods. He starts coughing and expectorates a clot of black blood. He raises his hand and shows her the spatter. “When this starts happening, there is no way back. Soon you will have a full-blown epidemic on your hands. Stake anyone who exhibits these symptoms. Don’t wait for them to die. It’s just needless torture. Stake them.”
Show mercy, he means. How hypocritical of a vampire who used to march under Hal’s banners.
Eve pulls a stake out of the inside pocket of her jacket. She offers it to Stromann. The doctor shakes his head and smiles a gentle, resigned smile.
“No. Thank you, but no.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.” He struggles through another coughing fit. “I’d like to see for myself how it develops.”
Eve slowly lowers the stake on the floor. In case he changes his mind. The doctor nods.
“Child,” he calls after her when she is about to leave. “Don’t listen to those superstitious morons who blame it on you. In times like these, people tend to start a witch hunt.”
A new fit cuts his speech short. Stromann wheezes and doubles over, disgorging black mush that looks like mud. He starts trembling. Eve stares at him, mesmerized, having discovered a weapon more powerful than a stake. A stake can miss its target but this never will.
She snaps out of it and turns her back on him. There has been enough death and enough temptation for one day.
A/N 2: L’exactitude est la politesse des Rois et le devoir de tous les gens de bien. - Punctuality is the politeness of kings and the duty of gentle people everywhere. (Louis XVIII)
Part 3
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: AU!future as shown in episodes 4.01, 4.07, 4.08.
Summary: To save humanity the War Child must die. Eve found a loophole but humanity isn’t as grateful as it should be. Sequel to Lonely Rivers. [Hal/Eve, side Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title is Spanish for absence.
Dedication: for shirogiku and non-canonical.
A/N: It´s funny that I should fall ill while proofreading this chapter. It´s bloody ironic. XD
Part 1
Part 2
Hal likes to make an entrance. He likes it when heads turn and spines go rigid and knees hit the ground and eyes reflect fear and admiration. It is his way of collecting obligatory tributes for the Old Ones.
He appears to have grown tired of that lately. These days he is just running horribly late for every appointment. Making people wait is an exquisite torture if you know how to do it right.
It is Eve’s first time at the council table. This is where decisions regarding the future of the state are made. It seems rather unimpressive: a bunch of vampires sitting in their fancy chairs like dressed up mannequins, glowering at each other in dismal silence. Eve observes them surreptitiously. All the usual suspects are present: Fergus, looking around the room with feigned indifference (when their eyes briefly meet, Eve stands her ground, waiting for him to look away first); Jacob, sipping scotch and proudly demonstrating how bored he is; Cutler, locking and unlocking his hands as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them; Regus, scribbling something in a thick notebook; a couple of others whose names Eve never bothered to memorize; and of course Hettie, Mr Snow’s envoy, surrounded by her retinue of recruits. Last time she visited, the resistance tried an assassination attempt on her.
Hal deigns to appear over an hour after the planned start of the meeting. He flashes Hettie a radiant smile. The girl’s face contorts but she moulds her features into a mask of courteous indulgence.
“L’exactitude est la politesse des Rois-,” she remarks in her high-pitched, childish voice, stretching the words unpleasantly.
“Et le devoir de tous les gens de bien,” Hal finishes with condescension. He doesn’t like Hettie; everyone knows that. There are many theories why but the fact remains.
The girl scoffs.
“What’s she doing here?” she asks. She isn’t looking at Eve but it’s obvious she means her.
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I’m asking you.”
They glare at each other for a moment. Eve says coldly:
“I am here as the liaison between the vampire government and the human resistance as per the arrangement between Lord Hal and me.”
She doesn’t need Hal to speak for her.
“The vampire government,” Hettie drawls. “Funny you should call it that. Last time I checked there was no other government. The whole world is still standing only thanks to us. Whereas the humans seem to have acquired a new fad: now they’re not only killing us but also themselves. Oh well. Anything for a quiet life.”
A few chuckles follow. Hal smiles a calm, gentle smile, which, Eve knows, is the most dangerous expression on his face.
“I am sure things are going a lot smoother in that heavenly corner of the world Mr Snow has given you to play with, Hettie. Wherever that may be. However, we are here to discuss the solution, not complain about the problem. Let’s get to it.”
Eve listens to the reports with half an ear. It’s been almost a month since Lucas attacked and a week since she had her first official meeting with the leaders of the resistance on neutral grounds. Some of those men were old and seasoned, they had fought alongside Tom and remembered Annie or at least recognized her name. They had been Eve’s war council, her protectors and her jailers for a long time. It felt surreal to stand before them and speak for the vampires.
But of course Hettie has a point. Their glorification of sacrifice has exploded into full-blown suicide attacks. Humans used to kill themselves for religious and ideological reasons; now they do it out of spite. They do it because they don’t care to live anymore but they still care enough to take as many people with them as possible.
One of Hettie’s vampires clears his throat. Fergus who is reporting at the moment flashes him a scathing look. The boy (he looks but a few years older than Hettie though he must have been at the very least born before the pregnancy embargo) apologizes, his ears flushing red. Fergus continues speaking. Eve suppresses the urge to yawn.
A few minutes later the sound repeats, growing louder, and turns into a hacking cough. Eve glances at Hal: he tenses in his chair, a small frown creasing his face. The boy twitches and throws up a clot of black blood-like substance. Hettie jumps to her feet. Cutler exclaims: “What the hell is that?” Convulsions joggle the boy’s body once more, and he collapses on the floor, the same black fluid frothing on his lips.
For a moment, the vampires just watch the fit in morbid fascination. Regus is the first to recover. He gets up so quickly that his chair drops on the floor and he runs out of the conference room. Eve looks round the room and fixes her gaze on Hal once more. Everyone looks, for want of a better word, ill at ease. They don’t understand what is happening. Even Hal seems to be at a loss. This is what alarms Eve the most.
Regus returns, accompanied by two guards pushing a gurney. They carefully place the still shivering body on it and leave. Regus catches Eve’s bewildered look and gives her a small smile, not nearly comforting enough. But then, she doesn’t expect to be comforted. She wants answers as do all of them.
Hettie lowers herself back in the chair. Fergus examines the splatter on the table from a safe distance while the others do their best to look the other way. Eve glances at Hal, waiting for him to break the silence, but he does nothing. His fingers flex, as if looking for something to grasp. The hands of the clock crawl slowly upwards. It’s been a few hours, and she hasn’t even noticed.
A tall, grey-haired man enters the conference room, leaning heavily on a cane. His name is Stromann. Eve has seen him a few times in the remote corridors of the palace. They say he is a medic but he seldom deals with prisoners and why else vampires would need a medic, Eve has no idea. He appears to be in his sixties, sinewy and strong for his age, with a lean, noble face and thin, clean-cut eyebrows.
“I regret to inform you,” he says, looking at Hettie, “that the boy is dead.”
Hettie stiffens, lips forming a silent question. Cutler voices it:
“Of what?”
“Blood disease by the looks of it.”
Stromann’s voice sounds huskier than Eve has expected, gentler somehow. He stands taller than any man in the room and she has no trouble picturing him as a character in some medieval tale of chivalry. Perhaps that is where he comes from. The cane in his hand might as well be a sword.
“Vampires don’t get sick,” Fergus protests. “Was there dog blood-?”
“We found no traces of it in the boy’s system,” the doctor interrupts coolly. “Need I remind you that werewolf blood is a strong toxin, which burns and poisons a vampire from the moment they come in contact with it? This disease appears to have an incubation period.”
His eyes travel from one face to another, taking in the same befuddled expression. He looks Eve over briefly and turns to Hettie again.
“My condolences, Miss Hettie. What was the boy’s name?”
Eve half-expects her not to answer.
“Mulligan,” Hettie says in a small, tired voice. For once, she looks every bit her human age.
“And what are we to do,” Hal asks, a tense mixture of causticity and worry in his voice, “to keep from following Mr Mulligan to the grave?”
“Too early to say, my lord,” the doctor answers. “We need to run more tests. But if I were you,” Eve could swear she hears and thank heavens I am not! in his tone, “I would mind what I drink and from whom.” He makes a shallow bow and heads for the door. “Regus. Would you be so kind as to document our research?”
Regus glances at Hal who nods curtly. Eve thoughtfully watches them leave. She’s glad Stromann has requested Regus’s presence: she can keep track of their progress through him.
Hal taps his fingers on the table top.
“Well, I suppose that solves our potential rationing problem,” he drawls. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hettie dearest?”
The girl turns her head slowly and says very clearly:
“Stuff it, Hal.”
She exits the room with her head raised proudly to the accompaniment of an outburst of laughter.
* * *
Cutler remembers rationing during World War II. He remembers National Registration Day and food disappearing, coloured ration books and going half-hungry for what felt like forever. Some people had it worse, he supposes, but he was always far too focused on himself to waste his sympathies on someone else.
He was already a vampire when food rationing ended, only a year before Hal left. Food had lost most of its appeal but he still welcomed the freedom of choice. He looks at the sheet of paper in front of him, one of Hal’s many new decrees inspired by his alliance with the yellow-haired bitch, and he tries to imagine what rationing humans will be like. Will there be coupons and priority categories? Will vampires riot against it? Will they fight in the streets for a pint of blood from a living vein?
There are other changes as well. The pregnancy embargo has been lifted and replaced by the recruitment ban. This one, Cutler doesn’t mind. Ever since the revolution vampires have been recruiting indiscriminately and most newbies have turned out to be brainless cunts who believe that having sharp teeth is enough to be a part of the master race. That is an almost Fergus-like level of stupidity.
“Tell me,” Hal demands (no, perhaps that is the wrong word for it; these days he mostly asks). “What do people say about the new laws?”
Cutler fumbles for words. Asking doesn’t make it any less dangerous: Hal can still put a stake near his heart or burn him with crosses if he feels like it.
“They aren’t thrilled about recruitment requiring special papers and being otherwise punishable by death. And they’re hardly on board with the whole rationing idea.” He adds hastily: “But it’s temporary, isn’t it? Now that humans are allowed to breed freely-.”
“Are they scared?”
Cutler frowns. Is that a trick question?
“I’m not quite sure-.”
Hal chuckles. He is standing by the tall, half-curtained window, his back on Cutler; he looks like a ghost. Of course they are scared. They think Lord Hal has gone mad. They blame the War Child, the resistance, the strange virus that has been sweeping through the city. It’s a veritable dystopia and it’s not nearly as thrilling as writers and pop singers make it out to be.
“You can take my supper if you like,” Hal says. “I’m not hungry.”
Cutler bites back the what!? Since when? Maybe Hal has indeed gone mad. Maybe they all have.
He walks round the table and touches Hal’s shoulder, indecisively at first. Meeting no resistance, he trails his hand down to the small of his back and whispers in Hal’s ear:
“I’ll make it up to you.”
He wants Hal to look at him. Hal hasn’t looked at him for months. He only has eyes for her these days. Maybe Nick is seeing things. Maybe he is too caught up in his jealousy and resentment. Perhaps he’s imagining the smell too.
Hal turns around and pushes Cutler against the table. He’s still not looking at him but his knee is lodged between Nick’s legs and his teeth are at Nick’s throat, grazing the skin suggestively. Please, Cutler wants to say but doesn’t. He’s safe, he tested negative for the virus only a day before (that monster of a doctor insists on pumping out their blood every week as if they are not starved for it as it is) but he doesn’t want to push his luck.
He runs his fingers through Hal’s hair, cups the back of his head and makes him look up. He kisses Hal’s mouth, keeping his eyes open and focused on Hal’s face. He moans into the kiss when Hal’s fangs pierce his tongue and he chokes on his own flavourless blood. He palms Hal through the trousers as he bites back but before he can split the skin, Hal pulls away and latches onto his neck. The bite is vicious and uncontrolled, a strong echo of the very first one, decades ago in that small holding cell. Nick arches his back, rubbing against Hal, silently begging for more. Pain is the only thing Hal has ever given him for free.
Hal shrinks back all of a sudden. He looks like he’s going to spit but he licks the blood off his lips and says quietly:
“You just have.”
His tone carries that oppressive finality of dismissal that Cutler always secretly dreads to hear. He draws himself up. Blood is dripping on the collar of his white shirt; he doesn’t care to stop it. He tries to catch Hal’s look but Hal has already forgotten about him.
* * *
They say those who catch the disease die within a few hours. It starts with a cough that gets progressively worse until you begin to vomit black blood. You lose control of your body and the cramps become so violent that your teeth might shatter. When you’ve worn yourself out so that you can’t lift a finger, your skin turns ash-grey and black veins mottle your face. Every inhalation hurts, so you have to stop breathing, which means you can’t speak anymore. Stromann forces you to speak. He makes you describe the intolerable pain gutting you, makes you rate it on the scale of one to ten and watches your skin wither and wear paper-thin until your whole body falls to dust. You remain conscious throughout every step of the way and you know what’s coming but there isn’t a single thing you can do about it. There have been thirteen terminal cases in the past two and a half weeks, all of them vampires.
Stromann gives Cutler the creeps. He usually avoids the so-called hospital wing unless he needs to do a blood test, but he finds himself drawn to it now. It’s quite a popular hang-out these days. The Vampire Recorder practically lives there; maybe Cutler could trade insults with him and feel better.
He scrapes mindlessly at the crust of blood over the fresh bitemark on his neck. His body is still tingling with an aftershock and arousal. There is fear too. Damn right, they are scared. They are all terrified, even the toughest ones like Fergus and the War Child. They try not to think about the disease that has struck out of nowhere, the sickness that afflicts even such invincible creatures as vampires. They do their best to downplay it but Cutler has heard some people call it “plague”. Quite a big name for a trifle of an illness.
Maybe that’s why he needs to go in. He wants to see the lab workers. He wants them to tell him there is nothing to fear.
He catches sight of the War Child coming out of the lab. He can see the same need in her face and he can tell she has not been reassured.
He changes his mind and turns back. This place makes his stomach turn. He always hated clinical smells. The War Child walks beside him, silent, pensive. He imagines her squirming underneath Hal, pure instinct and passion. He doubts there are any special skills on the menu but there must be lust and frenzy and stamina. Hal likes that best of all. Does she give head? Does he caress that ugly brand on her arm with his tongue? Is he allowed everywhere or is there any part of her that is off limits?
“Do you drink?” he asks because silence is getting on his nerves as do the thoughts in his head.
“You can tell I don’t.”
There is nothing to be proud of, not really.
“I can smell Hal’s blood on you,” Cutler says. “I can smell other things too.”
“So can I. What I do in my free time is none of your business.” She pauses, then adds: “Actually, what I do in my working hours is none of your business either.”
Cutler smirks. “So you do that professionally, huh?” She looks like she’s going to hit him. He takes a few steps aside, closer to the opposite wall. “If your abstinence proves to be detrimental to Hal’s well-being-.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She doesn’t know that he’s giving up blood. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about after all. Maybe it was just a single instance.
“He’s not your personal blood bank,” Cutler grouches. “Find somebody else to leech on.”
The War Child snorts. She must be thinking that he’s worried there won’t be enough blood left in Hal for both of them. Let her think what she will.
“Do you even know what real hunger is?” she asks archly.
“I’ve been a vampire for eighty-seven years. What do you think?” He had been hungry as a human as well. His family arguably had it better than some during the war but there was always room for envy. “You know,” he sighs, “vampires aren’t the only ones who do horrible things. I could name quite a few moments in history when horrible, unspeakable things happened and vampires weren’t even there. So spare me your holier-than-thou, resistance martyr attitude, Goldilocks.”
* * *
Three weeks after Mulligan’s death they are back in the conference room, waiting. Their poker faces are slipping.
“I, uh… I’ve got bad news,” Regus announces, “and… well, badder news.”
“Just get on with it,” Hal huffs impatiently.
Regus leafs through his papers and looks back up.
“The, uh… disease affects only our kind. So… the humans are safe. In case you’ve been worried about the food and all. The werewolves also seem to be immune.” Regus snuffles and chews on his lower lip thoughtfully. “Unfortunately, everyone on Dr Stromann’s team has caught the disease. Some have already died, others are quarantined, including Dr Stromann himself. That, uh… proves you don’t have to drink the infected blood to… er… It also means we’ve got no medical personnel left but that’s okay because we have no idea how to treat this thing anyway.” He attempts a reassuring smile. It meets no approval from anyone in the room. “So… there.”
Eve didn’t expect this. No one did. They are all just as dumbstruck as she is. The thought of some mystical plague cutting the vampires down like blades of grass would have seemed ludicrous only a month before. Some fifteen years ago humans tried biological warfare on the invaders; it never worked.
“Where does it come from?” Jacob asks. His voice is all but trembling.
Regus shrugs.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hettie exclaims and points at Eve. “It’s her fault!”
“My fault?” That’s new. Eve has never had a plague blamed on her before. “How on earth-?”
“You’re the War Child, sweetie. You’re supposed to destroy us all. It’s written. There you go.”
“This is ridiculous,” Hal interjects. “You can’t seriously believe-.”
Hettie narrows her eyes dangerously.
“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot believe in. You should never have recruited her, Hal. You brought this on us!”
Hal’s face darkens.
“Shall I remind you,” he says through gritted teeth, “that the first victim was your recruit?”
“We’ll see what Mr Snow has to say about this.”
Hal laughs. There is a hysterical edge to his laughter.
“Wake up, Hettie! How long has it been since you last heard from him? Mr Snow won’t have anything to say about any of this because he doesn’t care. He left us.”
Hettie leaps off the chair and heads for the door. She casts a scathing look at Eve but it does nothing. Eve knows they won’t be seeing each other again. A few weeks ago Regus advised her to watch out for Hettie just in case. He said she could be very vengeful. Eve wondered if Hettie had other reasons to hate her aside from her being the prophesied War Child. “Your father did kill her favourite recruit,” Regus told her. “And then he killed two more Old Ones. It’s not the kind of thing someone like Hettie would let go of willingly.”
And yet, Hettie has never made her move. She won’t make it now either. Suddenly all the old scores seem meaningless in the face of the plague.
“No,” Hettie says, without looking at Hal. “He left you. And for a good reason.”
Eve looks for any reaction on Hal’s part but he stonily watches Hettie leave. The room remains quiet for a while as everyone processes the news.
“What if it’s not supernatural?” says Jacob. “The resistance must have created some sort of a biological weapon. Maybe they found a way to poison their blood. There must be an antidote.”
“You think we haven’t tried?” Eve chuckles. “Hasn’t Regus just said you don’t have to drink the blood to catch the virus? Trust me, if it were us… if it were humans, I’d know about it.”
“Hettie’s right about one thing,” Jacob says after a pause. “We can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I’m sorry, Hal. I can’t die like this.” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”
“If you walk out of here, I’ll stake you as a deserter,” Hal says calmly.
An indulgent smirk twists Jacob’s lips. “We’re not at war anymore. We lost the war.”
No one dares to shut him up because it’s true and no one dares to stop him when he follows Hettie because there will be no safety in numbers when the plague strikes at full force. From now on, they are alone.
* * *
Eve visits the quarantine zone after the meeting. There is no reason for her to be here: the dying vampires will not tell her anything new and she has never been fond of looking at death for too long. Old men of the resistance warned her not to give death any reasons to stare back.
She looks decidedly away from a few piles of ash on the floor. Dr Stromann is still alive. He doesn’t look well but his skin hasn’t yet acquired that ashen hue that reminds her strongly of Mr Snow. He spots her and beckons her closer. She stops a few steps short of the transparent vinyl wall of the hastily erected isolation room separating them and takes in Stromann’s chapped, greyish lips and his feverish eyes. There are plenty of things she could say to him. He was always more interested in studying the plague than treating it. She could throw it in his face now and she almost does, wanting for once to be mindlessly cruel.
“Is it true?” she restrains herself to ask. “Is it incurable?”
“It’s true that I shan’t be the one to find the cure,” Stromann replies calmly. “Let me give you one piece of advice, child. Pass it on to Lord Harry, will you?” She nods. He starts coughing and expectorates a clot of black blood. He raises his hand and shows her the spatter. “When this starts happening, there is no way back. Soon you will have a full-blown epidemic on your hands. Stake anyone who exhibits these symptoms. Don’t wait for them to die. It’s just needless torture. Stake them.”
Show mercy, he means. How hypocritical of a vampire who used to march under Hal’s banners.
Eve pulls a stake out of the inside pocket of her jacket. She offers it to Stromann. The doctor shakes his head and smiles a gentle, resigned smile.
“No. Thank you, but no.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.” He struggles through another coughing fit. “I’d like to see for myself how it develops.”
Eve slowly lowers the stake on the floor. In case he changes his mind. The doctor nods.
“Child,” he calls after her when she is about to leave. “Don’t listen to those superstitious morons who blame it on you. In times like these, people tend to start a witch hunt.”
A new fit cuts his speech short. Stromann wheezes and doubles over, disgorging black mush that looks like mud. He starts trembling. Eve stares at him, mesmerized, having discovered a weapon more powerful than a stake. A stake can miss its target but this never will.
She snaps out of it and turns her back on him. There has been enough death and enough temptation for one day.
A/N 2: L’exactitude est la politesse des Rois et le devoir de tous les gens de bien. - Punctuality is the politeness of kings and the duty of gentle people everywhere. (Louis XVIII)
Part 3