Chapter 20
20
“I was born in 1820, which I believe I told you already,” Robert began. “My birth name was Robert Douglas Campbell. I was raised on a rural settlement located a few kilometers east of London. My family were farmers.”
“I would have never guessed that you’re English,” I commented.
“I’ve been in America for some time. I’ve lost my accent for the most part. It emerges when I’m stressed or . . .” He broke eye contact.
“Or?”
“Aroused.”
“Oh, right.” I was at a loss for something clever to say that wouldn’t come across as lustful.
“When I was ten, my parents passed away of smallpox, which, amazingly, I didn’t contract. I was far too young to tend to a farm on my own, and I had no other family. Unfortunately, I lost the property and was shipped off to the city. I was placed in a community home for orphaned children, where I shared a single mattress with two other boys close to my age. I was put to work the same day I arrived in London.”
I blinked. “Put to work? But you were ten.”
“The Industrial Revolution was in full force, and there was a shortage of factory workers,” he explained. “It was a different time, Olivia. It was not uncommon for children as young as five to become laborers. It was the accepted norm. As an adolescent, I would regularly work eighteen-hour days behind equipment that could easily rip a person in two.”
“That’s awful. Sickening.” And here I thought I’d had it bad with my negligent parents. Sounded like he’d had it a lot worse, not that it was a competition. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed for going on the way that I had. If you think your life was depraved, try working in a factory at age ten , he must have been thinking.
“The wages were terrible. A person was considered fortunate if they earned enough to put food in their belly each day. The manufacturing plants were oppressively hot during the summer and bitterly cold in the winter. The conditions were unsanitary. There were few windows, no sanctioned toilets, and the ventilation was inadequate. Disease was rampant. So was death.”
“It sounds like hell.”
“Humans don’t realize how good they’ve got it these days,” Robert said offhandedly. “At my company, I furnish employees with a gourmet cafeteria, free laptops, and custom-built desk chairs designed by a chiropractor. There are espresso machines in every break room. I also give bonuses to every worker at the end of the year, regardless of their title, and yet some of them still complain.”
“Man, I’d like to work for you,” I said, then I realized that I already was, indirectly. Oops. “Sounds like they wouldn’t last one day of work in the Industrial Revolution.”
“One hour ,” he corrected facetiously. “Anyway, one evening in 1849—I was twenty-nine at this point—I witnessed an event that changed my life. It was very late, about midnight. I was one of the few workers skilled enough to maneuver the more complicated equipment near the supervisor's top-level office, which meant that I frequently worked on the floor alone at night. I was just finishing up when an elegantly dressed man—an aristocrat—entered the building and went into the office. I knew immediately that he must be the factory owner.
“A few minutes later, the man came out with a sack in his arms. It was money, of course, taken from the office safe. He took no notice of my presence and, knowing my place as a filthy underling, I moved to stay out of his way. I faded into the shadows of the machinery and waited for him to leave.
“As he neared the exit, however, two men entered and rushed him. One of them was unarmed, but the other was brandishing a wrench. Before I could call out, the armed robber hit the aristocrat on the skull. He crumpled to the floor instantly and began to bleed out.
“I stayed hidden as the two thieves argued. From what I ascertained, the unarmed man hadn’t realized that his partner, who was now kicking the factory owner, had gone into the robbery with murderous intentions. He’d assumed the wrench would only be used for intimidation. Furious, the unarmed robber snatched up the sack and made a run for it, but he didn’t get very far. His partner beat him with the wrench, killing him.
“Their scuffle was the distraction I needed. I grabbed a nearby metal pipe, crept up behind the robber, and hit him over the head. I hadn’t killed him, but he wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Ouch,” I commented.
“Are you positive you want to hear such details? I’m afraid you must find all this terribly uninteresting. Or gruesome.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth, Robert,” I said, feeling like a mooning teenager at a rock concert in the fifties. “Please, continue.”
“As you like,” he said, adjusting the blanket so that it was pulled closer around us. “So, there I stood with all three men sprawled at my feet. One of them was dead, the other two gravely injured. I faced a tough decision. I could do what was honorable but unprofitable or what was shameful but lucrative.”
“You mean you were torn between taking the money and helping the aristocrat?”
“Exactly.”
“And you took the high road?”
Robert smiled wickedly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Olivia, but I went for the cash. It was every man for himself back then, not that it’s an excuse. I’d been hardened from labor, and from years of being treated like an animal. I rationalized that the owner didn’t care if I lived or died, so it was only fair that I treated him with the same respect.”
“Fair enough.”
“The sack was heavy, filled with more money than I’d ever seen in my lifetime. In my mind’s eye, I was leaving London to buy land in the country, where I’d built a home and find a good woman to share it with.”
“So, what happened?” I pressed, fascinated.
“As I turned to run, the factory owner reached out and curled his hand around my ankle. I was startled when I peered down at his face and saw the spitting image of my father, though I later realized that he looked nothing like him.”
“Your guilty conscience was playing a trick on you.”
“Yes,” Robert agreed. “The owner moaned for me to help him, but his situation was hopeless. He was beyond saving. The only thing I could do was tell him that the pain would soon be over and promise to stay with him until the end.”
“ Did you stay with him until the end?” I asked the vampire, who had a faraway look in his eyes.
“I’d planned to, but then a peculiar thing happened. He gestured towards the thief I’d hit with the pipe, indicating that he wanted me to bring him closer.”
“Didn’t you wonder why he wanted you to do that?”
“I assumed he wanted to look into the eyes of his killer as he passed on. Many odd rituals surrounded death in the Victorian Era.” Robert shrugged. “Who was I to deny a dying man his final wish? I dragged the thief over, and the aristocrat bit into his neck and began drinking his blood. I was stunned.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
Robert chuckled. “Once he drained the thief dry, he leapt to his feet and thanked me. He was totally healed, as if he had never been hurt at all.”
“And?” I asked impatiently. “What did you do?”
“I would like to say that I handled myself with the upmost decorum, but that would be downplaying my reaction immensely. I sprinted from the building and screamed bloody murder the entire way home.” Robert paused, laughing at the memory. “I went to bed that night with a scarf knotted around my neck, fearful the man would come and drink from me as I slept.”
I rubbed my own neck. “Did he?”
He shook his head “So, I went into work the next day—”
“Whoa! Wait a minute. You went back to the factory? Did you have a death wish?”
“A man did not have many employment options at that time, Olivia. It was either go back to work or starve.”
“Of course,” I said, apologizing for the interruption.
“I like that you ask me questions. Not many women do. I appreciate that you have an in interest in my modest beginnings and are not only curious about the wealthy vampire I am today.”
Oh, I have an interest all right.
Robert took my hand into his, lacing his fingers through mine. “When I returned to the factory the next morning, I was told by the foreman that my services were no longer required. Needless to state, I was furious. I’d saved the owner’s life and he’d repaid me by terminating my employment.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I was met outside by a frail old man in a horse-drawn carriage. He informed me that I was to be his replacement as steward on the aristocrat’s country estate. When I protested, he assured me that it was a requirement and not a request, and that he had taken the liberty of packing my belongings at home.”
“What did you do?”
“I got in. I figured if the factory owner had wanted to murder me, he would have done it the night before. Also, to go from being a lowly factory worker to a steward was the modern-day equivalent of a mailroom worker being promoted to the vice president of a corporation,” he said. “It would be my job to manage several domains within the estate: employees, horse care, ground maintenance. It was miraculous advancement.
“Once we’d arrived at the estate, I was given private quarters at the rear of the mansion. It was the first time in nineteen years—since I’d been a farm boy—that I had my own room and had truly been without company. In London, you’re never alone in silence. I enjoyed this new peacefulness, but the quietness put me on edge.
“Later that evening, the aristocrat finally paid me a visit, introducing himself as Leopold Sorin. He looked much younger without all the blood smeared on his face, about the same age as me. He was as pale as before, with jet-black hair and light-yellow eyes. He frightened me in a way I cannot describe.”
“I can identify with you completely on that one,” I said, recalling the moment I saw Stephano sprawled on the ceiling. I’d passed out when he waved at me. I couldn’t imagine what I would have done if I’d seen him drain another human dry—probably wet my pants.
“I was thankful for the opportunity Leopold had provided me, yet I was not accustomed to kindness from strangers. I was also shaken by the factory incident. While it was improper to do so in that age, I questioned my new boss about why he’d brought me to his estate. Leopold’s explanation was simple. His previous steward was getting too old to properly fulfill his duties and he needed a new man he could trust.”
“Did you ask him what he was? Why he drank the robber’s blood?”
Robert shook his head brusquely. “I didn’t dare. Leopold posed no immediate threat, so I let things be. In the years that followed, I found his behavior increasingly eccentric. I never saw him eat. He never went out in daylight, and when he did appear in the evening, he was always accompanied by a new companion.
“Despite his oddities, plus my social class being several levels below his, Leopold and I formed a friendship, albeit a peculiar one. Some evenings we would ride in silence on horseback through the fields. Leopold was very fond of horses, and he’d gifted me one named Cobalt. Other nights he would call me into his den and ask me to tell him about my parents and my childhood on the farm. He’d once had a wife and child that had passed away from a cause he never divulged.”
“Did you ever ask him why he had such interest in you?”
“Never, but I believed that perhaps he was lonely,” he said. “I fell ill after I celebrated my thirty-first birthday. The sickness began with night sweats and then progressed into constant fever. I began to rapidly lose weight. Leopold would occasionally comment on my appearance, and I would downplay his concerns. Although we were friendly, I feared he would terminate my employment if he suspected I was in poor health. I knew that I had tuberculosis the instant I coughed up blood. I had most likely contracted it back when I worked at the factory. The disease can lay dormant for several years, you see.”
“That’s awful,” I whispered.
“Yes, it was. I wouldn’t wish the disease on my worst enemy.”
“Did you eventually quit your job?”
“No, I kept working. I attempted to hide the illness, but my suffering was evident. The staff shunned me, fearing that I was contagious. Leopold was the only individual on the entire estate who dared go near me, mercifully suggesting fewer physical activities as my condition weakened. He never once questioned me outright if I was sick, but he knew. I believed his silence was his way of preserving the dignity of a dying man.
“I was in the stables tending to the horses one afternoon when I was struck by a fit of bloody, suffocating coughs that brought me to my knees. ‘This is it,’ I thought. I crawled into Cobalt’s enclosure, who I’d grown to love as much as I would my own child. She whinnied sadly and nudged her head against mine, as if she also knew that I was dying. I curled up next to her, closed my eyes, and waited for death to take me.”
I sniffed, my breath hitching.
Robert dabbed away a tear from my cheek. “You’re crying?”
“Maybe.” I dabbed a knuckle under my eye. “I’m a sap, I know. I’ve managed to hold it together for as long as I could, but the part about Cobalt did me in.”
“You’re a very sweet woman, Olivia.” He tilted his wrist, frowning. “I’m afraid our time together is nearly up.”
“That can’t be. Have we really been talking that long?” I asked, parting the curtain behind the sofa to see outside. Indeed, it would start getting light soon.
“I’m afraid so, but I don’t need to go just yet.”
“Good. I’m dying to hear the rest.”
“I’ll talk faster,” he said. “What happened next is difficult for me to articulate. My memory of that night is hazy, and I’m unable to distinguish hallucination from reality. It was Leopold who found me, though, after the sky had turned dark. He was frantic, slapping me hard across the face and shrieking for me to not be dead. I opened my eyes only to make him stop, and he demanded to know if I wanted to live.”
“What did you answer?”
“Nothing. I was too weak to speak. But I remember thinking it was a futile question, since I was so close to death.”
“So, he answered for you.”
“Yes,” Robert said. “It was the bite that brought me back to consciousness. The sensation was indescribable, both revolting and erotic. I realized, then, that Leopold was drinking from me. When he pulled away from my neck, he bit his own wrist and made me drink from the wound. I resisted, but the strength of a human is no match for that of a vampire.
“I awakened two nights later as a vampire. My tuberculosis was cured.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Though I’d developed a sudden aversion to the sun.”
“Does that mean you can’t get sick as a vampire—like with cancer and heart attacks, that sort of thing?”
“I’m technically dead, so I’m impervious to all human illnesses, though, of course, I could still lose my mind. Some vampires simply can’t cope with being alive for centuries and they go mad. I also can’t make children.”
Wow. Robert came with zero chance of STDs and built-in birth control. I liked the sound of that. “Where was Leopold when you woke up?” I asked, getting back to his story.
“He was sitting next to my bed. It took him hours to convince me that I was now immortal.”
“Where is he now?”
“England. I see him every so often.”
“When did you stop working for him?”
“I remained with Leopold for over forty years. He expanded my job duties beyond the estate, first giving me a factory in London and then my own division of his company. Since we spent so much time together and shared the same pale complexion, we began telling humans that we were related. For simplicity, and because the Sorin name opened many doors, I went by his surname for some time. Leopold and I claimed that we suffered from a rare genetic skin disorder that left us vulnerable to sunburn.
“Still, humans grew suspicious of our everlasting youth. Ultimately, Leopold and I decided that it would be safest if we separated. In 1912, I came to America.”
“And then you became Robert Bramson?”
“That’s a whole new story,” he said, peering out the window, “which I’m afraid will have to be my last. I would stay with you all morning if I could, but the evil sun would not allow it.”
I shuddered at the idea of the beautiful vampire bursting into flames. “Is sunlight the only thing that can kill you?”
“Vampires can also be killed if we are staked through the heart; the movies got that one right. Decapitation will do it, too. Why it is this way, I have absolutely no idea.”
“So, sunlight, staking, and decapitation. Is that all?”
“Why, are you looking to kill some vamps?” he asked, and I rolled my eyes. “The caveat is that vampires can be killed by something other than staking or decapitation; for example, if I was drawn and quartered and then left to bleed out. However, I could survive if I drank blood straightaway, though it isn’t a guarantee.”
“So, Leopold probably would have died in the factory had he not drained the thief of blood?”
“Correct. But the sun, staking, and decapitation will always kill us. No exceptions there.”
“So, you’re not so tough after all,” I kidded. “Okay, tell me how you became Robert Bramson.”
“This piece of personal history dates to around 1895 and involves a run-in I had with a mortal Irish writer named Abraham. Abraham, like Leopold, was a distinguished member of London’s high society. I never grew to know him very well, though this was not because he was human. It was because the man terrified me.”
“Unnerved by a mere mortal?” I teased.
Robert smiled. “One evening during a social function, Abraham and I got to chatting about the novel he was writing. It was about a supernatural nobleman from Transylvania who stole blood from human victims. To create this monster—and those were his words, monster —he’d researched Eastern European folklore. The evil deeds he portrayed this creature carrying out were identical to what Leopold and I did on a nightly basis, though Abraham claimed he’d been greatly inspired by a brutal Romanian ruler known by many as Vlad the Impaler.
“I became horrified as I listened to Abraham outline his so-called fictional tale, and I pondered luring him away to drain him. However, he fascinated me, this human who’d come so close to exposing my secret. I asked Leopold to use his mindreading to verify that the author had discovered vampires solely in his imagination. Amazingly, he had. I decided to wait on silencing him, figuring that I always had the option of killing the man in the future, if need be,” Robert said pragmatically, like he was talking about refinancing his home if he ever became dissatisfied with his current mortgage plan.
“I departed Abraham’s company shortly thereafter and avoided him for the rest of his tenure in London. Still, his story unsettled me to such an extent that I never forgot him. When I moved to America, I decided to create a moniker based on my brief acquaintanceship with the author as an indirect way of paying homage to his sinister mind. On the ship to Long Island, I came up with the name Bramson, as in son of Bram. I felt it was only fair, since poor Abraham never had the pleasure of knowing precisely how close he’d been to an actual vampire.”
“Wait a minute . . . Bram as in Abraham? You aren’t talking about the Bram Sto—”
“The one and only.”