Chapter Three
Marcus hefted a cast-iron flywheel from his desk and carried it to where a half-constructed device waited, bathed in faint light shining through the single narrow window.
He blew a wet clump of hair out of face as he lowered the wheel and slotted the square hole in its center into the shaft with a dull clank.
Despite his hair being drenched in sweat, his throat was painfully dry.
There was a pitcher of water within reach, but it would not quench his thirst.
He crouched and peered into the heart of the machine he had spent the last month creating, thanks to Winifred’s advice.
The problematic components were the central pinion and the bevel wheel it turned against. He had meticulously crafted both out of high-quality bronze, but the fitment wasn’t close enough to ensure smooth operation.
As a result, a bolt had loosened during his last experiment, causing several expensive glass vials in the latched spinning top of the machine to crack.
If his hypothesis was correct, the reason his concoctions failed to prevent his attacks was because the animal blood he used to create them possessed a component that inhibited healing.
That would explain why when he mixed human blood with that of his livestock, the resulting compound formed clumps.
As he had no intention of changing his diet, even if it meant remaining in seclusion forever, he needed to identify that toxin and remove it.
Unfortunately, separating blood into its constituent parts was proving far more difficult than he’d expected.
By sheer chance, he’d discovered that agitation resulted in a subtle change in the appearance of his samples, but he’d yet to find a reliable method of producing this phenomenon without shattering his fragile glass vials.
“Damned thing,” he whispered. He got onto his knees and peered into the motor.
His fingers were too thick to move the delicate components.
He reached inside until his thumb brushed over the bolt he needed to remove.
Then a trembling started in his fingers and the bolt slipped out of his grip and dropped into a machine with a series of clinks.
What he needed was an assistant. Preferably one with smaller hands.
He might have tried luring a maid into his workshop with the promise of higher wages, but he could not trust himself to behave in a gentlemanly manner when his vampiric instincts were so close to the surface.
It was the same reason he kept away from his own kind; any vampire dominant enough to tolerate his presence would invariably discover his weakness and attempt a coup.
A soft knock provided a welcome distraction. He removed his grease-stained canvas apron, hung it on a peg on the wall, and opened the door to find a trembling maid with bright-red curls barely tucked beneath a bonnet standing in the hallway holding a domed tray in both arms.
“Y-Your evening meal, my lord.”
He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “Did Mrs. Grange instruct you to climb all the way up here to bring it to me?”
His foolishly eager new cook seemed determined to get him to consume her increasingly elaborate recipes.
The only reason he’d hired her had been to feed his other servants and maintain the semblance of a normal estate.
His body had not required human food in centuries, although he could tolerate it in small quantities.
The maid bobbed her head.
He could have told her to leave it on the floor, but then he risked the cook stomping up the many stairs to his workshop and smashing down his door. Better to indulge her and dispose of whatever she’d made some other way. Perhaps he’d wrap it up and bring it to the pigs.
He accepted the tray and waited for the maid to scurry around the corner of the spiral staircase before he glanced out the window. The slight tightening in his chest warned him he would have to rest soon. That was perhaps for the best, as his limbs were heavy with fatigue.
But when he returned to his bedchamber and saw what was waiting on his desk, a familiar fluttering started in his chest. He dug through the envelopes until he found the one he’d been waiting for, ripped it open, and read.
My dear Marcus,
I hope you know how much I anticipate each of your letters. You are the only person I know who truly understands historical fact, even if your bent is more scientific. I have tried to express the importance of research to my parents, but they insist on preparing me for my future, as they see it.
I have acquired the volumes you suggested and must thank you for such excellent selections.
When I close my eyes, I can see the soot-filled sky, hear the roar of lava pouring down the mountain, and feel the soft kiss of ash landing on my skin.
It is said some inhabitants of Pompei were engulfed with such speed that they remain where they perished, statues guarding the ruins of an ancient city.
He chuckled as she went on about everything she’d learned from the books he’d recommended.
She was as obsessed with natural disasters as he was with finding a way to prevent his attacks.
Not that he’d told her the truth. She believed he was investigating a peculiar illness in his cattle that no one else had been able to identify.
He was embarrassingly grateful for the twist of fate that had redirected her letter to his desk all those months ago.
Corresponding with her was the only thing that had kept him sane, as the pleas from his brothers and sisters to rejoin them in London had intensified.
Yet she was risking far more. If anyone discovered their writing, the consequences to her reputation would be severe.
He should have stopped long ago, but whenever he held one of her envelopes, it was like a different person took control of his body.
In the rare moments when he was not consumed by his work, he acknowledged the awful truth: he wanted her to get caught.
The cruel, jealous part of him that hated anyone able to move about in the world without being paralyzed by fear demanded he make others join in his suffering.
He swallowed through the pain in the back of his throat and continued to read.
Regarding your experiments, if your mixtures are not having the desired effect, the removal of heat might prove efficacious in enhancing the potency, or perhaps the addition of heat.
Such methods have been used for millennia.
The ancient Egyptians even heated herbs on bricks as a treatment for maladies of the lungs, as indicated by the Ebers Papyrus.
That was an interesting idea. He had tried adding heat but had never considered the opposite. It would be challenging to maintain a consistent temperature, but perhaps if he constructed a miniature icebox in his laboratory…
Yes, that was worth pursuing. He ran his fingers over the slanted print.
Once again, Winifred had proven helpful, despite him carefully concealing the exact nature of his experiments.
It was terribly unfortunate her letters were delayed, as was necessary for post to travel from the newly established country of Canada.
He could have benefited greatly from having her opinions much faster.
For that reason, despite itching to jot down ways to apply her suggestions, he read through the rest of her letter, eager to see how he might help with her difficulties in exchange.
Furthermore, it seems that the crux of many of the concerns you have raised are rooted in a lack of assistance.
I appreciate the mystique and solidarity of a lone scientist, but I cannot help but think you would benefit from a second pair of hands.
When my cousin visits, she allows me to prattle on at length, even though she is entirely uninterested in history.
Her company has proved very useful in helping me focus.
Is there, perhaps, someone you could invite into your laboratory to sit while you work?
He sighed. He wished it were as easy as she suggested. The last time he’d attempted to hire another scientist, he’d ended up losing his patience and scaring the man into fleeing the castle in the dead of night.
I admit, my cousin’s presence this month has been all that has kept me from tearing out my hair in frustration.
My parents have grown even more insistent in their demands that I find a husband.
They do not understand the value of my research and have threatened to close up the library and sell the books if I am not wed by the end of the year.
He rubbed his thumb over a dark splotch on the paper as he imagined her heartbreak when her parents presented her with the ultimatum she described. As the daughter of newly wealthy textile merchants, she would be expected to marry well, preferably to one of the few titled men in Canada.
A future he’d placed in turmoil through their correspondence.
His thoughts came to a sudden halt as the solution to both of their problems hit him like a punch to the stomach.
What he needed was someone to keep him from slipping into despair, an assistant who was sufficiently submissive that his vampire half would not see them as a threat while also being brave enough to endure his occasional bursts of temper.
None of his previous assistants had lasted because they had all been men.
In exchange for Winifred filling the role, he could offer the escape she so desperately desired.
Given what she’d said about her parents, he guessed they’d give up their daughter if it meant achieving the social connections they wanted.
It was so obvious, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.
He scrambled for a sheet of vellum and began laying out their future in ink.