The Story of the Vampire, L (Completed | Featured )

Chapter 3, Part 1 - Dasius, 1921

"Thank you."

He played with the lapels on my vest and my shirt collar, straightening and unstraightening them until he was satisfied, twisting the little shell buttons, pearly and irridescent. "This is a little flamboyant for you," he said. "Shell buttons."

"L likes it."

"I see we're learning. Very good, Dasius," he said. "What are we doing in Liverpool?"

"I have a contact here. We trade notes."

At St. Mary's, Nicky agreed to wait in my associate's office while I went to find the man in question. The door had been cracked, as I supposed he knew I would be coming.

I had known Dr. Evan Wright since he had begun instructing surgery at St. Mary's, becoming acquainted with him after several years of attending the same lectures on new research. A quiet and retiring young man, I came to know that he had been put off sport due to a knee injury, and had decided therefore to go into medical science. When I first came to know him, he was often animated in private, excited about advances in the field made possible by the atrocities of wartime, and as the years drew on, without change in my energy, attitude, or body, he came to understand what I was, and need a convincing argument to keep it to himself. So in 1921, after a year or so of my making research upon him, he had grown far more withdrawn, though still handsome. He had developped a quiet, considered way of speaking, and a habit of sending me telegrams which were, at their core, discreet pleas for more of my blood, as much as I could spare, in return for whatever it was I might need, with promise that he would drink it immediately, not to worry.

I found him working a cadaver arm in a small surgery a building away.

By then it had begun to gently rain. When I entered, the atmosphere was very close, with the rain drumming on the roof and windows, and him absorbed in his work.

"Doctor Wright," I said, softly.

At first, he had seemed alright. I had promised him two small ampoules of blood in return for his discretion, under condition that he drink them in front of me. In two weeks, two more followed. He was more animated than ever, excited and intent on charting the effects with me. But in the sixth week, there had been a change. When I visited him, he appeared haggard. And then, in the seventh week, desperate telegrams began arriving in my post box, and had never stopped. At first, a short missive would come once a week, then twice a week, until, when I visited him, that last time in 1921, he was sending them every day. And that was no good, because he had begun to look sick then, and I worried that after a time a decline in his work would be noticed, and that an inquiry would find us out. Which was a shame, because by then I quite liked him, both as a man and as a patient, but features that had once been full with youth had grown hollow, and his once athletic body gaunt, because he thought of nothing else but blood. And I was loathe to take those lovely blue eyes out of his face, which I must admit I had often daydreamed of if I could not sleep well. If I am monster so be it. If I am cruel so be it. But I am no fool.

"Doctor," he said, head popping up from his work. His eyes seemed lit, hungering for me. I knew.

"Evan. Do you have what I asked for?" I asked, as if speaking to a child.

He ran his fingers through his thick blond hair, stuttering that he hadn't. It was not the first time.

"Evan, you know the condition of our deal. We have been doing this for almost a year now. You know what your end of it is."

"David, you know, I'm sorry, it's that I can't concentrate. Writing, I can't, it's difficult."

I shook the name away with a twitch of my head, remembering telling it to him in happier times. "You are supposed to keep a diary for me."