The Van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep [SAMPLE]

SEVEN

Spring, 1914

The monster had been silent for going on two weeks. Hannibal could not tell whether it was deep in thought or deep in shock, and that made him nervous. But then, the boy was technically still human. For all his uncanny power and overflowing evil, his flawless body still seemed to work just about like everyone else's, and he had come terribly close to death by dehydration. That, following a harrowing experience among the demons, might simply have been enough to drive the boy down into himself, too deep for speech.

He recovered, somewhat. First, they lashed him to the cot in the cell, but Green declared furiously that he could not be expected to treat anybody, even a monster, under conditions like those, and they moved him to the infirmary. Sedation proved unnecessary. He had broken quite a lot of his own bones, hurling himself against the door, and did not remain conscious long when they shifted him from the cot to a stretcher. Six ribs, both clavicles, every bone in his right arm, right zygomatic arch, the nasal bone, parts of the maxilla, and the outer rim of the right orbit...

Green set what could be set and shrugged at the rest.

At first, the boy's traumatized stomach rejected food, and though he swallowed whatever was put in his mouth, he vomited up the thin gruel he was given, drifting in and out of consciousness as the broken ends of his ribs grated together. But he retained the weak, excessively sweet tea, and that was enough to keep him alive for a few more days until his body could accept something more solid.

Hannibal took the other bed in the infirmary, and to Green's immense surprise, stayed there as he was told. He was no good at all at obeying doctors' orders, but he'd be damned if he let the boy out of his sight for an instant. Not now. Not after everything. For one thing, he still felt that it was all his fault. All of it, from Barbara, all the way to the evil child in the other bed, his black eyes fixed on nothing. Everything he did only seemed to make it worse. And if it came down to it, if everything passed so far into chaos that there could be no return, he knew where in the infirmary Green kept the morphine, and he knew exactly how much to administer to make those black eyes close for good. For another thing, he did not think everything was that far gone, just yet, and he had seen Lang glance at the drugs chest, and he had no intention of leaving that room long enough for Lang to get his revenge. Not yet.

And for a third thing, being anywhere else would have made it unnecessarily difficult to access his patient.

For the twelfth time, Hannibal waited for Green to dim the lights and leave for the evening. For the twelfth time, Green had suggested that he was certainly well enough to return to his own quarters, if he liked, and once again, Hannibal said that, no, he preferred to stay and act as night nurse. No need to trouble one of the Wardens. Even if the monster made a sudden recovery, he was very thoroughly restrained, and while the makeshift seals scratched into the floor and ceiling weren't as elegant or as strong as the ones guarding the cell, they'd do in a pinch. Once again, Green shrugged and reminded Hannibal not to fall asleep with the lamp on. And then he left.

For a count of thirty after the door clicked shut, Hannibal stayed stretched out on top of the sheets, his ankles crossed and a book balanced on his chest. Then he marked his place and slid off the bed. His stocking feet made no sound when they hit the tile floor, and he was careful not to make any noise as he rolled himself in a blanket and moved the little wooden chair across the room to where the boy lay.

He sat.

After two weeks, the boy's bruises had begun to recede, black and purple fading to sickly green and yellow and brown. Much of the swelling had gone down. He was healing faster than most people did. Not by much, just enough to be noticeable. Hannibal had his theories about the reason for that. He also had hopes of accelerating the process.