Page 11 of The Shadow of the Count
They shared small talk for the rest of the meal, because the good lady next to him disapproved of all things not utterly banal. The young doctor, though, his dark eyes were serious and quiet.
Then they split off from the women, an older habit that he was grateful to observe to get out from the baleful stare of Lady Blackworth.
“Goodness, she’s an old bat, isn’t she?” Lyle flopped on a chaise.
“Lyle! Really.” He bit back a smile, though, didn’t he?
“She’s quite progressive, but bored, and it’s impossible not to startle her. She’s…tender.”
“Mmm.” Lyle grinned. “How kind. Pour me a whiskey, Don.”
Donnie rolled his eyes. “What would you like, Doctor?”
“Richard, please. And brandy really is fine.”
Donnie poured two snifters of brandy and two fingers of amber whiskey, passing the postprandial glasses around.
“Thank you.” Richard watched him, and there was a stillness about him that reminded him of Clark or Jeb. Of men who had seen things.
He understood that, deep in his bones. He sat, their little enclave private and quiet. Lyle knew as much as anyone about their peculiar activities, so they could speak freely.
“Tell me about your patient,” Donnie said softly.
Richard sighed. “He’s utterly mad, but he’s not. He’s cracked right down the middle, but he knows what he’s about. And he craves blood. Desperately.”
His head tilted. “He’s a murderer?”
“No. Not death. Blood. Sangre. Life force.”
Lyle kept his voice low. “You mean, then, that he consumes it.”
“Just so. Rats and other vermin that he catches. He’s tried to convince a few nurses to donate to him, but he’s never been violent. He rants about some mysterious employer, someone from a faraway land.” Richard shook his head, looking grim. “I’ve tested him for any manner of actual blood-borne issues, but so far have found nothing.”
“Rats.” Goosebumps raised along his flesh, and Donnie was glad he was in his jacket, so that no one could see. “I admit I’ve never heard of such a thing. How horrible.”
For everyone involved.
“Yes. Now, tell me your tale of woe.”
He shuddered, the catacombs of Paris rising like a sudden ghost in his memory. Pushing that away, he smiled slightly. “I was in Egypt recently. In a tomb, my companions and I encountered something not entirely dead.”
Lyle clapped his hands lightly. “You should hear his brother’s account. Douglas Fitzhugh, the actor. He’s quite droll about it.”
“Douglas has a dramatic flair that I don’t. I found it fascinating, but it was not for the faint of heart.” That didn’t even tell a fraction of the trail of destruction they’d been set upon.
“It sounds not. Egypt. Gracious.” Richard chuckled softly. “I went to France once for a professional symposium. That’s as far as I’ve been.”
“I spent entirely too much time in Paris.” Donnie had no wish to go back. Ever.
“Did something happen there? Forgive me for asking, but you went quite pale.”
“Ah, it was disturbing at the time.” And he had told no one but Douglas about it.
“I see. I’m sorry.” Richard grimaced. “A bad memory can create all sorts of physical sensations.”
“Yes. Still, I wonder about your patient. Is this a known disease?”
“There are a few that might present that way, but he has very few symptoms of them otherwise. No drawing back of the lips or lesions of the skin…”
