The Remarkable Miss Frankenstein

Holland. You must tell me all about your adventures there, and are the wooden shoes comfortable?

Ian, that handsome clever man who is not a vampire, is helping me advance my goals regarding the supernatural world. Well, he's not actually helping, but rather is following me around. I believe he may be smitten. I, in return, find him quite remarkable—for a mere human. I must admit he has consumed a bit too much of my thoughts and time, time which would be better spent with my research.

Since last I wrote, I found out that the Honorable Christopher Wilder is not so honorable. I caught him in a compromising position with a noble lady of less than noble reputation. He is also not a vampire. It was quite distressing: the undressing and the fact that neither the lady nor Wilder were sucking each others blood—other things perhaps, but not blood. Oops! Sorry. I know how you feel about the b-word. Anyway, Wilder is not a vampire. Which is most discouraging, but I know my duty to the Frankenstein family name and motto. I will prevail.

Fortunately, I have two new leads. My latest theory is that I have uncovered the werewolf of the vampire nest. I believe it is the Earl of Wolverton. How silly not to have recognized it before. Ian insists I am wrong. Did I mention how strong he is? Ian, not the earl. Of course, as a werewolf, he would also be strong. The earl, not Ian.

Ian believes that the Duke of Ghent is the warlock of the nest. Did I mention that Ian is helping me with my research and he is extremely intelligent for a mere mortal who is not a scientist? Ian, not the Duke of Ghent.

As for other news, we received word that Frederick has come home again. We were all greatly relieved, though confused. There had been several Frederick spottings across the countryside, which turned out to be Frederick impersonators and not my dear adopted cousin. But he is home now, safe and sound, all six foot eight inches of him.

With fondest regards,

Clair

P.S. Great-aunt Abby came into my room whilst I was sealing this letter. She sends her regards and says to tell you not to miss the English sailing against the Spanish Armada this week. (She has been Queen Elizabeth quite a bit in the past two weeks.)

A Neil in the Coffin

Ian wanted to be anywhere—perhaps fighting dragons, or cavorting naked with mermaids or even old Nessie herself in Loch Ness—rather than here waiting on his nemesis.

But boot perched against the crypt, Ian stood patiently. The sun disappeared from the sky and night encroached. He could hear the scraping of the skeleton-like branches of the trees on the top of the mausoleum. And as the last rays of the setting sun vanished, the coffin lid popped up with a loud creak.

Ian surveyed the inhabitant with disdain. 'I see you've changed your sleeping habits. No longer sleeping at home?'

However sleepy the man's hooded eyes, the anger burning in them would have made a lesser man weep with fear. 'It seemed circumspect, considering the situation,' Asher grunted, his gaze glacial. He stretched, his long body unwinding. 'Come to put a nail in my coffin?'

'No, Neil—although the thought is tempting.' Ian was wishing himself in a thousand different places, but instead he was stuck with this grumpy vampire. Somehow he had known Asher wouldn't be much of a morning person. Or was that evening person?

'More than tempting, I'd wager,' Asher scoffed, carefully exiting his coffin. He watched his foe with bright, burning eyes. Ian Huntsley would pay for this desecration of his bedroom. And Huntsley would pay in a way that was close to his heart: Clair.

'I'll tell you why I'm here…' Ian trailed off, his body tense, his senses on full alert.

'Let me take a guess. The fair Clair,' Asher said. 'Do you think a Frankenstein by any other name would still be a Frankenstein? That's part of her trouble, you know.'

'I have better things to do with my time than stand here listing to you butcher Shakespeare,' Ian growled, moving forward threateningly. 'Leave Clair alone. You'll live a much longer undeath if you take my warning to your black heart.'

'What a brave man you are. Foolish, but brave nonetheless,' Asher stated, the sharpness of his voice just shy of a razor's edge. His look could have frozen lava. 'I have lived centuries, yet you dare to threaten me?'

Ian pulled a vial of holy water out of his pocket. An enraged vampire was not a thing of beauty, and was deadly as an asp. He didn't want to tangle with Asher, but he couldn't back down either.

'I see you have come prepared,' Asher snarled, his sharp white fangs glistening in the glow of the candles Ian had lit nearby.

Ian knew he was walking a tightrope between foolish threats and useful ones, and he prayed he didn't slip. 'Leave Clair alone. I know the whores of London would hate to see that pretty face of yours scarred by holy water.'

Asher's cold laughter filled the tomb. The sound slid down Ian's back, making him flinch. 'Our dear Miss Frankenstein has been a busy little bee, flitting here and there. She knows about Wilder.'

Knowing how fast Asher could move, Ian watched carefully. His senses were on alert, but Asher simply grabbed for trousers, quickly slipping them on to cover his pale, strong legs.

'She thought Wilder was a vampire. Now she thinks he's just an ordinary lecher.'

Buttoning the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, Asher shook his head. He wanted to smile but didn't. Instead he became as still as marble, his face an expressionless mask—a vampire trick he had learned as a fledgling. He loved baiting Huntsley. 'She's too close. She's ready to point the finger at me.'

'It's not what you think. Clair suspects you're a werewolf.' He waited, focused on Asher's reaction. To his great surprise, the vampire threw back his head and laughed.

When he was done, Asher wiped blood-red tears of mirth from his eyes. 'What a queer start. What a queer duck Miss Frankenstein is. It's all in the stock, the breeding—the blood, you know. That bloody damn Frankenstein pedigree.'

With remarkable aplomb considering his current fears, Ian replied, 'I thought you would be a bit more upset by my revelation. It's not everyday one is accused of being a werewolf.'

Asher chuckled and wiped a speck of dirt off his gleaming black Hessians. He had been called worse.

Ian scowled, seeing Asher's amusement. 'Ah, yes. You have been called a wolf a time or two, but only by females you've bedded.' He began to pace, carefully keeping his distance from the Nosferatu. 'Now, what do you plan on doing about this?'

'Shall I play Lancelot to your Arthur?' Asher grinned, thinking of what he would give a lot of lance: Clair's fragrant, sweet flesh. And when Clair was totally his, Huntsley would lie down and die like a wounded dog. For Asher knew something Ian hadn't realized yet: Ian Huntsley was in love with Clair—the kind of love that happens only once and lasts even after death did you part.

Ian's pacing stopped abruptly, and he glowered at Asher. 'You won't touch one drop of her blood. She's an innocent in all of this.'

'Ha! She started this whole ludicrous mess by poking her nose into things which are none of her affair! In this cat's case, her curiosity has very well killed her.'

Ian shook his head. 'We're in a gray area here. There's no need for violence. She thinks you're a wolf, not a vampire.'

Asher shrugged. He wasn't planning to kill Clair; he was going to kiss her senseless and drink her blood. But what Huntsley didn't know did hurt him, which was just what Asher wanted. 'Semantics. Dead women tell no tales. I'll err on the side of caution.' He struggled into one of his black Hessian boots. They were made to fit tightly, showing off his well-made calves. 'Clair is human, and mortals have a major tendency to gossip.'

Ian wanted to smash the complacent look off Asher's face but knew he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough to