tell you as much as I can tomorrow.”
The doctor turned the valve on the second bag, and Jamie felt a glorious calm settle over him, like a warm blanket.
“You… promise?” he whispered, his eyes already closing, and as he drifted into gentle oblivion, he heard Frankenstein say that he did.
Frankenstein stood, silently watching the teenager. Jamie’s chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, and his face was peaceful. The doctor had told him that the boy would be out for at least twelve hours, but Frankenstein had ignored him. He found himself unable to look at the swollen purple of Jamie’s neck; it ignited a familiar rage inside him, a rage that, were he to give in to it, could only be satisfied by violence.
He pushed it down and continued to watch the boy. He had been doing so for a long time when there was a tap on the glass of the door behind him.
He turned to see Henry Seward looking in at him. The admiral beckoned him with a pale finger, and Frankenstein pushed open the infirmary door and stepped into the corridor.
“Walk with me to my quarters, Victor,” Seward said. His tone made it clear that it was not a request.
The two men walked down a series of gray corridors until they reached a plain metallic door. Seward placed his hand on a black panel set into the wall and lowered his face to the level of a red bulb just above it. A scarlet laser beam moved across the admiral’s retina, and the door opened with a complicated series of unlocking noises.
Henry Seward’s quarters could not have been more incongruous with their gray, military surroundings. As the metal door opened, the scent of hardwood drifted out into the corridor, mingled with the aromas of Darjeeling tea and rich Arabica coffee. The two men stepped inside.
This was only the third time that Frankenstein had visited the admiral’s private rooms since Seward had taken up residence. He had spent many afternoons and evenings in them when they had been occupied by Stephen Holmwood, and occasions too numerous to mention when the great Quincey Harker had been in charge. But Seward was different from those open, gregarious men; he kept his own counsel and guarded his privacy.
The door opened onto a wood-paneled drawing room, furnished in a style that was elegant and yet unmistakably official; worn leather armchairs flanked a fireplace that was no longer in use, separated from a mahogany desk by a beautiful Indian rug, now fraying slightly at the edges, that depicted a meditating Shiva, his vast form swathed in clouds. Two doors led from the rear of the room into what Frankenstein knew were a small kitchen and a modest bedroom.
Admiral Seward lowered himself into one of the armchairs and motioned for Frankenstein to do likewise. Frankenstein squeezed himself into the seat, the leather creaking as he did so. He declined when Seward offered him an open wooden box of Montecristo cigars, and waited for the director to light his cigar with a wooden match. Seward drew hard until the tapered end was glowing cherry red and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air. Finally, he looked at Frankenstein.
“How did you know where the Carpenters were?”
Frankenstein bristled. “The boy is fine, sir, if that’s what you meant to ask.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But, no, it’s damn well not what I meant to ask. I meant to ask how you knew where the Carpenters were.”
“Sir-”
Seward cut him off. “ I didn’t know where they were, Victor. Nor did anyone else on this base. Do you know why?”
“I think-”
“Because not knowing where they were was the best possible way of keeping them safe!” Seward roared. “If one person knows, then very quickly two people will know, then four, and so on, and so on. If no one knows, nothing can happen to them. That’s how it works, Victor.”
“With all due respect, sir, it didn’t work tonight,” Frankenstein replied evenly.
He was looking directly at the director, refusing to defer to him by looking away, and as he watched, he saw the anger in Seward’s eyes fade. He suddenly looked very tired. “Marie is really gone?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Alexandru has her?”
“It’s safe to assume so at this point, sir. Although I would still recommend we attempt to get confirmation.”
And find out if she’s still alive.
Seward nodded. “It may be difficult,” he said, slowly. “There will be a great reluctance to assist Julian’s family, in any way. It won’t matter that Marie and Jamie played no part in what happened.”
Anger flashed through Frankenstein. “It should matter, sir,” he said. “You know it should.”
“Perhaps it should. But it won’t.”
The two men sat in silence for several minutes, the admiral smoking his cigar, the monster wrestling with his anger, a task to which he devoted many of his waking hours. Eventually, Seward spoke again.
“What have you told him?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Frankenstein replied. “Yet.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“I’m going to tell him what I think he needs to know. Hopefully that will be enough.”
“And if it isn’t? If he asks to be told everything? If he asks about his father? What will you do then?”
Frankenstein looked at the admiral. “You know where my loyalties lie,” he replied. “If he asks me, I will tell him whatever he wants to know. Including about his father.”
Seward stared at the huge man for a long moment, then abruptly stubbed out his half-smoked cigar and stood up.
“I have a report to write for the prime minister,” he said, his voice clipped and angry. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Frankenstein levered himself out of the armchair, which groaned with relief. He walked toward the door and was about to hit the button that released it when Seward called to him from next to his desk. He turned back.
“How did you know where they were, Victor?” Seward asked. He was obviously still angry, but there was the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “It will go no further than this room. I just need you to tell me.”
Frankenstein smiled. He had a huge amount of respect for Henry Seward, had fought back-to-back with him in any number of dark corners of the globe. And though he would not compromise the oath he had sworn, as snow fell from the New York sky and 1928 turned into 1929, he could allow the director this one mystery solved.
“Julian chipped the boy when he was five, sir,” he said. “No one knew he’d done it, and I was the only person he gave the frequency to. I’ve known where he was every day for the last two years.”
Seward grinned, a wide smile full of nostalgia, which abruptly turned into a look of immense sorrow. “I suppose I should have expected nothing less,” the admiral replied. “From you, or from him. Good night, Victor.”
10
Eaton Square, London
June 4, 1892
Jonathan Harker, Dr. John Seward, and Professor Abraham Van Helsing sat with their host in the drawing room of Arthur Holmwood’s town house on Eaton Square, waiting for Arthur’s serving girl to dispense coffee from a silver tray. She was dressed all in black; Arthur’s father, Lord Godalming, had passed away several months earlier, and the house was still in mourning.
In the middle of the table lay the letter that had been delivered to Van Helsing early that morning,
