Title: In The Shadows
Summary: Victorian AU. In which vampires abound, Charley Brewster is a well-to-do young man, and Peter Vincent is an illusionist and occultist. (Written for the Kink Meme at frightnight2011)
My dearest Amelia, he wrote, and that was as far as he got.
Charlie found himself staring at the smooth cream of the page in front of him, pen digging into the bottom of the comma, until a thick black splotch obscured it almost entirely. He pulled the pen up with a hasty curse, and dabbed at the excess ink. Still, it was likely the most interesting thing on the page.
Leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh, Charlie abandoned his attempts at letter writing. After all, what could he say to his fiancée?
Dear Amy, Edward Barrett was murdered by a vampire two nights ago. I am now seeking a way to avenge his death, and rid the world of the evil fiend responsible - preferably before I become his next meal. This evening, I shall meet with the illusionist Peter Vincent to learn what I must do...
That would certainly go over well. If nothing else, he could be assured of his place in the nearest lunatic asylum. And perhaps he was mad, but it did not feel like it. Mad men were unaware of the insanity of their actions, but Charlie was acutely aware of the sheer bloody lunacy of the situation. He had recognized the insanity the minute that Mister Dandridge had grown fangs and sunk them into Edward's neck. The spurting blood and echoing screams made the insanity all too real. Even now, Charlie's quickly beating heart and shaking hands keep him aware of how dangerous and bizarre a plot he has stumbled on to.
Had he not been brought up to respect the dead, Charlie would have been cursing Edward's blasted fixation with the occult and supernatural. Had the other man's fervent interest stayed with the relatively harmless Spiritualist movement, none of this would have happened. But, no - he had needed to know more, to see the darker side of mystical possibilities. He had needed an adventure.
The chiming of the clock brought Charlie sharply back to himself.
It was time.
Moving quickly, lest he lose his nerve, Charlie collected his coat, hat and walking stick and stepped out into the growing shadows of evening. He shivered in the chill fog, hand groping in his pocket for the cross he had recently begun carrying. The sharp edges biting into his palm were a reassurance. Determinedly, he squared his shoulders and hailed a cab.
"The Alhambra, if you please," he told the driver.
The man tipped his hat, and they were off.
As the hansom clattered its way through the streets, Charlie reviewed his plan for the evening. He had spoken to many people in the past few days since the Attack, asked many questions, and almost everyone had directed him to the same man: Peter Vincent. At first, Charlie had laughed. The man was an illusionist - Charlie had seen the act himself. It was very clever, admittedly, but still everything one might expect from stage magic. The man disappeared at will, produced birds from thin air, conjured flowers for pretty ladies. Illusions, all, and none of them indicating any serious aid against the supernatural.
Still, even in occult circles, it seemed agreed that it was precisely where Charlie needed to go. So, he had made an appointment to meet with the man following this evening's performance. Hopefully he would have the information Charlie so desperately sought.
If not... well, it did not bear thinking on.
All too soon, his cab pulled up in front of the theatre.
He got out, and dawdled slightly over paying the driver. Then, the cab was speeding away, and Charlie headed towards the stage door. The alley was dark, full of shadows, and a bubble of desperate fear welled up momentarily in his throat. Swallowing back any nervousness, he rapped sharply on the scarred and pitted door.
It slid open, and a man peered out at him suspiciously. "'Elp ye, guv'nor?"
"Lord Charles Brewster," he said, willing his voice not to shake. "I have an appointment to meet with Mister Vincent."
That got a reaction, and the door was hastily opened wider.
"Me 'pologies, sir," the man said with a bow, moving to allow him inside. "Didnae ken ye. Right this way, then."
Charlie followed the man down a winding hallway, and was ushered into a small, crowded room. He was aware of various stage hands and chorus girls looking at him curiously and heard the whispered questions as the door swung shut behind him.
"'Ow should I know, then," he heard through the door from his guide. "'Nother poncey lord lookin' ter speak ter 'is dead grandfither, I reckon." The was faint laughter, which ebbed away as quickly as it had come, then silence.
Taking advantage of the quiet moment, Charlie examined his surroundings. The room was tiny, and someone had crammed in a table, a mirror, two chairs and a large steamer trunk, overflowing with cloth and small metal mechanisms. Every available surface was cluttered - makeup and small tools and empty bottles of laudanum, and overflowing ashtrays. Here and there amongst the mess were mostly empty glasses, left drying and sticky, and the sickly smell of anise and wormwood pervaded.
A bare moment after Charlie had sat down on one of the dilapidated chairs, the door burst open once more and a human whirlwind entered.
"Bloody birds are bloody useless," he was muttering as he swept into the room. A jacket was thrown without care in the direction of the steamer trunk and landed half-draped over the arm of the vacant chair. "Never get it back down from the ceiling now."
The man continued on crashing things on to tables, scrambling around to locate cigarettes and matches. He groped around through a mess of bottles, pulling one out to empty its contents into one of the dirty glasses. The cloudy green contents swirled in the glass, catching the dim light from the lamps, and then were quickly swallowed.
Charlie stared. Off-stage, Peter Vincent was a frighteningly thin man, brown hair wildly disheveled, eyes wide and shadowed by sleeplessness. He seemed to almost vibrate with barely contained energy, and he literally jumped when Charlie cleared his throat and said:
"Excuse me."
The illusionist spun around quickly, and spat, "Who the bloody hell are you?"
"Charles Brewster."
"Ah." A pause, and a nod. "Right. The one who wants to know about vampires."
"How did you - " Charlie started to ask, brow furrowing. "I'm fairly certain that I made no mention of vampires in my message."
That gained him a self-satisfied smirk. "No, you didn't."
Peter Vincent dropped into the remaining chair, sprawling lazily. His long limbs were spread bonelessly - legs splayed, shirt mostly unbuttoned. The earlier energy was almost non-existent as he lit his cigarette and stared intently into Charlie's face.
"You should be careful who you ask about these things," Peter said finally. "People talk."
"Ah," Charlie said, uncomfortable. Now, face to face with the man, he had no idea what to say. And, if he were to be completely honest with himself, there was something more alluring about the long fingers and chocolate eyes than Charlie really wanted to think about.
"Well?" Peter asked after a moment of them staring at each other in silence. He exhaled a long trail of smoke up towards the ceiling, and raised his eyebrows.
"Mister Vincent," Charlie began.
"Peter."
"What?"
"Peter," the older man repeated, pouring another glass of absinthe. "Vincent's hardly my real name, and I feel as though this conversation is about to get very personal." He grinned, by all appearances thoroughly enjoying the impropriety of it. "Far too personal for 'Mr Vincent'."
"Right, well. Peter, then." Charlie took a deep breath to steel himself. "I need to know. How do I kill a vampire?"
It really seemed uncalled for to him when Peter began to laugh.
"You?" Peter asked, disbelief clear on his face. "You don't. What you do is pack your bags, load yourself down with crosses and garlic, and get yourself far away from whatever bloody mess you've gotten yourself into. You'll be killed."
Anger flared in Charlie's breast. His oldest, dearest friend had been murdered in front of him, and this drunken wreck's advice was that he run away. Well, that simply was not good enough. He would find a way to defeat the vampire on his own.
"Yes, well, that is your opinion," he snapped, rising to his feet. His companion startled, looking at him with a stunned, unreadable expression. "I'd rather be killed than live a coward. Good day, Mister Vincent."
The door slammed very satisfyingly on his way out.
If only he knew what to do now.