Though the veranda was beautiful- surrounded by a translucent sapphire ocean- and the salty breeze was cool and refreshing, Nikola Tesla was not in the best of moods. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually against a pillar, contemplating where he had gone wrong. Patience was not one of his virtues, yet he had waited, much like a needy, obedient puppy, for Helen Magnus to trust in him, to let him comfort her after her daughter's death.
She had done just as he knew she would; she had, as usual, sacrificed her own personal happiness in order to "save the world" or some such nonsense. When would the woman see that she deserved to be happy as much as- if not more than- the next person? In the end he had grown weary of her refusal to confide in him and had picked up and run, true to his nature. They truly were meant for one other, each as frustrating and as stubborn as the other.
What had Helen done to him? What spell had she cast upon him that had him acting like a sullen, lovesick teenager? He, of all people, should know better. His heart was buried under layer upon layer of protective shielding. Hell, his heart was more heavily guarded than any prison fortress. Somehow he had survived sixty years without Helen Magnus, and yet here he was, barely able to go sixty minutes without thinking about her. Seeing her again, so independent and so commanding, had more than resurrected old feelings; it had uncovered buried feelings he hadn't even known he possessed. He would not have dreamed himself capable of pining over anyone, much less a woman who had rejected him on several occasions. Oh, but he knew Helen's modus operandi as well as his own. She just needed a little push; if he could get her attention somehow, she would come running to him.
And that's when it had hit him. He was a genius, after all. He had decided that he would use his intellect and his charm to win Helen back. This time, it was bound to work. He had figured out all of the details, down to the letter, played the scenarios out in his head again and again. He would finally, after all of these years, rebuild his race and claim Helen's heart.
And so far, judging by the early stages of his plan, everything was coming along swimmingly. But then why did he feel so dissatisfied? Perhaps it was because some part of him knew, deep down, that his plan could still go horribly, horribly wrong. He was not generally an insecure man. In fact, the arrogant, narcissistic side of him made a habit of regularly squelching any protests from the apprehensive side. This had the effect of making Nikola seem entirely self-absorbed and reckless, something that, he hated to admit, might not be too far from the truth. So what better cover could he have than one which made him appear generous and self-sacrificing? His "Casa de la Nueva Vida" was the perfect plan, and his patented Slow-Release Vamp Formula was a guaranteed success (though clever names might not exactly be his forte).
In thirty years he would have his own personal vampire army, and this time it would be an intelligent one. Thirty years to scheme and plan, plenty of time to prepare to take his place as King of the Vampires. These spoiled, rich brats might not be vampire material yet, but give them three decades and they'd be ready. Of course, since his, or rather "Heinrich Baumschlager's," formula was designed to activate slowly, his residents would initially be too weak to try to overthrow his reign. By the time they were strong enough, it would be too late; they would already respect and even worship him. He was their Savior, after all, rescuing their poor souls from dead-end lives of drug abuse and dependency. They would be immortals, blessed with the rare knowledge of thousands of years of brilliant scientific accomplishments. And he would be their Creator.
It was an ingenious plan, inspired really. It had come to him quite suddenly, actually, surprising even him. Rich parents would pay for nearly anything to feel like they were doing everything they could to help their children. Call it survival instincts perhaps, or maybe even guilt. Whatever you chose to call it, it amounted to the same thing: he was being paid a substantial amount of money to turn these kids into the greatest race in the universe. Not that he cared about the money, mind you, though it certainly did sweeten the pot, fueling his taste for expensive wines and finely tailored suits.
It was a lucky coincidence that the serum he had been injecting into his human guinea pigs had the side effect of curing drug dependency. He had been practicing what he would tell the irate parents when they discovered that their child's expensive Spring Break at his Mexican clinic had been all for naught, but that had, obviously, proved unnecessary. Word of his successful clinic was spreading like wildfire. Drugged-out trust fund teens were being shipped to him by the dozen, all returned to their doting parents, clean as a whistle inside of a week. "Heinrich's" patients were injected with what they thought was naltrexone- to help with their withdrawal symptoms- but was actually a serum made directly from Nikola's DNA, comparable to the source blood. It was designed to gradually bond to his patients' genetic material, slowly integrating into their DNA. Once thirty years had transpired, the added DNA would activate, coding for proteins that were singularly remarkable. The process, similar to gene splicing, was entirely chemical; the patient need never know what was happening until it was complete.
Once the procedure had begun, Helen would no longer need convincing that resurrecting the sanguine vampiri was a good idea. She had declined his request for help with making his "mini-me" army more intelligent, but she would have no reason to reject him when he offered to make her his queen. Helen would not even need his gene therapy; she was already intelligent and powerful- and immortal- enough to rule by his side.
Finally, Nikola smiled hesitantly. After many weeks of brooding, things were starting to look up for him. Now, if only he could shake the strange and wholly unfamiliar feeling that something terrible was about to happen.