Chapter Twenty-Six: Blood

Don't bother,

I'll be able to tell when it's done

"Carl!"

He started awake to find Tamerlaine leaning over him, looking worried. Leaning over the lower half of his body, to be specific.

"What?"

"You're all bloody!"

"Am I?"

"Your leg's all torn up, Carl!"

He considered the advantages of modesty at this point and decided to leave it. When he leaned forward and looked down, however, he saw the decision had been made for him. Tamerlaine had ripped his trouser leg to the waist, and piled the ruined fabric there to preserve some of his dignity. His legs, which were never exposed to the sunlight, looked excessively pale and sad in some areas and worrisomely bloody in others.

"Van Helsing's not going to be happy about his trousers."

"Never mind Van Helsing and his blasted trousers, what happened?"

"I— I was just about to ask you the same question."

"You mean you don't know?"

"I don't—" But he did remember, the blackness that obscured his vision and the searing pain that ripped down his leg. "I don't—"

She watched him. "It wasn't Simon," she said. "He wouldn't have dared face me if he'd done it. It was him, wasn't it— my uncle."

"I don't—" said Carl doggedly. "It was— dark— but— look, are you alright?"

Tamerlaine took a quick glance down at herself. "Yes, Carl, this blood isn't mine."

"Oh good."

"It's yours."

"Oh dear."

She nodded, then returned to inspecting the wound. It was a deep gash, cut almost like a bolt of lightening, and it ran from just above his knee to nearly his ankle. He didn't like the look of it at all.

Tamerlaine tore a strip off her skirt and began to try and clean it a little. Carl sucked in his breath and she looked considerately at him. "I am sorry," she said. "That must hurt badly."

"No not at all," said Carl through his teeth.

"Don't be a hero, dearest. Scream if you want. Not too loudly, though, remember they're not too far away."

Carl breathed deep and managed to contain the expression of his pain to a whimper. Rather than watch whatever it was Tamerlaine was doing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing and the feel of his heartbeat.

Not dead yet, not dead yet, not dead yet—

"I don't think its as bad as it looks," said Tamerlaine finally, somewhat dubiously. "I'd advise we get to a doctor as soon as possible, however." She stopped, and looked at him with sorrow. "You're have to go on your own, Carl."

"What? Why?"

"I can't be seen by anyone. I don't know who might be looking for me."

"But— but they let us go!"

"No. No, I was thinking about the situation while I was resting."

"You were sleeping," Carl retorted.

"No I wasn't."

"You snored right in my ear."

"Well, fine, I was sleeping, but still thinking. And I realized they didn't let us go. Simon let us go."

"Simon?"

"Oh yes. Don't ask me why."

"But—"

"I said don't ask me."

"I didn't."

"You were going to."

"Tell me," said Carl softly.

She tied up the last of the strip of cloth, sat back on her heels and looked at him. "Because in his own twisted, self-centred way, he still loves me. The same way he has for so many years." She shook her head at his expression. "Simon's very emotional, really. Very focused on feelings— obviously he wasn't thinking. Not with his head, anyway. My uncle won't be very happy, I suspect." She grinned. "I'd love to see what he does to Simon when he finds out. Only—" Her grin faded. "Not really."

She fidgeted. "Trust me, he'll be trying to get me back. He's not going to let his scapegoat get away."

"But— but surely you can trust a doctor."

She looked at him and was quiet for a minute. "The first time, you remember, they had both the police and the doctors on their side."

Carl felt the sun of that hot afternoon so long ago when they came and took a six-year-old Tamerlaine away. He said nothing, only nodded to show he understood.

"Alright," said Tamerlaine, and began to stand up.

"Only," said Carl, "if they're looking for you surely they'll be looking for me too."

She frowned.

He winced, and smiled.

B.R.E.A.K.

Van Helsing sat engaged in deep cogitation at the dining table, having examined all of the pages of the book he'd found beneath Carl's bed. Things were pasted on the pages, cuttings from newspapers, faded photographs, and some skeletal remains of a leaf— probably. It looked ready to disintegrate if touched.

He leaned his chin on his hand, staring at one of the photographs. It was of Tamerlaine and Carl and some unidentified man, who, Van Helsing assumed, must be Tamerlaine's father. The resemblance was there and undeniably clear, from the tilt of the head to the curve of the cheek. Carl and Tamerlaine stood with arms around each other, brilliant smiles on their faces— the adult looked down on them with something resembling indulgence, but underneath it was something else.

Van Helsing bent his head closer to the page till his vision filled with the faces of the two children. Slowly he closed his eyes.

He heard voices.

Will they never give me rest? he thought irritably, but then it dawned on him that the voices were real.

He sat up and stared at the door.

Yes, unmistakably real—

With a bound he was out of his chair and wrenching at the doorhandle. He ran through the house to the drawing room, where Hannah fussed over two figures who stood huddled over the fire.

Van Helsing stopped short just inside the door, and the figures wheeled and looked at him and gave him tired smiles.

With a stream of curses that made Hannah faint across the couch, Van Helsing leapt across the room and took Carl in a firm embrace.