A/N: Greetings.
I hope you enjoy the new chapter, and wish you a Happy New Year!
Chapter 6: Igor
Germany, 1820
"Igor!" the silver-haired German man in grey waistcoat barked.
"Yes, Dr. Waldman!" The man across the attic space wheeled around from his table, speaking with a thick Eastern European accent. He had a large forehead, slightly pointed chin, and thin, orange, chin-length hair. He wore a deep reddish-brown coat and beige breeches.
"How fares the work with the lightning rod?" Dr. Waldman asked.
"The rod is in place, Doctor; now I must ensure the wires are correctly attached to the chemicals," Igor explained calmly. He half-turned back to his table, tweaking cables that ran between poles and liquid-filled beakers' tops.
"Good," Dr. Waldman murmured. He looked at the dead cat on the table behind him, two cables running through the beakers into it. "Is the storm nearly upon us?" Blue light immediately flashed outside the window, illuminating the lightning rod's outline and the attic-based laboratory's corners.
"Soon, it will be," Igor murmured, full lips pulled into a grin that was almost sneer-like. He looked out at the dark sky.
"We've had three near-successes which only repeated Luigi Galvani and his nephew's results with electricity," Waldman murmured, stopping the pace he'd entered and placing both hands on a chair he'd walked behind. "And summer will soon pass. Let us hope the latest formula is the right one, as I should hate to see our benefactor disappointed." Igor glanced at the doctor. Ten minutes passed, then twenty – three flashes of lightning occurred, without a strike.
"Shall I bring tea?" Igor asked Dr. Waldman after twenty-two minutes.
"Best not, it could-" A particularly-bright flash erupted, thunderclap following less than a second after. Lightning arced from the rod through the cables, half the beakers exploding. The cat's head jerked, its legs shuddered. After four seconds, the lightning's illumination vanished and the cat's body flopped. Thunder rumbled far away outside. Igor and Waldman waited with baited breaths for more lightning, but when the sky started brightening after three minutes, Waldman looked towards the floor. He turned and leaned forward over the cat's table, hands on either edge.
"I will get the tea," Igor said, recognising the doctor's disappointment. It still slightly surprised Igor sometimes how well he knew Dr. Waldman, making him think how much he could've gained with this knowledge of a person had he had more time and patience years ago.
Lying against the building wall near the street corner, Igor smelled blood mixed with horse droppings. This wasn't the longest he'd smelled it, but was perhaps the longest he'd smelled his own blood and horse droppings while staying in the same place. A day and night had passed him by, lying here, fading in and out of consciousness. His breathing was laboured, and both his legs were bent across the street's dirt; one at an unnatural angle. Blearily watching people pass, Igor tried once or twice to call out for help, but was – unpleasantly – unsurprised when passers-by wheeled around him. This part of the city had a close-knit community, and he was unknown here except to the two gangs he'd joined, robbed from and betrayed, and ultimately fled. Igor also supposed any people those gangs hadn't talked to recognised him as gang-associated by his unkempt, black-coloured clothing.
Thinking vaguely of his activities in northwestern Debrecen, Igor had been surprised to face neither of the gangs he'd been involved with here, but a clan of road bandits near Hajdúszoboszló he'd thought he'd evaded three years ago. The band had been taken over by the son of their former leader – who Igor had murdered, along with his unwomanly sister he'd promised to marry when she'd caught him in the act – and had moved to northwestern Debrecen. They'd surprised Igor two nights ago, beating him with sticks, fists and tough shoes in revenge before leaving him for dead.
Igor's attention latched onto a lower-body whose pair of legs were walking in a curving path straight towards him. The knees bent, the legs' owner's silver-haired, pointed-nosed face entering Igor's field of vision and looking straight at him. Igor found the man had a certain softness about him, yet his expression was cold and hard.
"Are you alright, mister?" the man asked.
"I need… water," Igor groaned. The man looked around at the occasional passing horse and people.
"Has no-one attempted to help you?" the man asked. The desperate chance at survival forcing his mind to sharpen, Igor shook his head. The man's eyes looked up and down Igor like he were assessing him. "Then I must get you to proper aid. Where are you injured, so I know what not to risk exacerbating?"
"My stomach… legs…" Igor groaned. "Cannot walk."
"I see," the man replied. Then, raising his hand as though to command Igor's attention, he said: "Stay here, I shall be back with help in a moment." Igor watched the man walk away in a straight line, to a man who had a horse and wagon across the street. While Igor watched, they talked for a matter of seconds, before the second man climbed into his driving seat and got the wagon moving. He guided it down the street, then in a U-turn, while the silver-haired man slowly walked back towards Igor. The wagon rolled by directly in front of Igor, then stopped before its rear end was more than five feet away from him, the driver promptly climbing down and moving towards the broken man. The two strangers began lifting Igor by his arms, making him groan in slight pain, and hauled him onto the wagon's back.
Dr. Waldman stood straight-backed by the broken man's bed, top hat held to his chest, in the candle-lit room. Even when asleep, the man looked slightly restless with his upper-lip curled back, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Waldman didn't know if all street-folk in Hungary were that way, having only visited this country once before his recent move to Budapest. Waldman's thin eyebrows were slightly low, looking at the man's neckline again. Though the white nightshirt's collar had been moved up a little, Waldman still saw the very top edge where the man's skin was indented, so slightly than one without his eyesight could have easily missed it – rope-indentations circling the man's neck. He'd survived the hangman, and by the slight redness, it hadn't been long ago. Which made Waldman concerned he might be saving a fugitive. Waldman hadn't seen any indication the inn's maids who'd re-dressed the man had noticed anything worrying, which made him debate mentally whether or not he should say anything. He was jarred from his thoughts by the room's door opening behind him. A stout, middle-aged maid carrying folded clothes stopped just past the threshold upon seeing him.
"What are you doing here, sir?" she asked, slightly alarmed.
"I am a guest here, in the adjacent room," Dr. Waldman began explaining. "I was the one who rescued this man from the street."
"I see," the maid said slightly warily, before promptly passing Waldman to place the new clothes upon a table. "He is not your friend?"
"No, he is not," Waldman replied slightly warily, looking at the sleeping man again. He debated whether or not he should tell the maid about the noose-scar. "I simply wished to see him and know what his condition was."
"I have been tending to him since he arrived," the maid said, turning to Waldman. "He has slept since being re-dressed." She cast a distasteful look at the sleeping man. "I know you are a stranger here, so I will forgive you for not knowing, good sir; those clothes he was in belong to a band of foul criminal men who do nothing but hurt and rob decent folk. Had my brothers or my father – God rest his soul – been in your position, they might have wished nothing but for God to strike this one down." A brief pause followed. "Is there something you wish to say, sir?" Dr. Waldman looked back at her, slightly surprised – the maid must've noticed his facial expression as he'd again been considering what to say about the noose-mark.
"No, woman, I do not believe so," Dr. Waldman said, still undecided. He thought his manner had been slightly awkward, but the maid promptly walked past him towards the door, closing it behind her. Dr. Waldman resumed mentally debating what to do. His mother had always told him everyone deserved a chance at redemption. Would this man get such a chance if other people knew about his scar?
Waldman drank his tea on the back lawn, while Igor removed the attic's shattered beakers and dead cat – the Royal Society of Sciences who owned the Göttingen building didn't appreciate experiments' leftovers being left lying around. After the sky had turned deep-blue, Igor was cleaning an intact beaker when he saw Count Vladislaus appear on the front lawn below the window. As always; the Count wore his long black traveller's cloak, and no horse nor carriage had been seen or heard passing but the Count didn't look at all weary. Dr. Waldman marched towards the Count to greet him, then they moved towards the building. Igor thought there was something subliminal about how the Count often moved without making much sound. Still cleaning the beaker, Igor watched the two men until they'd disappeared below the window frame's bottom. In the several times he'd seen the Count but barely talked to him, Igor had been able to tell there was something different about him, reminding Igor of some of the more intimidating criminals he'd worked with. He finished cleaning the beaker, then placed it in a box among other cleaned beakers, and proceeded downstairs with the box.
Approaching the stairs' bottom with a nimble trot, Igor heard Waldman and the Count's voices from the lounge down the hall.
"As persuasive as your assurances are, I grow concerned at how many setbacks you have endured, Doctor."
"I know the progress is slow, Count, but given the investigation's subject, there must be room for trial and error."
Igor walked around the newel post, up the hallway lit only by a single candle. He returned the beakers to the cupboard under the stairs. Moving back towards the stairs' bottom, he stopped on the first step, looking in the direction of the living room's door. The matter of cleaning the attic was in Igor's head, but he found himself leaving the stairs and walking quietly towards the lounge. The door was open a crack, letting warm candlelight through.
"How long do you need?" Count Vladislaus' voice asked. Igor didn't know the name of the Count's house, he'd introduced himself by his first name and said it was a custom to call him by that in Transylvania. Igor put half his face in front of the crack, looking at Waldman sitting in an armchair, clasped hands giving away his nervousness.
"Three weeks, possibly less," Waldman said.
"Good," the Count's voice said. "What resources will you need that the Royal Society is obligated not to give you?" Shifting slightly, Igor saw him sitting opposite Waldman. He wore the same black clothes, every time Igor had seen him, including a coat with military-looking embroidery. His hair was held in a ponytail by a metal clasp, save a few stray strands near the front of his head. Igor looked at the Count more than Waldman while the two talked. The Count smiled pleasantly, but something about his face wasn't right – something felt slightly off, like something unplaceable was missing from him. Dr. Waldman seemed unquestioningly admiring of the Count, but Igor thought he recognised the signs of a dangerous man – the subtlest hints in his mannerisms, the way he held himself, and his particularly-entrancing cold blue eyes.
"Everything you need will be delivered tomorrow night," the Count said, then began rising from the chair. Igor quickly but quietly scuttled down the hall, reaching the under-stairs cupboard just before the two men entered the hallway.
"You have my utmost thanks for your generosity, Count," Dr. Waldman was saying, while Igor opened the cupboard and feigned checking its contents were in order.
"As you yourself have said, this work may change man's understanding of the natural world," Igor heard Count Vladislaus say. "It is in my eyes worth fighting to bring mankind to such a milestone in history. As the night is young, I must take my leave and bid you goodnight, Doctor, until the next time." Igor removed a broom and closed the cupboard.
"The attic floor still needs to be swept, Doctor," Igor said, walking halfway to Dr. Waldman.
"Then sweep it, Igor," Dr. Waldman murmured semi-dismissively – he never seemed quite himself when Count Vladislaus visited. Igor proceeded upstairs.
Tugged by the same force that had made him eavesdrop, Igor got off on the first floor above ground, going to the nearest unoccupied room facing the front lawn. Approaching the window, he saw the Count stalk towards the street and stop at the lawn's edge. Dark as it was, the Count's black silhouette stood out against the road's dirt. For several seconds, the Count simply stood while the odd pedestrian and one wagon passed in the road. The when a woman with flowers crossed directly in front of him, he sharply grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. Igor saw her seem to freeze upon seeing the Count's face. He heard the Count talking, but his voice was too quiet to make out words. The Count and the woman turned their bodies and walked in the opposite direction than the woman had been walking in, constantly looking at each-other's faces. Igor knew he shouldn't eavesdrop on the Count's business outside of the house. He knew doing so would do no favours for the stable, paid existence he'd had as Dr. Waldman's assistant for the last few years. But somehow the wordless compulsion pushed the bright, rational sense back into his mind, and he promptly left the window.
Wearing a top hat and tailcoat, Igor emerged through the house's front door, closing it behind him very-quietly. He was good at being quiet when sneaking around. Stalking to the lawn's edge, but not so delicately that it would appear suspicious, Igor saw the Count and the woman's silhouetted backs. He watched the Count steer the woman into a gap between two buildings, then calmly stepped down the street in the same direction. Upon reaching the corner, Igor halted and looked around to make sure no-one was looking in his direction – there were only a few pairs of pedestrians at this hour, and he could only see the backs of most of them. He slowly leaned forward, enough for one eye to see past the corner. The Count and the woman stood in the lane's centre, silhouetted in the candlelight from a window at the lane's far end. The Count's face was on the woman's collarbone, he slowly withdrawing a moment after Igor had started looking. The woman writhed slightly in pleasure, but barely made a sigh. Igor stared in mild shock, not as much shock as Dr. Waldman would have had – he'd known sophisticated-seeming men who'd engaged in lewd acts in his past. The Count's face and the woman's were close to eye-level. Then the Count lunged his head at her neck with frighteningly-sudden speed. Igor's breathing stopped, eye widening. The woman didn't make a sound.
Arf! Arf!
Igor spun in shock, seeing the dog running across the street towards him before its owner grabbed the scruff of its neck. Now in the lane entrance's centre, he looked back in – he saw the Count tear his head from the woman, glowing pale eyes standing out. Igor turned and ran without hearing the dog-owner's apology, not caring at all for the suspicious looks passers-by gave. He looked back over his shoulder at the lane entrance, seeing no-one, but didn't stop running, passing the Royal Society house.
Igor's house was a ten-minute walk from the Royal Society house, and he reached it in three minutes. Locking the door and then putting a table in front of it, Igor went to bed with a knife held close to his chest. He didn't easily get to sleep, struggling to process what he'd seen. He'd heard tales in his homeland of the vampire, the strigoi and other creatures which fed on mortals, but he'd never seen any such monsters at day or night before – he thought they were only stories, trusting what his five senses told him were real. Igor took several hours to fall asleep, and when he did sleep, it was filled with nightmares.
Igor was huddled in a ball by the food table's corner – he always huddled there when he wanted to hide, even if it usually did little good. The screaming and clashing was somewhat badder than usual right now. He watched his mother, holding his five-year-old sister by her skirt, screaming hysterically in the doorway at his father – a burly-looking man in thick, loose-fitting peasant clothing, red pants standing out despite the house being darker than the outside world. The man hurled a few pots and pans at the females during and between screams. Igor wanted to run to his mother and sister, but that would mean getting past his father, and he knew if he tried, it'd be ten times worse for him than it would be anyway. His mother released two more animal wails, hurling a pan back at his father.
"You won't hurt him anymore!" Igor's mother shrieked. "He's MINE! MY BABY!" Igor's father yelled and hurled another pan – his mother lifted his sister before it struck her leg, making her cry and nearly collapse.
"The little scum is mine!" Igor's father snarled loudly. "I'll let him go the day the devil you spawned him with comes for him! You want to be without a roof, like real whores?!" He took two menacing steps forward. Igor's mother backed up one step, but glared, seething. "GO, THEN! Take your filthy whore hide and your little youngling-whore out of my house! Go and join your fellows, on the roads and in fields and pig pens! Go and fornicate in the dirt with the Devil's other sons and daughters, ALL OF THEM!" Igor's mother screamed loudly again, a second before his father slammed the door, the outside world's brightness cut off once more. Igor heard his mother still screaming outside, he even heard thumping and scratching on the door's other side while his father held it shut with one boot. After several seconds, the noise stopped – Mother was going. Igor didn't want her to go without him, he wanted her to take him too. Lowering his boot, Igor's father turned and looked at him. Igor looked back, not wanting what came next. The moustached man came towards him in big strides, then reached with a hairy hand to grab him by the wrist.
The next day, Igor was at Dr. Waldman's own house, helping develop their next chemical batch – barring an interruption in the late morning, when a staff-member from the Royal Society house had turned up complaining that broken glass had been left on the attic floor. Igor had been unsettled to learn Dr. Waldman had received a letter from Count Vladislaus, saying he'd be visiting the doctor's house in the evening on short notice. Igor hoped he and the doctor would finish their work before then – if not, Igor would feign sickness, attempt practically anything to avoid meeting the Count. He wondered if he should try fleeing Göttingen and convince Dr. Waldman to leave with him. In the early afternoon, with the evening looming near, Igor found himself pressed to try talking.
"Doctor," he said, looking over at the man, whose face was in front of a beaker while he swirled its contents.
"Yes, Igor?" Dr. Waldman said, looking at him as though he'd just been roused.
"I feel I need to ask, do you believe the Count is a trustworthy man?" Igor began cautiously.
"Of course, Igor!" Waldman said, like the suggestion the Count was dishonest were unthinkable. "He has been our sole benefactor since we began seeking financial aid! What would make you think otherwise?" Igor doubted he could tell Dr. Waldman about what he'd seen, and he'd never been good at lying directly to someone's face, but perhaps if he described his encounters with the Count the right way, it might turn the doctor's head slightly.
"The way I have heard him speak – his demands, and his mood when impatient about the experiments – concern me," Igor began somewhat-carefully. "I have seen his manners shift depending on whether or not he is speaking to you. Last night, I saw him walk with a woman I do not believe was his wife. I fear he might have his own motives concerning the work and what he will do with it."
"Wha-" Dr. Waldman looked slightly astounded. "Igor, the Count appeared from nowhere offering to back our work six months ago. I am appalled that you would suggest he is being dishonest, based on proof no more substantial than perceived shifts in his manner! And when did you see him last night?"
"From the laboratory house's attic, before he was out of sight from the building," Igor said, just stopping himself short of saying he'd watched from the first floor. "A woman in average clothes joined him."
"They may have been simple acquaintances, and even so, you and I have no business nosing into the Count's private life," Dr. Waldman said after one second's thought. "Regarding his alleged manner shifts, I believe he is simply concerned about the work's progress. Otherwise, he may have private concerns on his mind, in which case I repeat my point – we have no business looking into the Count's private life without welcome. Now, let us speak no more of this." Dr. Waldman immediately turned back to the beaker. Igor's eyes momentarily lingered on him, the orange-haired man wondering how else he would evade the Count if he couldn't convince Waldman.
Afternoon turned to early evening, then late evening. Watching the light go and the sky darken, Igor grew increasingly anxious, the change in light marking how time was running like water from a leaking bucket. The thought of the Count doing what Igor had seen him do in the lane repeated in his mind. An hour after sunset, Igor and Dr. Waldman were mixing liquid chemicals when they heard a rhythmic knock from the front door in the hallway. Dr. Waldman immediately walked to the living room door, vanishing from sight down the hallway. Igor continued stirring the chemicals, but kept an ear out.
"Good evening, doctor," the Count's voice said. Igor's heart started thumping harder, immediately fearing the worst.
"Count," Dr. Waldman's voice greeted. "Please do enter." Igor heard the door shut. "Shall we talk in the dining room?"
"I would like to see your laboratory assistant first," the Count's voice replied, making Igor's eyes widen. "Through there, I assume?" Igor frantically looked around the living room.
"Igor?" Dr. Waldman's voice almost squawked. "Of course. Yes, he is in there, Count." Seeing a letter opener on the mantel, Igor hurriedly ran and grabbed it. Hiding his hand behind his back, he looked in time to see Count Vladislaus step through the doorway in his travelling cloak, blue eyes almost-instantly finding Igor. The Count stopped a few feet past the doorway, giving Waldman just enough room to slide in.
"Greetings, Igor," the Count said, smiling pleasantly. "It has been some time since we last conversed directly."
"Count Vladislaus," Igor said in greeting, bowing slightly. He momentarily wondered if the Count hadn't recognised him when he'd seen him the other night. Still, he clutched the letter opener tightly.
Looking at Waldman, the Count said: "I would like to have a room in which Igor and I may speak privately." He sounded like he wasn't asking.
"You may have the living room as of right now," Dr. Waldman said. He hurried towards the chemical beakers, picking up the rack they were on. "I shall continue the chemical work myself in the study. I shall be there should you need me."
"Good," the Count said. Dr. Waldman shot an almost-anxious look at Igor, obviously concerned about what would come of this, before exiting. A pause passed in which the Count looked back at Igor piercingly.
"You seem quiet," the Count murmured while shedding his cloak, smiling slyly – Igor recognised the kind of smile that belied a terrible man. Dumping his cloak on a chair unceremoniously, the Count slowly stalked towards Igor. Igor curled his upper-lip in an innocent grin.
"To what do I owe this private audience, Count?" Igor asked, trying to keep his voice calm. The Count chuckled, sounding very non-mirthful. Involuntarily, Igor took a step back.
"You saw me eating my evening meal last night," he said, voice almost a growl. Igor's grin faded and he backed up two more steps.
"You… You are not a man," Igor said, horrified.
"I am not," the Count murmured matter-of-factly. Igor backed up one more step, and his back hit the wall beside the fireplace, near the corner. The Count stopped five paces away from Igor and put his hands behind his back, smiling. Igor noted the door was directly behind the Count's shoulder from him. "How long have you have worked with Dr. Waldman for, Igor?"
"Four years," Igor said, voice trembling slightly. He wasn't consciously sure why he wasn't already brandishing the knife, but he knew if slipping away failed, talking would always buy him some time.
"Four years," the Count echoed huskily. Turning on his heel, he started walking away slowly. "Four years ago is the exact same time Dr. Waldman's career shifted. Did you also help him with his experiment to prove the existence of a vital principle?" Slowly pacing, the Count always kept himself between Igor and the door.
"I did," Igor replied carefully. "Why do you ask me?" The Count grinned almost-humorously.
"The experiment was unsuccessful, but the use of chemistry was praised by the philosophical community as revolutionary," the Count said. He stopped and turned his full body on Igor, three steps in front of him. "Dr. Waldman had struggled with new technology before then; suddenly he began using methods that even well-versed scientists fumbled over! How did that happen?"
"I-I assisted him with the chemicals and laboratory machinery," Igor said; first hesitantly, then slightly-quickly as the Count took two steps forward, Igor's back pressing against the wall.
"As you've assisted him with every experiment since, including his current attempts to produce a death-reversing serum?" the Count murmured, eyes locked with Igor's.
"Yes," Igor said enthusiastically, hoping this was his way to avoid the woman's fate.
"Which means Dr. Waldman has been using your revolutionary methods and taking credibility," the Count murmured, a dark look naked in his eyes. Then he looked almost-dismissively at Igor's waistcoat, straightening its neckline-collar by Igor's right shoulder with his thumb and index finger. "Tell me, Igor, what is it you want?" Igor paused.
"Wha-?" Igor bit his tongue when the Count's gaze held his, face holding a cool expression Igor didn't take lightly. In the face of this man-like monster, Igor seriously considered. Slowly, he felt part of himself that had been untouched for a long time re-emerging. "I… I want… to be part of something powerful," Igor murmured grovelingly, sinking to his knees with his back against the wall, while his eyes and the Count's remained locked. "I want to be your servant!"
"What made you believe I need or want a servant?" the Count murmured coldly. Igor's eyes widened worriedly and his grip on the knife tightened. The Count smiled again. "That is not to say I don't have room for a new servant," he said reassuringly. Putting two fingers under Igor's chin, he slowly lifted his head to eye-level like it were weightless. "You couldn't have sought power from a greater master, Igor, as there are no supernatural creatures in the world today more powerful than Dracula, son of the Devil." Igor's eyes widened slightly, breath hitching. The letter knife fell – it hit the fireplace's stone platform with a noise, but the Count didn't bat an eye.
"Oh, great King of the Night," Igor all but moaned grovelingly. "I have to give you the crafts of my hands and the cruelties I have learned in the past. Let me give my soul to be your servant, and I will be by your side faithfully."
"Enough with the begging," the Count, Dracula, said sharply. Igor looked up. Turning on the spot, the Count looked almost-nonchalantly around the living room. "I am starting to think Dr. Waldman's experiments are not leading anywhere," he said, stepping slowly towards the room's centre. Then he looked back at Igor, icy gaze intent. "Kill him, and I shall give you eternal life; you shall be at my side, doing my bidding, throughout eternity." A pause passed. Igor's jaw hung, the orange-haired man hardly able to believe what he'd heard. Igor's life had been spent seeking money, shelter and violent work among the worst criminal bands, then backstabbing them before they backstabbed him. To have eternal life and be at the son of the Devil's side, in exchange for eternal servitude, was overwhelming. More than half of Igor felt less-than-amicable, remembering what Dr. Waldman had done for him without initial gain, but that voice was almost-casual to Igor, like something he could disappoint shamelessly. In the face of this monster that could kill Igor but was instead offering him eternal life, the meaning of the life he'd made with Waldman crumbled like bones turning to powder.
"It will be done," Igor said, the pointed-chinned man grinning awfully. A thin smile spread on Dracula's face.
"Now, while the powders heat in the furnace, a black powder should appear in these retorts-" Dr. Waldman pointed to the glass baubles plugged into the cylindrical furnace's top. "-if I have theorised correctly." He turned directly to Igor, making slight chopping hand-motions emphatically as he said: "It is important the baubles aren't touched before seven o'clock."
"I understand, Doctor," the large-foreheaded man, who still leaned on a crutch, said seriously.
"Good," Waldman said evenly. He hurriedly looked at the longcase clock on the workshop's far wall, past Igor. "Remember those instructions, Igor. It is imperative they're followed in the time it shall take me to reach the apothecary and return."
"I understand," the orange-haired man repeated, looking at him. Dr. Waldman nodded, then all but sprinted across the workshop towards the door, barely snatching his tailcoat from its hook on the wall. Igor watched over his shoulder as the doctor exited, then looked back at the furnace. He was alone in the twenty-foot wide workshop, surrounded by tables lined with glass and metal instruments. Sliding powders into the furnace's upper-compartment and shovelling coal into the bottom-compartment, Igor thought deeply about how he'd wound up in this workshop in Budapest, working as a laboratory assistant. Igor had taken advantage of strangers' kindness before, but Dr. Waldman was the first person who'd both given him shelter and offered him permanent paid employment. Less than three weeks ago, Igor probably would have robbed the man and fled once he was able-bodied, but after what had happened in Debrecen, Igor was feeling more wary of doing so than he'd ever been before. Igor hadn't questioned his way of living since moving on from his first gang – the one who'd done him the pleasure of breaking his father's body before letting him plunge a knife in the man's heart, when he'd been ten years old. He took what he needed from whoever he was with, then he killed whoever was in charge before they killed him, and he could move on without worry. Then after twenty-five years, the bandits had reappeared out of nowhere and nearly killed him, which made Igor have to doubt that lifelong code, wondering if it really worked or if more unwelcomely-familiar faces were waiting to gut him for robbing them. Igor thought hard on it before a flare of flames burst from the tray's upper-compartment, immediately making him look.
Dr. Waldman pushed through the workshop door – he held it open with his foot while placing the crate on the floor, before slipping in and letting the door swing shut. He picked up the crate and took one step forward before freezing. The furnace at the far end of the workshop was completely wrong. Its surface had been blackened around the top compartment; the top part of the furnace's chimney had been sawed open, letting black smoke pour towards the ceiling before crawling out the open windows lining the workshop walls. A new piping, brighter-chrome than the rest of the furnace, had been attached near the bottom – it bent and extended across the floor, ending at the nearest window, with smoke pouring out. Igor sat at a table with his back to the door, slightly hunched-over.
Dr. Waldman's jaw immediately clenched, a furious blush going through him. He'd spent nights and nights toiling over written instructions and revising his chemistry notes to ensure there were no malfunctions. He'd instructed Igor as clearly as was possible, and he returned to this! Waldman neither knew nor cared why Igor had interfered. Though he'd offered Igor a permanent job, he'd meant it when he'd warned Igor that robbing or sabotaging the laboratory would result in Igor losing his current job immediately. Waldman marched across the workshop, trying to restrain his anger for now.
"Igor!" Waldman barked, stopping five feet diagonally behind Igor at the next nearest table's corner. He could see Igor was reading through an illustrated book.
"Doctor," Igor said in greeting, grinning like he'd done nothing wrong.
"What. Is this?!" Dr. Waldman growled through his teeth, pointing at the furnace. Igor looked.
"The furnace exploded after you left," Igor explained. He pointed to the open book's pages. "I removed a portion of coal from the bottom, and read your instruction books to understand the problem's cause." Waldman's thoughts about punishing Igor came to a standstill, while the orange-haired man pointed at the sawed-off chimney. "The chimney was obstructed. I installed a new one, and opened the old to release the excess smoke." Dr. Waldman looked back at the furnace, then at Igor, whose brows were furrowed in worry. All but pushing Igor aside, he quickly looked at the book's illustrations, also taking note of the short stack of closed books beside the open one. Waldman flipped back through a few pages, before finding one with an illustration of the furnace leaking flames. He looked back at the altered furnace.
"You did this?!" Dr. Waldman murmured, looking at Igor – he could hardly believe the crutch-using man were capable of it.
"Yes," Igor replied. "I said I'd repaired machines before, in my criminal past." Looking back at the furnace, Waldman all but shot up and strode to the machine, walking over the new pipe and circling to examine the machine's surfaces. "I beg your forgiveness for disobeying your instructions," Igor said, hanging his head in a dog-like manner. Waldman immediately looked back at the orange-haired man from half-behind the furnace, eyes wide. Then he looked at the furnace's half-blackened casing in front of him.
"I do not think there is any need for an apology," Dr. Waldman murmured breathily. When he looked at Igor again, he couldn't help but start beaming. Perhaps God had rewarded him for his good deed.
The same night Dracula had revealed himself, Igor didn't act until after he'd been dismissed by Waldman. He waited at his own house until it was particularly-late, then he left, heading to the local cemetery. He dug open two graves, leaving with their contents just as the first orange streaks on the horizon hinted at dawn.
Dr. Waldman was arrested two days later. When the authorities questioned him, Igor insisted only animal corpses had been used in their experiments, and he hadn't known the doctor was engaging in 'such ungodly perversions' as the discovery in his cot at the Royal Society house indicated. The next day, Igor was reading a newspaper headline: 'MAD SCIENTIST TAKES THE DEAD INTO HIS BED'. Igor kept up with the news for the next ten days straight. For the first five, he'd only had to glance at newspaper vendors' stocks because Dr. Waldman's trial had been somewhere on the front page, but he'd afterwards had to start buying newspapers to read the story inside. The eighth day's newspaper stated the 'Abominable grave robber''s sentence, and the tenth newspaper described his public hanging – Igor had the urge to rub his neck-scar when he read about the execution.
On the tenth day, Igor was on a restless evening walk. The night sky was deep-blue as he walked up the street to his house. Reaching the front door, he put the key in the lock, glaring under his top hat's shadow.
"May I enter?" purred the black figure who hadn't been beside Igor two seconds ago. Igor spun in shock, crying out momentarily. He froze, breathing on seeing who it was.
"Count!" Igor exclaimed, eyes wide. Dracula had a look on his face that wouldn't be refused. Igor grinned and said, "Yes, come in!" Turning the key and pushing the door open, Igor entered the dark hallway first, the Count striding over the threshold behind him. The Count slammed the door with a sharp noise, leaving the hall in total blackness. Igor half-staggered into a moonbeam by a window, then turned. Soundlessly, the Count's face loomed out of the darkness from in the same direction Igor had come from – the lines on his face were harsh, eyes bitterly cold. Igor quietly gulped in worry.
"C-Count?" the orange-haired man murmured, eyes wide.
"Usually when I tell someone to kill, I expect them to drive the knife in theirself," the Count said icily. A pause passed before Igor found his voice.
"I-I am sorry!" he exclaimed desperately. "Tell me to kill someone else, I will do it! Anyone else! I'll-" Igor stopped when the Count raised a gloveless hand.
"Don't fear for your life so quickly," the Count said. "There is another way you may prove yourself worthy to serve me." Igor relaxed partly, letting out a very-quiet sigh. The Count reached into his cloak, camouflaged with the darkness. He slowly brought out a small, white bundle, in which a tiny baby was wrapped. Igor looked nonchalantly at the baby – he'd murdered children three times before, this wouldn't be anything new for him – then as it turned its large head and revealed bright-blue eyes, a horrible feeling slowly wormed its way into Igor's stomach.
"What is that child?" Igor asked uncertainly. When Dracula didn't immediately answer, Igor looked and saw his gaze was expectant. Igor's eyes shifted between Dracula's and the child's. "Is that… related to me?"
"It is your sister's," the Count said. "I believe it's barely three months old."
"And she-?"
"She didn't see anyone take it," the Count cut him off, voice quiet. "She was lying outside an inn." If Igor kept count, he could probably count on his ten fingers the number of times thinking of another person had made him feel anguish that stabbed like this. He hadn't thought of his mother and sister much after they'd left, but he'd vaguely hoped his sister was alright. He felt something close to satisfaction or relief she was alive, but thinking she were in the state and place the Count had said she was meant he wasn't overly-joyful.
"…How did you know?" Igor asked after a pause, eyebrows sloping in a distraught expression.
"You're a smart man, Igor," the Count purred, gloved hand's knuckles stroking the child's cheek like petting a cat. "Tell me." He looked up, blue eyes piercing. Igor thought briefly. He'd been among lots of criminals who'd used children and women as spies, could Count Dracula have such spies of his own? When they'd first been introduced, he'd told Dracula his family's name – an uncommon name – and that he hailed from a homestead east of Budapest. The last time Igor had seen the area, there hadn't been more than farms, peasant villages and the odd gypsy camp.
"You knew because of my family name and home," Igor said.
"Good," Dracula purred, smiling darkly. Igor looked back at the infant.
"You want me to kill it," he said – he knew not to ask. Dracula held the infant out. Igor delicately took it in his arms, expression something like anguish and longing. The infant cooed joyfully, staring up at Igor. Igor felt like a cold spear-tip were driving downward through his guts, twisting so his entrails knotted around it. He was also aware of the Count standing in front of him, could feel his piercing gaze boring him. He'd been ordered by gang-leaders to prove himself by doing something horrible before. Though this baby was not the same as anyone else's or a helpless animal-cub for Igor, he'd encountered enough awful criminals to know how this likely worked. He could kill the baby and he'd receive his reward; if he refused, he'd pay. And Igor suspected he didn't want Count Dracula to make him pay. Cradling the baby to his chest, Igor slowly shuffled from the moonbeam towards his kitchen. Entering a patch of illumination, Igor removed a meat knife from its place on the wall. He turned his body, as though hiding the act from nonexistent prying eyes. He poised the knife. He brought the knife down, cutting the baby off mid-cry.
The night the child died, the Count – now Igor's Master – set off for Transylvania with his business in Germany finished. Igor accompanied the living servants, who carried the Master's coffin southeast by coach until they reached the Eastern Carpathian Mountains. At the mountains' westernmost part, the Diwergi led Igor through their tunnels to the Master's castle, while the Master flew over the mountains at night.
Igor had been expecting to become like the Master and his brides. The Master said Igor would be rewarded, but he needed servants who could operate in the day. He had Igor drink potions he said would give him immortality. They made Igor feel like his insides were on fire, though he never died. From then on, Igor drank the potions twice a month. Sometimes, Igor begged the Master not to make him drink, and the Master had the Diwergi force-feed Igor the liquid. Igor learned the Master hadn't lied – forty years in the Master's service passed him, then fifty; sixty. But the potions were taking a toll over the years – Igor's skin thickened and turned white; his hair became stringy, clinging to his head in places, and discoloured, though it didn't grey; his eyebrows vanished, leaving a thick brow-ridge; and his body's posture gradually became hunched over, limbs awkward to use. Igor didn't know if his dark-yellow teeth, some of which were missing, were caused by the potion or by the unpleasant food his Master allowed him; nor did he particularly care anymore.
The pain drinking the potions caused seemed to last longer as time went on, or perhaps it was Igor's malformation. Sixty years after becoming the Master's servant, Igor's pain was near-constant, though the Master had taught Igor his body could still experience much greater pain. In his pain, Igor found a favourite hobby – tormenting other things with the nastiest instruments that entered the Master's castle. He never missed an opportunity if it could be helped. Igor almost-always had work, though he answered more directly to the Master than most living servants. Most work was laboratorial, concerning the Master's secret supreme goal. A fair share was torturing. For both job types, Igor always made sure he was sophisticated with the newest technology, seeing many inventions come about. The dynamo, the Bunsen burner, the electric prod to name a few. The Master seemed to approve of Igor's cruelty. He often asked Igor why he inflicted such torment, and Igor gave the same answer. Then they both recited the very mantra Igor lived by, had lived by since he'd learned to read and write.
Igor jabbed near-furiously at the chained werewolf, grunting with the effort, backing slightly when the werewolf slashed too near.
"Igor!" the Master's voice called from the nearby space, where he rested in the day.
"Yes, Master!" The pasty, hunched creature passed between vast hanging cloths, electrical prod crackling. The Master stood with two of his brides upon him.
"Why do you torment that thing so?" he asked, looking over his brides' heads as they caressed his upper-body.
"It's what I do." Igor had given the same answer for nearly seventy years.
"Remember, Igor," the Master said, "do unto others…"
"Before they do unto me!" the creature finished blasphemously, patting a hand to his chest. "Master."
A/N: Please R&R and tell me what you think.
Also, just a heads-up, the next chapter might be arriving a few days later than usual.