Night Plague Chapter 3
Written by Omnitrix12
It was not long before the whole wedding party disbanded. In rather a breach of custom – though a necessary one, of course – Doctor Seward took over the final duties of the best man from Quincy and paid the clergymammal, as he himself would not be leaving the party. Van Savage made ready to depart around the same time.
"You mustneeds pardon me, friend John," said he, "but I have earnest business and must be away for the night. You know our usual routine, and all I can add to it is that you must not disturb the rice."
The horse, who of course could not help overhearing, stared at him in befuddlement. "Sir, I am no physician, but I cannot for the life of me understand how rice on the floor has anything to do with this young bride's health."
"Yes, and neither can I," agreed Seward. "Forgive my saying it, but if I didn't know you better I should think you were going mad, Van Savage."
The professor took this in stride. "Yes, but you know the signs of madness as well as any, and you may be certain I am not mad. You also know that I don't tell lies, so trust that I am telling the truth about this matter: that grain must not be removed for any reason."
Doctor Seward shook his head at his mentor's insistence. "As you say, then, but sometime you really must explain to me the meaning of all this."
The answer came gravely – and, as the doctor would think it later, rather darkly. "Of that, old friend, you have my promise."
Doctor Seward remained in the house all the rest of the day with little further incident except to remonstrate one of the maids who began to sweep up the rice. He spoke as kindly to her as might be, saying honestly that he no more knew what the cause was than she did but that he was under strict commands on the matter. She, accordingly, abandoned the task and made sure to relay his instructions to the others. Seeing that this was settled, the doctor spent much of the day in repose to prepare for the night's long vigil.
That night one of the maids awoke him and advised him that they were readying for bed. In good spirits, he admonished them to each partake of a glass of wine to celebrate the day's union, which they took gladly and drank to their mistress' health. Having seen to that little matter, Doctor Seward went to Lucy's room, where the doe was already dressed for bed and sleeping serenely. It was a bittersweet sight for the doctor, who had wished her to be his own bride, now to see her the wife of another man. Yet he solaced himself, for Lord Goredalming was a good man and would love her as well as – nay, much better than – he could have himself. It concerned the honor of his sex and his occupation to be, if not happy, then at least content for her and for his friend, her husband. Now the business at hand was to watch over her through the night, guarding against any sudden ill chance which might set back their efforts for her good.
He sat, therefore, and spent much time in reading; reading the notes brought to him from his aids at the asylum, and reading of diseases strange and rare. The former were fairly regular; one or two inmates were getting better, and some seemed to be declining, with most much as they had been for some time. A wolf named Romfield, a particular favorite of his, had been displaying signs of a growing religious mania, rambling now and again about 'the master' coming and bringing 'all good things.' No doubt the poor fellow thought himself some manner of prophet; a prophet of a god imagined in his own likeness and after his own wishes, as many mammals both mad and sane were known to dream up. He had on occasions past been given to violent fits, but of late had been mild and peaceable enough that, apart from his babbling, he seemed as civil as any mammal out walking the streets.
The research on diseases went much more slowly, alas. There were a few case studies like Lucy's, most of which he had gained from his old professor, who got them from Heaven only knew where. Unexplained loss of blood, often leading to death foreshadowed by delirious ravings of stalkers at night and red eyes. None of these had ever been properly understood, though, and the notes accompanying them indicated that the responses were generally superstitious, not scientific. None of it seemed to be of any worth.
Somewhere about eleven of the clock, he was pulled from these readings by a knock at the front door of the house. He paid it no mind at first other than to idly wonder why someone would come at so late an hour. Yet when the knocking persisted, he went to see himself, wondering why the maids had not answered.
To his surprise, the mammal at the door was a tapir named Roland; one of the aids from the asylum!
"Roland?" he asked, bewildered. "What are you doing here?"
Roland panted, sagging with his hands on his knees.
The attendant looked quite ill. "It's Romfield, sir. He's loose again, and this time he's attacked one of the attendants!"
"Attacked?" asked the doctor in surprise.
"Yes sir. When the attendant went to check on him, he asked for help with something in the room. Then he bit the poor chap on the wrist, and when others came to the yell they found him lapping at the blood. But when they rushed on him he forced his way through and ran out of the house!"
Doctor Seward's blood ran cold. It seemed, as he had once feared, that Romfield's mania had turned dangerous. To have him on the loose in such a state, at night too, was a horror to imagine.
"I'll be right there," he promised, hurrying to get his hat and coat. "Just let me make arrangements."
He went to fetch one of the maids, but instead found Mrs. Westenrut up and about. "Madame," he objected when he saw her. He knew he had to hide his fears. The thought of a lunatic out and about would undo her for certain. "The hour is late. Why are you up?"
"Oh, no fussing," she protested. "I've rested so much today that I can't sleep now. But why are you dressed to go out?"
The doctor saw here a chance to solve two problems at once. "Well, a matter has come to my attention which I must see to at once," he explained. "Nothing grave, but it requires my personal attention. I was going to check on Lucy before I went, but perhaps if you are sleepless you would see to her."
"Why of course," said the lady, much to his relief. "I might as well sit up with her as wander around the house for nothing."
Doctor Seward thanked her graciously and departed as swiftly as the situation allowed, confident that all would be well when he returned. Never in a hundred years could he have fancied how awry his hopes would go.
Mrs. Westenrut walked down the hall to her daughter's room, feeling more light and alive than she had in a long while. Her daughter was growing well again, and married to a fine gentleman. Now, whatever might become of her own self, she could rest assured that Lucy at least would be well cared for. Moreover, she had taken such steps as to ensure that when she did pass on, her property would go to her dear son-in-law to further ensure that all would be well.
"I do declare," she remarked aloud to herself, "I feel I could die happy though it were this very night."
Then she got a look at the room.
"Why, look at this mess," said she in dismay and disappointment. "Still strewn with rice from wall to wall. Oh, those careless maids. But there's a broom here, and they're all in bed. I'll sweep up myself, and have a good stern talk with them tomorrow."
Accordingly, she suited her actions to her words and removed the grains which Professor Van Savage had strictly ordered none should touch. Before this, however, she opened a window to let in a little air.
"What a shame for her to smother with all this garlic – and on her wedding night too."
It was some hours later when Lucy awoke to a cool breeze blowing on her face. Her mother lay asleep in the chair usually occupied by one of the doctors, gently snoring with her chin on her bosom. A twitch of worry went through the young doe when she saw the window open, for she recalled the many times the professor had said very strictly that the window must not be open by night. She calmed, however. She was feeling so much better that surely an open window could do her no harm.
She knew not how long she lay there awake before a rustling in the bushes outside made her start. What was that? She flicked her ears forward, staring at the moonlit window, but all she saw was an owl flitting about outside.
"I'd better close the window," she decided, putting her feet over the side of the bed. "I don't want the filthy thing coming-"
But before she had risen to her feet, a great gray shape came hurling through the window with a shattering of glass. Lucy screamed as the shape tumbled on the floor and quickly resolved itself into a wolf dressed in torn clothes and staring with wild, bestial eyes. Mrs. Westenrut started awake and jumped to her feet, but all at once a great paleness came over her. She seemed seized by sudden weakness, and fell backwards into the chair stone dead.
"Mother!" cried Lucy, rushing to her stricken dame. But there was no time to do anything, for as if drawn by her movement the wolf fixed its eyes on her.
"Flowers," he hissed. "Filthy, filthy flowers. Master hates filthy flowers!"
The last thing Lucy remembered was the wolf lunging for her, paws outstretched.
When poor Lucy awoke, she found herself sprawled on her bed. She began to stir and at once froze with fright, for there was the wolf. He seemed no longer to pay her any mind, however. He was busy about the room, tearing down every petal and stem of the flowers which so festooned it and paying special mind to the roses and garlic. At intervals he would rush to the door and throw them into the passage by the armful.
Lucy wanted to scream, but it was as though an invisible hand held her by the throat with the strength of iron shackles. Why did the maids not come? Where was Doctor Seward? Why was her mother so horribly still and sprawled?
Presently, her wits returned. Whatever this wolf was doing in the room, he could not mean her any good. If something happened; if… if he killed her, others had to know what had happened.
Moving as silently as she could – though the wolf seemed by now utterly heedless of her presence – she tore a page out of the journal on her nightstand. With desperate speed, she began to write of everything on which she could lay her frightened mind: her mother, the wolf, and the flowers festooning the room. At long last she hastily rolled up the parchment and hid it in her bosom; the one place where, if the wolf had any manhood in him at all, he would not search. By this time, however, the wolf seemed done, having even torn the curtains down with the rod and flung them out of the room. He bowed to the window as a courtier to a king, seemed to listen for a moment, and then threw himself back out into the shrubbery.
Lucy lay still, hardly daring to breathe or even move. Part of her ached to get out of there; to flee from the room and from the house which had become such a scene of madness and horror. Yet her limbs were paralyzed, and she could do nothing as the time slowly passed… as a mist crept into the room… as that mist gathered itself into a kind of pillar.
The last thing she noticed was how odd the gaslight looked through that pillar; more like two burning red lights than anything. It would not occur to her in that lifetime that the gaslight was not lit.
As oblivion overtook her, spreading like a blanket over her shattered nerves and wits, the mist thickened and blackened into a dark, massive figure. Glancing disdainfully at the dead woman in the chair, and at the door which held back those odious repellents, he moved to the bed where Lucy Westenrut lay as one in a charmed sleep.
"This time," it snarled, "I will be certain."
The following morning, Nick and Judy resolved over breakfast to pay a visit to Lucy and see how the blood transfusion and a night's sleep had treated Lucy. They took a carriage, enjoying the bright sunlight and the clear sky unmarred by any but a few woolly clouds.
"Bet you dinner Arthur's going to be there," Nick said coolly.
"As he should be," Judy agreed, smiling as she looked out the window. Her mind was full of thoughts of her old friend and the mate she had chosen; a good, kind mate by all she gathered. Admittedly at the time when he came along and began seeking Lucy's acquaintance, her own time had largely been taken up with Nick.
"I'm so happy for them," she remarked sometime later as she and Nick made their way up the path to the house.
He nodded with the old keen glint coming into his eyes. "And just think," he remarked jovially. "Soon she and Arthur will be able to enjoy the actual benefits of their marriage."
"Nick!" she hissed, shock and amusement vying for control of her reaction. "You can't just talk about that like it's… oh, never mind." Giving up mainly because she knew her reaction would only amuse and encourage him, she knocked.
No one answered.
"That's funny," said Nick after an appreciable length of time. "You'd think one of the maids would answer."
Judy furrowed her brow and opened the door herself. No one was in the front hall, but her sharp ears detected noise further inside the house; lots of noise.
"Mother?" she called. "Lucy? Doctor Van Savage?!" With growing agitation, she spurned all good form and raced into the house, with Nick breaking into a run behind her. The two of them followed the sounds to the kitchen, where a sight like nothing either of them had ever imagined awaited.
Three of the maids, looking rather groggy and dazed, were rushing about heating water and cloths or running and fetching all manner of things. They had filled a large tub with hot water as they would for a bath, and the third maid was busy bustling about someone in the tub at that very moment. She was bent over, frantically rubbing the bather's legs and body while Van Savage and Doctor Seward worked feverishly at the arms of the same.
Yet it was the mammal slumped in the tub, fully clothed in a night dress, who captured their attention at once: Lucy. She was so sickly, and so limp, that it was nearly impossible to recognize her at all. She was nearly as white as salt under her hair, even to her very lips. Her eyes were closed, and she scarcely seemed to be breathing. Her throat was bare, and the two wounds on her neck looked, even at a distance, worse than ever.
"What in the world…?" asked Nick, not sure how to finish.
The professor looked up in shocked relief. "Nicholas! Judy! Oh, thank heaven you're here! Judy, quick, take this girl's place before her arms give out."
Surmising that he meant the maid tending to Lucy's main body, Judy ran forward and leaped into the tub dress and all.
"Nicholas!" Van Savage continued desperately. "Run and find someone to share their blood; anyone her size or larger!"
Nick was stunned. "What about Mrs. Westen-"
"Dead," was the flat reply, "and Lucy will join her if she does not have blood! Now go! Shout in the street if you have to! She must have blood or death within the hour!"
Nick stopped arguing and dashed out the door. Judy, meanwhile, had managed to find footing on Lucy's lap, braced as the doe's legs were against one side of the tub. "What exactly are we doing?" she asked. The problem – though she hadn't the least idea how to explain it – was alas all too plain.
"Chafing," reported Doctor Seward, taking over the talking from his old teacher. "What little blood she's got left in her needs all the help it can get."
Van Savage nodded his agreement, then waved to the maid who had fallen back and was nursing her arms. "You," he commanded, waving to Lucy, "put two fingers to her neck; right there by the wounds. We must know if she has a pulse; any pulse at all."
The maid came compliantly, feeling anxiously as she had been instructed. "What am I feeling for?" she asked.
"Movement," was the answer. "Like the gulping of a throat when it drinks water, only smaller."
She checked, and said she thought she felt a tiny movement… but it was getting fainter and fainter.
"We are fighting death for certain," said Seward unnecessarily.
Van Savage shook his head, looking as sick with his exertions as Lucy did with whatever was so mercilessly preying on her life. "If only death were all that assailed us. Why, why? And this sweet maiden of all creatures."
Judy stared at him in confusion. He spoke like someone who knew something terrible… or was just plain out of his mind.
"Keep going!" ordered Seward, for in her distraction Judy had abated. The look on his face made it clear he did not understand his mentor's words in the slightest, but there was no time to waste on idle questions.
At long last, Lucy's face flickered with movement and she managed, just barely, to open her eyes.
"It's working!" cried Judy.
"Here, here. Hold her head steady," Seward ordered one of the maids.
Lucy struggled for breath, and seemed to be trying to say something, but whatever it was would never be uttered in the mortal world. By the time Nick returned with a tiger in a constable's uniform, Lucy Westenrut had been dead not less than five full minutes.
Both of the doctors looked beyond comfort, and Judy wept without heed to anything.
"We did all we could," said Seward. "At least… at least now she is at rest."
Van Savage shook his head, slumping with exhaustion. "It's my fault," he rasped. "My… my fault."
Doctor Seward patted him on the back. "Now, professor, we all did our utmost to-"
"You don't understand!" cried Van Savage, whirling and striking away the comforting hand. Then, as if he had the burden of Catlas on his shoulders, he crumpled to his knees and buried his face in his paws.
Judy followed suit, burying her face in Nick's chest. He quietly put his arms around her still-soggy form.
"Nicholas," ventured Doctor Seward, "will you take her someplace where she can dry and… and grieve in peace?" He looked at that moment as if he himself would like to go off and weep, but masculinity and the sight of others forbade it and there was work in hand. "I will have the maids clean the body up and put her in something dry, and Van Helsing and I will handle the legalities." This last he said with a glance at the tiger officer, who stood looking on the whole matter in great confusion.
No one saw Van Savage slip a small rolled-up paper into his coat, much less thought to ask him anything of it.
It was a note which had fallen from Lucy's bosom when they took her from her room; her last mortal words, and the secret of her death.
In was no surprise that all who knew of the catastrophe mourned the loss of the two women, save for the officer who merely took a statement from the two physicians. There was some dispute betwixt them at the first, but the consensus at the end of it was this: that a wolf, still at large, had broken into the house at night and frightened poor Mrs. Westenrut to death. As for Lucy, the shock of the attack and her mother's demise had caused her to have a fatal relapse of her illness, so that she too perished. The officer noted that Van Savage seemed rather firm on having this explanation accepted, but it was asserted by all who had been present that he was away hours before the incident. For this reason, the officer accepted their statement and left, but advised that he would likely be back for more information.
"It is well no one mentioned that you asked her to be your wife," the professor said to the doctor after this interview. "If such were in the record, it might be taken as motive for some mischief on your part."
"But she was sick long before that," Seward objected.
"I know that, and you know," Van Savage agreed, motioning him to come in close, "but there is ill afoot here, old friend, and we must not have any of us taken on a misguided charge."
The doctor put his ears back, regarding his friend in confusion. "You speak as if this were more than illness."
Van Savage looked grave. "I think there might be, but I cannot say just now. Too much is going on to pursue my theories now, but if I am right then more evidence will present itself soon. For now, we must settle all privately."
Their private conference was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come," commanded Van Savage.
Nick walked in, his arm around a red-eyed Judy. "I'd like to take Judy home," said he. "This is pretty hard on both of us."
"Of course," Van Savage agreed. He seemed to hesitate, as if to say more, and then spoke again. "By the way, I know this is poor time for it, but may I ask a favor of you two? I ask you in particular, friend Nicholas, as it concerns you more directly."
Both of them regarded him curiously. "What kind of favor?" asked Nick.
Van Savage's ears stood very erect, and his face took on the expression of one who has committed himself to dive into deep water. "Madam Judy has told me of your business trip to Romania, and what a severe impact it had on you. She made mention of a sealed journal of said venture. Do you have it still?"
Nick nodded, looking a little sick at the mention of the unfortunate book. "I do," said he. "Or rather, she does."
"Alright. I should like to see the chronicle, if I may."
This was a strange request, to be sure. "If you really want to," said Nick, "but why?"
Van Savage averted his gaze. "There is much going on, and I feel I must not become idle at such a time as this. To see the journal would put my knowledge at your disposal, if perhaps I may be of some service to you. It will serve me, meantime, by helping me look forward." As an afterthought, he added, "Besides, if I were to look at it, it should do no harm to your marriage, where if one of you did, it might."
Judy couldn't help feeling a little envious that a stranger should know before she would of what had so shaken her husband. On the other paw, the part about impacting their marriage gave her pause. It would probably let them both rest easier knowing the matter was in expert care, and Van Savage could at least see the matter objectively. "Alright," she agreed at last. "I'll bring it tomorrow, but…" here she reached out and took the professor's paw to show how earnest she was. "Don't show it to anyone else; anyone."
He smiled warmly and patted her paw with an almost paternal air. "You may put absolute trust in me," he vowed. "I call God to witness that I shall mention neither the journal nor its words to any beast without your consent; not even friend John."
Nick coughed. "Uh, yeah, I'd especially appreciate him not knowing about it. Nothing against the guy, but he might think I'm crazy."
Van Savage looked at him quite seriously. "Friend Nicholas, I have known madbeasts. Let me assure you that if you are mad, you are the soberest lunatic I have ever met."
"Oh." Nick wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Uh, by the way, why so curious about my trip? Or do you just want to take your mind off of Lucy?"
The professor's tone and visage gave no token whether his next words were in jest or earnest. "I have no wish to take my mind off of Lucy," said he, "but please ask me no questions now. When the time is right, I shall tell everything."
Judy was silent most of the day, and hardly touched her food at either remaining meal. For hours at a time, whenever occasion afforded it, Nick would draw her to his side and she would lean there, saying nothing or hardly anything. Nick supposed she must be in shock after all that had happened, and who could blame her? Yet he had no words to give her, save for the occasional "I'm sorry" as she wetted his shirt with tears.
At last, that night, he ended the long and near-unbroken silence.
"Carrots, I've been thinking," he ventured, drawing her up against himself. "We should try to do something to help tomorrow."
She looked up at him wearily. "Help how?" she asked.
"Well, I know you're pretty rattled by all this, but you know, I think Arthur's gotta be pretty broken up too – and there's gotta be a ton of stuff to sort out since he and Lucy were married and she was the last Westenrut." He chose his reasoning carefully, knowing that Judy was always looking for some way to be of use to someone. "Why don't we go over there tomorrow? I might be able to help with some of the papers, and you… well, I think you and Arthur both need some time."
Judy could almost have smiled, in a very sad way. Nick hadn't been as close to Lucy or Mrs. Westenrut as she had. He couldn't have had he tried his level best. Yet he understood well enough that she would gain by having someone who had been close to Lucy, to comfort and draw comfort at one go. It was a noble thing of him, and she loved him for it.
"Alright," she said at last.
She pretended to fall asleep after a while, so that he might sleep and have some rest from her fatigue. Yet she lay awake for some time, puzzling over in her mind how a woman with the life of four males in her – three of them strong and hardy – could die for want of blood in so short a while.
She would have to ask Van Savage about it the next day.