The Strain: Another Season
Episode 8

Author's note: I've messed with history here, in order to bring the altercation between an eighteen-year-old William (Kitty) Courtenay and a twenty-four-year-old William Thomas Beckford into the same timeframe as the 1822 sale of Fonthill Abbey.

Warning: Language including offensively racist and homophobic. Male OC/OC rape with whipping (actually historical characters rather than original) as discipline within a gay relationship. All treated with my usual circumspection though!

Four Nervous Vendors
Chapter Three

Jamaica 1734
House of Assembly, Spanish Town

People have been fleeing years of fear, oppression, rape and violence. The refugees have escaped and banded together in a camp in the jungle.

Now, a group of elderly, white British men gather around a table to decide their future.

A small man with an ear trumpet scratches his wig. 'Governor Hunter,' he bellows at the leader. 'Too many slaves have been stolen and those that loyally resist the forced liberation have been killed.'

'Gentlemen,' Hunter responds. 'I don't deny the need to tackle the Maroon problem. What I fail to see is an effective solution. Their stronghold is impregnable. We've sent too many well-armed soldiers to their deaths. To attempt another full-scale assault would be absolute lunacy.'

A spherical red-faced man who might be expected to roar and bluster speaks querulously. 'They must have powerful leadership,' he says. The company grunts in assent so he continues. 'Some say it is Queen Nanny – that she is a mighty sorceress.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Aynscough,' scoffs Hunter. 'Captain Sambo killed her.'

The superstitious Aynscough isn't put off for long. 'They say she has risen from the dead and leads her people with supernatural influence and a general's instinct for defensive tactics.'

The laughing and scorn is surging but he raises his reedy voice above it. 'Or that she possesses a magical totem.'

He is universally derided once again. Well, almost universally. One man has been watching in silence until now.

'If the slave known as Nanny is still in control of the Maroons then Sambo simply killed the wrong woman.' He inveighs reasonably. 'It matters not. I have a secret weapon that will turn the course in our favour.

'What are you talking about Beckford?' snaps the governor.

'Not a "magical totem",' Peter Beckford junior sneers to general approval. 'But a single mercenary skilled in jungle warfare and stealth,' he pauses for effect. 'One man might utilise what may hundreds might not – the advantage of surprise.'

He nods at a servant by the door. 'Burke. Show Captain Stoddart in, would you.'

A handsome if slightly scarred young man enters the room and bows to each of the assembly in turn.

The following night

Stoddart crawls slowly through the thick foliage of the Jamaican interior and approaches the Maroon fortress from behind and above. He is so quiet and sneaky that he is able to slit throat after throat and "bravely" slaughters the Maroon warriors in their sleep. Covered in blood he finally enters a hut in the centre of the camp and dispatches the inhabitants as silently and ruthlessly as the others. The sleeping woman is the same Nanny from Nicolas de la Reynie's English lesson. She is asleep on the Occido Lumen. He retrieves the book and returns to Spanish Town where he presents the Lumen to Beckford in exchange for his fee.

Berlin January 1990
Eichhorst's feeding room

Both captives have been allowed the full extent of their leashes now but Corey is still attached to the winch, albeit loosely. Once again they lie in each other's arms.

The door opens and Eichhorst strides in. He scents as before. 'Excellent,' he smiles, as Corey and Sandra get to their feet. 'Well done. Another successful night.'

Corey pulls his underwear back on but Sandra is unashamed and the vampire doesn't seem to notice anyway.

Eichhorst pauses, scents again and marches straight to Corey. He lifts the young man into the air by his throat and holds him at arm's length while he sniffs closely around the girl again. He laughs gleefully and absently releases the boy to examine Sandra more thoroughly.

'Yes! Yes!' he cries jubilantly. 'So soon? How wonderful!' He unlocks her and offers his hand gallantly. 'Come with me. You will lack nothing during this pregnancy – you and your precious, delicious cargo.'

He's oblivious to the young man in his overwhelming delight and Corey removes his locket, readying it as a garrotte. Eichhorst reaches out to touch the girl's belly reverentially, almost like a worshipper at a shrine. Sandra watches, horrified. He hesitates at the last moment and looks at her. 'I hope it is a son,' he says meaningfully.

She glares at him and starts, 'But you said…'

He shrugs and smiles the velociraptor smile. 'You should have let me get out of earshot before throwing yourself at him.'

While Eichhorst is distracted, Corey takes the opportunity to leap onto his back and try to throttle him with the locket's silver chain. The vampire thrashes about until Corey's grip is loosened. The locket is thrown towards Sandra who catches it reflexively to stop it hitting her face. Corey is still on Eichhorst's back but now he's lost the silver advantage.

'Run, Sandra,' he yells.

She hesitates but he insists. 'For God's sake, don't let our baby be raised like this. Please. GO!'

That sends her off down the corridor like a jackrabbit.

Eichhorst, reversing, runs his assailant back against the wall but Corey braces his feet against it and starts to somersault out. Eichhorst is quicker and stronger even than a healthy young Mossad-trained agent and performs the same manoeuvre while Corey is in mid-air. He flips him off onto the stone block and there's a loud, wet crack and screaming as Corey's femur fractures.

Eichhorst runs out after Sandra but his Master's voice sounds in his head bringing him to a halt.

No. Let her go. I have not interfered in your pleasure before now but you have gone too far.

Eichhorst looks longingly down the corridor and makes to go after her. It's not so much a movement as the muscle twitch of a greyhound that sees something furry running away.

The Master's voice is insistent. LET. HER. GO.

Kill the boy. DO NOT TURN HIM.

Burn the building and return to me. I am sending you to Frankfurt to meet the human whose largesse is funding your hedonistic experiments. Do not think I disapprove. We will review your results and refine the system. It will need upscaling. And then I want you to investigate in Amsterdam. I have been unable to connect with Werner.

Unpursued, Sandra eventually finds her way out and flees across the cold, wet street. A naked girl running blindly in downtown Berlin during the morning rush hour is likely to get attention of all kinds but she retains enough sense to head for the nearest building full of women. There's a beauty salon opposite her prison. She flings open the glass door, releasing the sound of Phil Collins crooning on the radio.

Oh, think twice, it's another day for you and me in paradise.

To the horror of clients and stylists alike, she falls to the floor whimpering in English, 'I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant.'

Bengal, India 1780
East India Company Hospital

A young man lies in a hospital bed, thrashing and raving. He is covered in sweat.

Two doctors stand at the foot of the bed discussing his case dispassionately.

'Lieutenant John Farquhar, sir - wounded in action,' The younger man explains. 'A penetrative injury to the upper thigh, probably involving the periosteum. It has become corrupted.'

'Is there any hope for the poor fellow?' asks the senior medic.

'Not much, sir. All we can do is keep it clean, feed him opium and pray Death comes swiftly.'

'Is he the quadroon?'

'Yes, sir,' replies the junior doctor as if this, rather than the patient's injury, is the worse affliction. 'The poor creature's grandmother was a Wazir from the north west frontier.'

'The lawless border with Afghanistan?'

'Yes sir,' says the younger man as both doctors move away. 'Rumour has it she was a descendant of the Scythian prophetesses of Persia.'

Farquhar opens unseeing eyes wide and screams. His eyes are an unearthly bright green. No one comes to soothe him.

His delirious nightmares feature a cursed silver book, a white noseless demon with a snake for a tongue and a dreadful plague.

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – the present

'Oh, thank God,' cries Dutch, sagging with relief.

Fet struggles off the treatment table and up the stairs to comfort her.

Sandra looks puzzled. 'What did you think had happened?'

'I thought Eichhorst was my father.'

'WHAT?!' laughs Sandra in disbelief.

'Well, when I saw you together tonight…and you're so desperate to keep him alive and to "make him pay" … and you admitted today that you're obsessed with him…and you called your captivity "our time together in Berlin"…and then my DNA is the same as his…' Dutch finishes lamely.

'Did no one explain the facts of vampire life to my daughter?' Sandra looks around accusingly and her gaze rests on Setrakian. 'You never used to hoard your knowledge like this, Professor.'

Eph has been silent, thinking. Now he speaks up pointedly. 'Sooo. This magically healing "white" you were given was vampire blood?'

Gus draws his sword, which prompts Angel to do likewise and they advance on Sandra warily.

'Yes but I've never had the worms,' she says, backing away with hands raised defensively. 'So there's no need to get all stabby with the silver.'

She looks at Setrakian for support but remarkably, she refrains from telling the others about his own, involuntary, "white" consumption.

'Calm down, everyone,' he says. 'We know Miss Edwards is human and the doctors can corroborate the fact that strigoi are incapable of procreation except by transmission of the worms.'

Dutch, Fet, Zack and the Mexicans look to the doctors for confirmation.

'Their genitals fall off within the first few days of infection,' nods Nora.

'I don't get it,' Angel whispers too loudly to Gus. 'Did she fuck the fucking vampire or what?'

'ZACK! Bed. NOW!' Eph orders his son as the first F-bomb detonates.

'Don't think so, man,' says Gus. 'They don't got no cock!'

'What about Señor Vaun?' asks Angel, confused. 'He act like he own everyone. Like he got a python in his pants.'

'So does the German,' Gus shrugs. 'But I love that he's just has a whole buncha GI Joe down there.' The idea makes him laugh out loud again.

Nora eyes are huge with empathy and welling up. 'How does anyone recover from something like that?'

'With help,' Sandra smiles grimly.

Eph says, 'I can't sleep yet. I'm going to restart the research.' He glances a question at Nora but she shakes her head. Eph shrugs and heads for the lab.

'What happened next, Mum?' asks Dutch.

Fonthill Abbey, Great Britain, Home of William Thomas Beckford - August 1822
The Gallery

About a dozen fashionable people are admiring Beckford's paintings and objets d'art. They peel off in couples and threes to better examine and appreciate items or collections of particular interest to them. Only two men accompany Beckford into the library where the Occido Lumen sits behind glass.

The older man, Alexander Hamilton, 10th Duke of Hamilton and 7th Duke of Brandon is in his fifties but still a very handsome man with a full head of silver hair.

The younger, William "Kitty" Courtenay, the future 9th Earl of Devon is still a teenager. He is exquisite, the very ideal of male beauty - at least of his time. He would be considered much too fey for today's tastes.

The three approach the Lumen. The host had been languid but as he gestures at the book he is bursting with boyish pride. 'Well, now, Hamilton,' he says familiarly. 'This is the fabled Occido Lumen. What do you think of that?'

Courtenay is sullen, almost envious of the attention Beckford is bestowing on the book.

'It certainly is the most superb silverwork I've ever seen. The work of a master craftsman,' says Hamilton.

This isn't praise enough for Beckford. 'Yes, yes,' he says. 'But look inside…'

The boy tuts loudly and rolls his eyes.

The host chides him indulgently. 'Oh come now, Kitty.'

He apologises to the duke. 'Poor Courtenay doesn't understand.'

Beckford produces a key from around his neck and unlocks the cabinet. He picks the book up lovingly and shudders with pleasure. Hamilton glances at him, looking a little uncomfortable. "Kitty" sighs and melts away, exiting unnoticed through a door concealed in the panelling.

Hamilton watches as the Lumen is settled tenderly on a bookstand. Beckford's breathing quickens as he nudges the leaves apart to reveal the most vibrant coral-reef colours and strange diagrams.

Hamilton stares open-mouthed and glittery-eyed before uttering a great heaving, 'Ohhh!'

Beckford starts as if he had forgotten he had company, looks jealously across at Hamilton and snaps the book shut – almost severing the other's questing finger.

Hamilton looks furious but represses the rage and recovers his suave nonchalance just as the other guests join them.

'I say, Beckford,' brays one gentleman. 'What a terrible bore about your Jamaican plantations.'

'Yes,' replies Beckford, locking the Occido Lumen away and replacing the key beneath his shirt. 'Damned Abolitionists. That's why I'm selling this place and most of its treasures next month.'

'Is that glorious Raphael going to be consigned?' he asks.

'Yes,' replies Beckford. 'And all the Meissen too.'

'What about the silver book?' asks Hamilton covetously. 'Is that for sale?'

'Never,' snaps Beckford, turning on his heel and leaving his guests in a haze of "Upon my soul"s and "Well I never"s.

He canters up the main staircase and along a corridor before barging into Courtenay's apartment, attitude high. The boy has taken his jacket and boots off and is reclining on his bed perusing a letter. He tries to hide it from his host but after a brief wrestle the older man is in possession.

He scans it quickly and becomes incensed.

'Who is this?' he flicks the paper with a finger. 'Who "longs for the touch of your lily-white hands"?' he spits out, flinging it down in disgust. 'I own you Kitty,' he growls. 'Every inch of your "soft, yielding flesh".'

He casts about the room and his gaze falls on Courtenay's riding boots with a horsewhip sticking out of the top of one.

Downstairs in the drawing room, the houseguests, with the exception of Hamilton are milling about - reading, talking or just lounging prettily on a chaise longue - when the air is torn by bloodcurdling screaming accompanied by the rhythmic crack of a riding crop.

The gentlemen instruct the ladies to remain where they are and rush into the hall where Hamilton joins them from the library. He leads the charge upstairs to Courtenay's quarters where the boy is found bent over the desk wearing only his shirt.

Their host is standing close behind him, one hand gripping the boy's collar. He is thrusting into him and lashing him alternately with the switch and the most regrettable language any of the gentlemen has ever heard.

'What in God's name…?' cries Hamilton, pulling Beckford away and trying not to look down.

The donkey-voiced man disarms him and the distraught boy flees into his dressing room still screaming and crying. The door bangs and the bolt is shot.

William Thomas Beckford's bedchamber, September 1822

Beckford and Courtenay are apparently reconciled for Kitty lies in the other's sleeping arms, his head resting on his lover's chest. The moonlight seeping in through the curtains reveals the boy to be awake. His eyes are open as he puts his arms around Beckford's neck making him stir in his sleep. He waits breathlessly until the man is motionless again and, ever so carefully, undoes the chain around Beckford's neck.

With his prize secured, he sneaks out of bed and down to the library without even getting dressed. He unlocks the Occido Lumen's glass-fronted safe and carries his love rival down the gallery to an insignificant-looking French cabinet with an auctioneer's label marking it as Lot No. 12. The Lumen is stowed at the very back behind some scrunched up newspapers and Courtenay pads silently back to his lover's embrace.

Fonthill Abbey, Great Britain - October 1823

A much older John Farquhar thrashes around on his bed, bright green eyes staring wildly. The new owner of this splendid Abbey is having nightmares.

Fire and brimstone fall on Sodom and Gomorrah…the silver book

Emaciated men in stripy uniforms line up before a pit in the snow…the silver book

The siege of Caffa….the silver book

A frantic man stands chest deep in a midden...the silver book

The bandits attack Paolo's camp…the silver book

A strange white horseless wagon with Wilson's bread painted on the side…the silver book

Venice burns…the silver book

The Master's face appears in a crystal ball…the silver book

Screams and whip cracks come from behind a door…the silver book

A pointy-eared demon with glowing eyes in a top hat and black cloak stands in Victorian London's moonlit streets and lashes his long crimson and purple "tongue" towards a girl…the silver book

The raid of an Iroquois tribe…the silver book

Fonthill Abbey collapses…the silver book

HELLFIRE!

…the silver book…the silver book…the silver book.

Farquhar jerks awake with an incoherent yell. He's drenched in sweat and his bedclothes are twisted tightly about his legs, his torso hanging half off the bed.

His butler stands beside the bed and coughs diplomatically.

'Good morning, Mr Farquhar,' he says smoothly. 'I trust you were able to sleep this first night in your new property.'

Farquhar clambers back into bed and goggles at him. He glances meaningfully at the mess he's lying in but the butler is impeccably blank as he places the tea tray.

'Thank you, Strood,' says Farquhar. 'It's taken long enough for the lawyers to let me occupy my own bloody home.'

'We have already begun unpacking, sir,' announces Strood. 'And we found this hidden at the back of a cabinet.' He twitches a large napkin aside, revealing the Occido Lumen.

Farquhar's reaction is extreme. He scrambles out of bed with a horrified yelp and flees onto the landing, making a housemaid scream.

'Sir?' says Strood, pursuing his master with a puzzled look on his face.

'That's the silver book from my nightmares,' points an agitated Farquhar from the other side of the grand staircase. 'We must get rid of it. Immediately!'

'Very good, sir,' says the unflappable Strood. 'I will arrange another sale directly.'

'And include all this other pointless art and pottery. I don't want to look at naked women that I can't touch nor house china too "precious" for me to drink an honest cup of tea out of. Get rid of it all. I only wanted the house but that confounded sodomite insisted I buy everything in order to pre-empt the auction.'