It Is Dark Here

London, England. 1583.

The injury burned like someone had poured fire down the man's hip and hadn’t stopped pouring until it had reached his toes. He couldn't put any weight on the leg. Something was stopping it from healing. Whatever they had done – the man was already trying to forget the people who had attacked him – the wound remained unchanged. He paused, leaning against a crumbling wall, examining the ugly, almost-burns. There was a thin film over the wound, where oil had been rubbed into the gash in his skin. The oil clung, stinging, unwilling to come away even at the rubbing of his hand. The bastards had done this. Death befit the cruel.

The bleeding was slow, despite the damage. However, if the wound wasn’t cleaned, then the price would be the loss of his leg. There was a harsh growl from the man and a snap of teeth. Those same teeth were then gritted with pain. This was fresh blood, newly taken in and newly re-bled. The man wouldn't be surprised if the blood he was losing now was the same blood which his attackers had. He had already removed the hints of their blood that had stained his body, though his own wound’s steady drip of fluid would cover any that remained.

The pestilent film had to go. The bastards had wanted to burn him. Keep him from healing, slather his wounds with oil, and set him alight like a torch. It had to go. He just wasn't sure how to remove the film, short of burning that part of his flesh away, using one of the lamp-fires that lined the edges of the street. But he couldn't risk that he would set the rest of himself alight. It would be just what his enemies would have wanted, mocking him from the grave, as he used the very weakness they had wanted to exploit. The best he could think of was to get help. He couldn’t do this himself. That meant a doctor or physician, which meant questions. No. No, he needed someone versed in medicine, but also alchemy. Someone who communed with creatures of his nature and whose silence could be bought. He knew of two alchemists who were skilled both in the use of medicine and in the occult. He could afford to pay them off.

The problem was avoiding the people. He couldn’t pass more than a dozen of London’s lowlifes before he was tempted to eat one just to stave off the pain. But he couldn't afford to kill again. The building was hard to get to; he had to take back-alleys, and slinking outside the range of the lamps, but he made it. The house was made for the upper class, with thatching and fine trim lining the broad windows. It was the extravagance he expected. Fame, which these men had, would open many venues. He knew this well. His own clothing, had they seen better days, wouldn’t have been out of place walking the halls of this building. He had to wait for an answer to the black door, and, in that time, he very painfully restarted the beating of his heart.

He knew the man who opened the door. Edward Talbot. The alchemist wasn’t much older than the man, and the tricorne hat didn’t begin to make up for Talbot’s lack of height. Talbot scanned the stranger with doubtful eyes. The man was aware he looked dirty, but rich. To Talbot, he was clearly a man of status. His appearance already brought up many questions.

"I –" said Talbot.

The man didn't listen. He could hear the blood pounding in Talbot’s veins, and there was no way he was letting him talk longer than necessary. "I will pay," he hissed, "a lot for your treatment and silence. Now. Let me in."

Talbot’s jaw moved rhythmically, flapping open and closed like a shocked fish. The man pushed past him without a backward glance, his leg nearly giving out under him as he crossed the doorstep. The sudden movement, unfortunately, didn't stop Talbot from speaking.

"Excuse me, sir!" he said, closing the door and rushing to keep up. "What is your name?"

The man paused and turned. "It is Lord Conway to you," he said. "Now if you do not mind, I know you are not Doctor John Dee. I would much prefer him."

Conway's nose twitched, not impressed with Talbot. He could hear the lies swirling around him and see the fakeness to his smile. He could smell the greed. But his leg hurt, and he didn’t care. If these men were good, then he could survive the stench of greed that clung to Talbot.

Conway turned a corner, following the smell of alchemy without directions from Talbot. He didn't need the man to tell him where to go. The hallway opened into a large entry room. As he crossed it, his head suddenly turned, hearing a second heartbeat. That of a child. The heartbeat was to the left and up the stairs, in a position where Conway couldn’t see the small body huddled behind the banisters, but he was sure the child could see him. He could smell the nervousness, surprise, and intrigue from it. A prickle of interest bloomed in Conway’s chest. It was the smell of life. Enticing.

However, Conway’s attention was interrupted as the muscles in his leg spasmed, making another attempt to heal. But the wound was unable to close with the film of oil still over it. Conway stumbled forward, hand braced against the banister. He almost cursed, the feeling of weakness in front of a child's vision causing him to bristle and snap at Talbot; "This way!"

Each step was like fire up Conway's side, but he stumbled out of the entry room. He could taste blood in his mouth. Talbot scampered ahead, down a new hall, but kept looking back. A nervous terrier, Conway thought. He swallowed his annoyance and the blood, hoping that the hunger would recede. If it didn’t, maybe he would eat Talbot. It was tempting.

"Dee," said Talbot, opening one of the doors in the hall. He glanced back at Conway. Conway just looked blankly ahead.

"What is it?" asked Dr. John Dee. He wiped at his old, veined hands as he came out of the room, looking Conway over as he did. Conway knew what he saw. Brown hair, clothing that had seen wealth, and dirt, and blood. A gaping wound in the leg of a rich man. Conway wasn't surprised at the flabbergasted look that Dee gave him. Conway sighed, reiterating the amount of money he would pay for their silence.

Despite the serious injury, the urgency of the situation escaped the two men. They spent almost a second looking at each other and several more looking at Conway’s leg. But, finally, Dee waved a hand for Conway to enter the room. There was a table. Conway gritted his teeth as he sat on it. He already thought he knew what to do to start the process of healing, but it couldn’t be done by his hand. He was already weak with pain. He didn’t dare show these men, particularly Talbot, a direct way of weakening him.

"Well?" he asked, impatience bubbling up, as Dee hesitantly looked at the leg again.

"Calm, calm," assured the alchemist, who Conway knew was at least competent in medical understanding. That wasn't to say he was looking solely for medical help. He wasn't. Conway already knew how to remedy the injury, but he was unsure how to ask about it. How could he pose a solution which would keep him safe while also removing suspicion?

After a small pause, Conway did say, "I have this."

Out of a fold in his ratty clothing, he pulled out a small, tightly leather-bound book. He passed it to Dee, specifically ignoring Talbot's greedy eyes as they followed his hand. The book was opened, a puzzled expression appearing on Dee's face almost at once. Hurting, tired, and completely done with the whole thing, Conway said, "Read."

Then he laid back across the table and tried to concentrate on anything but the pounding of the alchemist’s blood. Eating both the alchemists, no matter how tempting, would not fix the wound. It was beyond his power. He needed a keener eye and a steadier hand.

Carefully, Dee flipped a page of the book, eyes widening slightly as he took in some of the illustrations and symbols within it. Conway almost wanted to laugh at the shift in expression as Dee tried to hold in his excitement. Talbot leaned over and failed completely in hiding his greedy smile. Conway knew the language within the book wasn’t one they could read, but the illustrations were something they were familiar with. Alchemists liked one thing better than money, and it was books on alchemy. Dee composed himself and looked up from the book. "I thank you for the promise of payment, but I hesitate to accept if I cannot perform your request."

Conway felt like he was doing all the work himself. He waved a hand listlessly. "That has a cure within it. It requires silver powder and the listed ingredients. The pictures of them.”

He would have suggested burning the offending flesh away using fire, were it not for the fact that he would have risked the rest of his body. He wasn’t sure of the oil’s exact origins. If it were to catch quickly, he would die by fire. Silver was the better option.

Dee looked doubtfully at the book Conway had given him. Talbot, however, seemed satisfied to let the rich man do what he wanted, so long as money was involved at some point in the very near future. Silver was a bit hard to come by, but not so much that they couldn’t use a bit of some on a rich eccentric who had just delivered a very interesting book.

Conway laid his head back, listening to the sound of breathing from outside the door. From the smell, the child was directly outside of the closed entrance, perhaps with an ear pressed to it. He wasn't surprised. He'd been hearing the nosy child ever since the stairway. Conway cracked his eye open, looking at John Dee, and then opened the other eye and looked at the crack - at the boy. He ducked away when he saw Conway looking, but didn't completely leave. Conway closed his eyes for a second again, giving the boy time to calm down, then fully opened them both and watched as Talbot and Dee finished what they had been preparing.

There was a brief discussion between Talbot and Dee over whether the remedy should be heated. Conway ignored their blathering and simply waited. So long as silver was contained in the mixture, it didn’t matter what the two alchemists did with it. Though he liked them to believe there was some secret to the recipe that they had ascertained. Finally, with hesitation, Talbot took the brew and turned, approaching Conway. He didn’t say anything and instead started to gently pour the concoction over the damaged part of Conway's leg.

Conway's back arched. It was like fire on fire. It seared hotter than a dying sun, burning up his soul. The feeling of fire ate at him, flying into his eyes, triggering images onto the back of his eyelids. Flames were burned against his memory. Screaming. Screaming as two men pulled him, kicked him, torches in their hands. Knives to his chest and his arms and then his leg. The leg. The silver burned those memories like they had wanted to burn him. Conway wanted to laugh. He wanted to sob. But he didn't cry out. He stayed, deaf and mute, left only with pain.

The first noise that reached his ears next was the labored breathing of the boy outside of the room. Conway was able to clench his teeth, though not without pain, and pull himself together. Hate boiled in him. Hate for people and weakness and the bright white silver which burned and burned and never let up. He raised himself onto his elbows, looking with bleary eyes over the wound on his leg. It was worse now. It looked bloodied and burned, blackened where oil had once coated his skin. But the film was gone. He laid back again, breathing shallowly. Finally, he felt some relief from the pain as it ebbed into just a scream in the back of his head. The wound was healing. Conway was glad, enough that he allowed himself a small smile.

He remained lying there for a second, listening to the whispered hush of Dee and Talbot. They were talking about him. With a sigh, Conway held himself up again. The leg still looked a mess. There were raw, open wounds still visible, but the skin was beginning to struggle over the places that the silver had burnt. Conway felt lightheaded; the loss of blood had him eyeing Talbot and Dee with an expression that he stamped down. The two alchemists didn’t seem to notice, too busy with their own hushed discussion over Conway’s healing.

"Not bad," he muttered. He hadn't snapped yet. He'd done that once already today; he could still hold out … find someone who would be missed a bit less than the two alchemists.

He sighed and then said cheerily, looking up, the brightness feeling flat and hollow within his chest, "Thank you, gentlemen. I'll be on my way now."

He made no move to take the book away. For the most part, they wouldn't be able to read what was in it. The book was written in a language older than the Latin that these alchemist’s coveted. Either way, its pages would buy their silence better than money. At least, if they did ever tell anyone, the fantastical nature of it would make the story discreditable. A nobleman with a book on alchemy which said that silver and a few useless herbs would cure injuries? It would only be words for the desperate in search of a panacea and no more.

He pulled himself off the table, testing the strength of his leg. He didn’t look at either of the alchemists as he headed for the door. His leg still shook with each step, but now it was healing, and he needed out. He could hear the boy moving to hide behind the very door which Conway was slowly opening. He didn't mind the attention. The boy had watched. That took a special interest in either healing or the macabre. It was easier to focus on the small child’s curiosity instead of the hunger which was bubbling strong in his stomach.

Unless, perhaps ... Would the boy be missed?

He slowly closed the door behind him. He wouldn’t be staying in the hall long enough for Dee and Talbot to catch him anyway. He doubted the boy was supposed to be watching. Conway limped toward where the boy was standing. There was a spark in the young pair of eyes that Conway recognized. There was also horror and disgust as he looked down at the healing leg. Conway's nose twitched (young blood, a swift heartbeat, a pulse at the neck with his eyes kept being drawn to). "Did you find the show interesting, boy?" he asked.

Then Conway’s eye slowly changed color, matching the color of blood, and in his mouth a set of fangs unsheathed.