The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein

Mary stepped around the prone body of a man who was almost definitely sleeping off too much drink and probably not dead, though none of us moved to check. “People come out here for any number of reasons. The city is cramped, and you can find much larger spaces here. The rent is cheaper because of the smells and the distance to the city center and university.” She shrugged. “They also come out here if they want to avoid being noticed or found.”

“Victor is not hiding from us,” I snapped. “He is a genius, and with that comes a level of carelessness about the regular maintenance of life and relationships that most people do not understand.”

“He is fortunate to have you, then. Since you understand.”

“I do.” My raised eyebrow was met with an infuriating smile.

“You might like Henry,” Justine said thoughtfully. “He is nothing like Victor. He loves stories and languages and poetry.”

I squeezed Justine’s arm. “I am certain Mary would like Henry, as everyone likes Henry.” As everyone liked Henry. With his last letter, I was certain Victor no longer did. And I did not, either. He had failed us all.

“Here we are.” Mary stopped, and Justine and I turned to look.

The building, sitting on the edge of the river, was so ugly and misshapen I could not believe Victor had agreed to live here. The mere existence of such a thing—more like a brick-and-stone growth than an actual architectural piece—would upset him. There were no windows on the ground floor, or even on the second floor, that I could see. A narrow line of them marched drunkenly parallel to the roof. On the roof itself, I thought I could see a window that had been cranked open like shutters to the sky. Which was a bad decision, as it was raining. There was also an odd sort of chute from the roof to just past the riverbank.

“Should we knock?” Justine asked dubiously.

“Shouldn’ go ’n there.” We all three jumped, shocked, at the slurred and sloppy voice behind us. The man from the gutter—definitely not dead, then, though he smelled as if he had spent many long hours dancing with death—was leaning precariously behind us. I had not known the human body could be at that angle unsupported and remain upright.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Bad place.”

I did not have the patience for a drunkard. Not when Victor was quite possibly beyond a single door. “As far as I can tell, this whole quarter is a bad place. I do not see why this building should be any different.”

“Tell you a secret.” The man shuffled closer. His breath was as putrid as an unwashed chamber pot. I could not back away, boxed in by Justine on one side and the door on the other. I stepped closer to the man, shielding Justine with my body. He beckoned me even closer.

One of his eyes was filmy white. His beard was patched and unkempt, the skin beneath splotched red and purple. He ran his tongue along his few remaining teeth, eyes darting back and forth as though he was fearful of being overheard.

“Well?” I said.

He moved even closer. “Monsters!”

I jumped in alarm and shock, and he cackled with laughter at his trick. He took a step back, and I saw immediately what would happen—a raised pile of discarded bricks was behind him, and then a steep drop into the river.

I did not warn him.

He stumbled into the bricks and lost his balance, his arms spinning like a windmill. The splash with which he entered the river was deeply satisfying.

“How awful!” Justine covered her mouth in horror. “What if he cannot swim?”

“He fell quite close to the side.” I turned my back on his desperate splashing. “I am certain there will be something to grab on to. Besides, listen to his cursing. That is far too energetic for a man struggling for air. He is fine. And a good soak might improve his smell.”

Angry, exhausted, and ready to be finished, I reached for the iron doorknob. I withdrew my hand with a cry of pain and surprise. A shock had stung my fingers through the holes in my lace glove. Shaking my hand to dislodge the lingering pins and needles, I stepped aside and let Mary try her luck with her far more practical leather gloves.

The doorknob turned.

The door opened.

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

I THREW MY ARM out, blocking Justine and Mary from entering Victor’s building. “It could be dangerous. Stay here.”

The scent of old blood was strong here, too. There was something else, though. Something rotten. I gagged, putting my hand over my nose and mouth.

The entry—if it could be called such—was filled with scattered and torn pages of books. Mary’s eyes lingered there. Mine were fixed on the door

ahead of us. A ladder traversed the wall to a trapdoor that led to the upper story. A door to our side listed open to reveal a dirty washroom. The only illumination was the rain-dampened daylight lingering at the door with us, as unwilling to enter as we were.