Victor Gischler - Vampire A Go-Go

“Amy, I could really murder a pot of tea right about now,” the man said. “Can you come up with something while I have a word with Mr. Cabbot?”

“I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.” She left the room.

Allen got a better look at his abductor. Middle-aged, wire thin, a gaunt red face, lined along the jaw, closely shaven. He had a head of thick hair that was pure white; his watery eyes were faded and blue. He wore nice clothes but nothing ostentatious-a light blue jacket, gray trousers, pressed white shirt. He could have been one of Allen’s literature professors back at Gothic State.

“My name is Basil Worshamn,” said the man with the pistol. “And I’d like to tell you a story.” His accent was vaguely upper class and British.

“This doesn’t end with you trying to sell me Amway, does it?” Allen said.

A tolerant smile. “I don’t know what that means, but I take it as some kind of quip. I’m no traveling salesman, Mr. Cabbot. I’m in Prague on very important business.”

“I can’t imagine it involves me.”

“Indulge me,” Basil said, “and I’ll stretch the limits of your imagination.”

“As it happens, I’m in the mood for a good story,” Allen said. “And also, you’re the one with the gun.”

“You’re here to assist Professor Evergreen in some sort of research, correct?”

“He’s writing a book chapter on Kafka,” Allen said.

“Have you had the opportunity to meet his wife?” Basil asked.

Allen cleared his throat, swallowed.

“I see by the expression on your face that you have met her.”

“At a party hosted by Dr. Evergreen,” Allen admitted. “Briefly.”

“Yes, well, we’ll return to that in a moment. Are you familiar with the legend of the philosopher’s stone?”

Allen paused. He looked toward the kitchen at the sound of clanking dishes. At that moment, the small house seemed absurdly normal, not the kind of place he would have predicted he’d be when interrogated about the philosopher’s stone at gunpoint.

Basil cleared his throat. “The philosopher’s stone, Mr. Cabbot?”

Allen jerked back from the kitchen noise, met Basil’s gaze. “It’s some kind of magic stone that alchemists thought might turn lead into gold. Isn’t that right?”

“That is the popular understanding,” Basil said. “Scholars more learned in the subject understand that the philosopher’s stone is not actually a particular mystical rock but rather a symbol of enlightenment, standing for knowledge beyond the ordinary. The ancient alchemists were unafraid to seek knowledge in places where others feared to tread. These alchemists were often condemned. Sometimes as charlatans, other times as practitioners of the dark arts.”

At the words “dark arts,” Allen flinched. He wasn’t exactly sure why.

“In 1583, Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II moved the seat of the empire to Prague,” continued Basil. “Rudolph was a bit eccentric, and his interest in astrology and the occult became legendary. His court swarmed with thinkers and men of science.”

While Basil’s story unfolded, Allen’s eyes darted around the room. Perhaps he could make a dash for a door or window.

“In 1599, Rudolph invited alchemist Dr. John Dee to join his court,” Basil said. “Dee led a team of dedicated alchemists to solve the challenge of the philosopher’s stone.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Allen said.

“I’m afraid it very soon might,” Basil said. “For you see, your very own Professor Evergreen has come to Prague, not to write a chapter on Kafka as he’d have you believe, but rather to plunder the secret dungeons of Prague Castle in search of the philosopher’s stone.”

Allen went slightly pale, the surprise plain on his face.

“I can understand that this might be a lot for you to digest,” Basil said.

“It’s not that.” Allen swallowed hard. “It’s just that there’s a priest at the window with a machine gun.”

Before we witness the inevitable gunfire and breaking of things that’s about to happen, let me just return briefly to something Basil told Allen. Basil mentioned Dr. John Dee and a team of alchemists.

Horseshit.

Team, my sweaty ass. There was no team. And John Dee. Let me tell you something about John Dee. Asshole. What an insufferable asshole. If I never lay eyes on that son of a bitch again, it will be too soon.

So yeah, I’m a little bit more interested in this part of the story.

Because this is the part about me.

(PRAGUE 1599)

I am the ghost of Edward Kelley.

I am-was-an alchemist at the court of Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II.

Impressed yet? Wait until you hear the rest of the story.

Okay, let me slow down lest I get ahead of myself. One thing at a time.

First let us address this idea of a “team” of alchemists mentioned by Basil Worshamn. There was no team. There was only me. I suppose if you count the maid who emptied our chamber pots every day and the young girl who brought us refreshment in the afternoons, you might consider we were all part of a team. But mixing just the exact right amount of milk and sugar into a cup of tea hardly counts as alchemy.

No, the entire team was yours truly, good old long-suffering Edward Kelley.

Man, did I hate being the team.

Dee was the worst sort of boss. Any dim-witted peasant girl could have cleaned the glassware and equipment every night, but Dee insisted that I do it. He trusted almost no one to handle his precious equipment. Make sure those herbs are put up just right, Edward. Don’t heat the mixture in that beaker too long, Edward. Hurry with the monkwort, Edward, we’re losing the moonlight. Measure that sulfur into exact portions, Edward.

Fuck you, Dr. John Dee.

So I was Rudolph’s other alchemist. I mean, I never get any credit. You always hear about Dee. At best, old Edward Kelley is an afterthought. A minor blip in minor historical texts.

And I hate the picture they have of me in the Wikipedia entry. It’s one of those generic old man pictures with some fucked-up hat like I’m half wizard and half Oxford professor. One of those long Gandalf beards. As if.

Look, there I am now. Young and strong and up to no good. Zoom in there at that window in the White Tower where my room is. Come have a look.

Come hear my story.

Kelley had the dress bunched up around her hips.

“Hurry,” said the serving girl.

He was naked, climbed between her legs and put himself inside. She gasped, wrapped her legs around him, the heels of her shoes digging into his bare ass cheeks.

“Oh, Edward.” She threw her head back, arched against him. “Oh, my Edward.”

Kelley thrust, felt the heat building in his groin. He’d come to rely on these daily visits with the serving wench to break the relentless tedium of castle life. What was her name again? Brianna or something, wasn’t it? Something with a B.

The serving wench’s climax started as a low moan and built into a banshee scream as Kelley grunted with his own orgasm. He thrust three more times as his climax subsided. He sighed and rolled off her. She leaped off the bed, smoothing her dress down.

“I’ve got to hurry, my lord,” she said. Now that the passion had passed, she no longer called him Edward. “Those great sweaty men in the courtyard will be wanting biscuits and grog, and it’s all me and Miss Sarah can do to keep up with them. I don’t know what sort of infernal machine they’re building out there, but they work up a terrible thirst doing it.”

“It’s a moon machine,” Kelley said. “When they’re done, they’ll shoot a man all the way to the moon. Straight through the air and past the stars.”