Page 28 of Beloved Beast

They might be all right after all. Though food didn’t often factor into his everyday life nor did he need it to survive, he found he missed a few items that had disappeared from Britain. Lemons. Bananas. Any tropical fruit. At least bread wasn’t rationed, and neither was fish. Since they were only about twenty-five miles from the coast, he wondered if the local grocer would have fish for sale. Potatoes should be easy to obtain; they kept for months.

The last cupboard made his smile widen. Ah, bless the SIS. It contained a single malt scotch, a half bottle of cognac, and a full bottle of Gordon’s gin. He also brought two flasks of scotch. He found a glass then held it under the tap. Turning the faucet, the pipes shook and shuddered from infrequent use and trapped air, but at last water trickled out and he rinsed the tumbler. Filling it with a couple of fingers of the single malt, he ambled into the parlor.

The fire was nearly out. Luke grabbed the poker, stirred the embers, and the fire snapped to life. Something he didn’t see the first time he inspected the room, a wood Philco radio, sat on a table along the opposite wall. Excellent, they could keep abreast of the news and the war. He sat in the wingchair, took a sip, held it, and savored it in his mouth. Usquebaugh. “The water of life.” After setting his drink on the table, he reached for the bag he’d brought in earlier and hidden behind the chair. Reed’s notes. Where to start? Besides the folders filled with papers, there were notebooks as well. He flipped through one and stopped on a page.

July 6th, 1925

We’ve returned from a pleasant visit with Glenna and Luke in Cornwall. Luke is now fifty-eight years of age and looks the exact same age of twenty-eight as he did in 1895. I fear my hypotheses may be true. He could well be immortal. Can he be killed? It is hard to know unless an attempt on his life is made. My best guess is in certain cases, he could well recover. A gunshot wound? Depends where it is. A knife injury? The same. Of course, having your head lopped off would be one final way to end his life…

Luke pinched the bridge of his nose. Reed, always the dispassionate scientist. It stands to reason he would not survive being decapitated, not even fictional vampires did. Guess there would be no way to gauge if he could recover until someone actually tried to shoot or gut him. With a shake of his head, he continued to read:

I wish I could conduct further tests, but I would never suggest it. Luke is happily settled, I would not disrupt his blissful life to poke and prod at him. As much as I love Clara, I cannot help but feel a touch of envy when I observe Glenna and Luke together. Not because I harbor secret longings for my cousin, far from it.

They are on the same wavelength with each other, their emotions synchronized as one symphony. Luke has told me more than once he cannot ascertain much in changes in temperature. It is if the world around him feels as cool as his skin. Except with a few select people.

I believe he is in-tune with his emotions.

Along with his senses, they are enhanced and running at an intense level mere mortals cannot comprehend. Luke has described it as a warming sensation rolling through him. He does not experience this with everyone. But those he does, they may also feel this heated connection in return. If the relationship deepens, becomes sexual for example, the bond is forged. I truly believe this is what happened with Glenna and Luke. To have such a complete understanding of another person’s needs, wants, and desires is a special gift indeed. And one worth studying.

Luke tore the page from the notebook, balled up the paper, and threw it in the fire. Even during an innocent visit, Reed studied him. But he knew that. The observation was accurate. Luke’s inner alarm began to clang. The connection Reed described? He felt it with Gillian. She also experienced it. Now they’d had sex. Proposing the affair may turn out to be a miscalculation. What good could possibly come from it if inevitably they must part?

Pushing the depressing thoughts aside, he opened one of the folders.

“I have done it. I’ve brought back a man from the dead. The thing is below stairs in the cellar, and I am not sure what to do next. My first instinct is to destroy it, return it to the ground from whence it came. Glenna argues the creature is our responsibility and I should not follow in the footsteps of the fictional Victor Frankenstein. Granted, living a life of obsessive revenge culminating in a trek to the Arctic to meet my fate does not appeal.

How can I make light of the situation? What am I to do with the abomination below stairs? It wasn’t supposed to work…

Anger tore through him. How dare Reed give him these papers to read? In truth, he should toss it all into the flames. Reed, for all his brilliance, was a man full of self-importance and arrogance who had no business dabbling in the mysteries of life and death. As hard as it is to read, to relive, Luke needed to understand it all. Yes, he would absorb it and commit it to memory, then burn it.

If he was to exist for eternity, or at the least centuries, he had to make peace with his past, accept himself and accept his fate. Both had been difficult to achieve. He didn’t want to be some brooding creature forever hiding in shadow. Could this be his fate? Luke clutched the tumbler, took a long swig, and slammed the glass on the table. But what was fate anyway? Pre-determined? Unavoidable? Had he become a fatalist?

Luke concentrated, cocking his head. He could hear Gillian softly snoring upstairs. She would no doubt sleep several hours, as he certainly wore her out. While she slept, he would plunge forward and read these papers and notebooks. All night if he must. He had to understand…everything.

* * * *

Luke had fallen asleep in the chair for about three hours and awoke when he heard Gillian moving about upstairs. Tucking the papers away, he glanced about the parlor wondering where he could hide this. When he requested the info from Fred, he had no idea he and Gillian would grow close in such a short period of time.

Looking above, he observed a modern drop ceiling had been installed. He stood on the wingchair and pushed on one of the panels. It popped up, and Luke tucked the bag inside until it rested on the wooden beam within. After moving the panel back in place, he jumped down and strode to the kitchen. With his enhanced hearing, he listened for Gillian. Water running, she was no doubt washing.

With quick efficiency, Luke mixed the powered eggs and had them cooking in one of the saucepans along with a large piece of ham Gillian had brought with her. As he stirred the scrambled eggs, he wondered what would happen when they faced each other across the table in the cold light of day. Would she regret their night of passion? Allow guilt to overwhelm her until she withdrew from him completely? Tell him they couldn’t continue with a physical relationship? Treat him with a cold disdain?

Her footpads sounded on the stairs. He turned as she entered the kitchen. She wore his pajama top and nothing else, her face unreadable. With a swift motion she embraced him from behind, holding him tight, her cheek lying against his bare back. “Good morning,” she whispered softly. He did not expect this open, affectionate greeting. God, she wasn’t horrified by what passed between them. Closing his eyes, he dropped the spatula on the counter and soaked up her warmth. No wonder Kroger fell in love with her. A passionate, giving woman.

He turned, cupped her cheeks, and kissed her with every emotion tearing through him. The sizzling of the eggs pulled his attention to the stove.

“Anything I can do?” she asked brightly. His gaze lingered on her long, shapely legs.

“Since by your own admission you cannot cook, can you manage the kettle? Measure the tea leaves in the pot?” he teased, his heart feeling lighter than it had in ages.

“I think I can, I made the tea last night. I can cut slices of bread if you like.”

“Good girl. Above your head in the cupboard is a jar of blackberry preserves. You can place it on the table.”

“Righty-o,” she answered giving him a wink, making him laugh.

Working together as a team, they were soon sitting at the table, pouring the tea, and tucking in to the meal. “Good heavens. I’ve worked up quite an appetite this morning. If we have many more nights like the last one, I will be eating us out of house and home.” With a smile, Gillian none too delicately shoved a forkful of eggs and ham in her mouth.

Damn his deep-seated vulnerability, but he had to know. He had to hear the words. “And there will be more nights?” he asked, his eyebrows knotting in concern.