On a Darkling Plain by Unknown Author

“maybe we should get somebody else.”
    “There scarcely is anyone else,” Elliott replied. “And even if we could find another qualified doctor, the chances of him knowing any tricks that Potter doesn’t are remote. The problem is that, until very recently, nobody was even trying to use modern science to study vampire physiology. Now that they are, their efforts are hampered by the fact that the Kindred are supernatural entities, whose very existence violates natural law. The upshot is that even the most knowledgeable of us, like Potter, comprehends the disease process in vampires about as well as Galen understood the analogous phenomenon in his fellow humans.”
    Lazio nodded, though Elliott could see that some of what he’d said had gone over the human’s head. But the aging valet understood the essential point: “You’re saying there isn’t any hope, aren’t you?”
    “No,” said Elliott quickly, although that was precisely what he feared. “Potter has cured some Kindred. He saved Pierre Delacroix in Marseilles six years ago, when everyone else had given the old monster up for dead. And you know how resilient Roger is. He might shake off the madness all by himself. So promise me you won’t despair.”
    Lazio nodded, encouraged either by Elliott’s arguments or by the unnatural force of personality which, the vampire now realized, he’d just exerted without even intending to. “I won’t,” the dresser said.
    “Good man.” Elliott squeezed the mortal’s shoulder. “I’m going home. Call me if there are any developments.” He began to turn away.
    “Wait!” Lazio cried. Elliott turned back around. “You can’t go! They need you downstairs!”
    Like the residences of most monarchs, vampire or mortal, throughout history, Roger’s haven was more or less a public place, where affairs of state were conducted and some of his subjects could be found hanging about at any given hour of any night. At the moment Elliott could hear at least two dozen of them, babbling and pacing anxiously.
    “Are the rest of the primogen here?” the actor asked. Lazio grimaced. “Yes.”
    “Then you don’t need me,” Elliott said reasonably, striving to project the power of his charisma again.
    But this time, for some reason, Lazio was scarcely affected. He gave his head a shake as if to clear it, then said, “We do! You haven’t listened to them. I have. They’re afraid, and they can’t agree on anything. But they’ll listen to you.” Elliott sighed. “You don’t know that.”
    “I do,” said the human, scowling stubbornly. “You’re the oldest, and the one Roger valued” — his mouth twisted — “values most.”
    “Once,” said Elliott, “that may have been true, but I’m sure that if Roger were in his right mind he’d tell you that it isn’t anymore.”
    “That’s bullshit!” Lazio said.
    Elliott felt a flash of anger, a shameful, unaccustomed desire to strike the impudent, importunate human down. Instead, turning away, he said, “Watch this.”
    Two paces farther down the hallway sat a small, round, cherrywood William Morris table and, atop it, a beautiful twelve-inch marble statue of a nude woman. Elliott recalled Roger telling him that the sculpture had been unearthed by archaeologists digging in Pompeii.
    The gray-haired Toreador picked up the statue by its head, swung it into the air and slammed it down against the edge of the table. The blow splintered the wood and echoed down the corridor, but it didn’t break the stone figure. He had to smash it against its stand again before it shattered.
    He set the base back down and then, dusting marble dust off his hands, turned back around. Lazio was goggling at him in horror. “Do you understand now?” the vampire asked, feeling vaguely ashamed. “No Toreador should be able to desecrate a beautiful work of art. But I can do it easily, because I’m broken inside. I can’t feel the things I used to feel, or care about the things I once