A Drop of Malice

"If your idea is for me to follow you around like some kind of pet, then you should at least tell me what we’re supposed to be doing."

"Right now, that’s none of your concern."

"I’m not going to be part of something I don’t understand."

"Ha! You really talk like a human… you’ll either go along with it, or… hm… what time is it?"

"03:08 AM."

"Good. You’ll either go along with it, or in 46 hours, you’ll be dead."

"Are you blackmailing me with mortality? I’m not afraid to return to the natural state from which—"

"You talk too much! This isn’t the time for a philosophical debate about life, death, and all the redundant nonsense in between, so please, let’s keep walking. We’re almost there."

"Want me to rephrase?"

"Simplify."

"Don’t you think, after all this time, I’d have figured out that I don’t need your blood, just your blood type?"

"Oh! Clever, absolutely stunning… and somehow infuriating… I applaud and rage at such an accurate deduction."

"What did you expect? You chose the brain, after all."

The girl walking beside me, cloaked in a cape, though I don’t mean to sound self-absorbed, but it’s unavoidable given such a feat, was breathtakingly beautiful. She was nothing less than a collection of meticulously chosen parts, the result of years of analysis. Even that brain of hers, which was now, frankly, getting on my nerves.

Let me clarify a couple of things to avoid any future misunderstandings.
When I say 'collection of parts,' I mean limbs—every extremity that made up her body, down to the organs functioning inside her. And by 'chosen,' I don’t just mean the literal sense of the word. Do you have any idea how risky, morbid, and, ultimately, grotesque it is to compile a list of the recently deceased and rummage through their graves?

I suppose with that last bit, I don’t need to introduce myself, do I?
But just to clarify a few more things:
Am I a good human being? No, I’m far from it. My moral compass is so dark you could get lost in it. A maniacal, egocentric god-complex? Yes and no. The first is up for debate, the second is an outright insult to my person. 'God,' that term invented by fools who need mystical fables to live, is a theory, a hypothesis. I, on the other hand, am real.
The true giver of life, ladies and gentlemen!

I’m a deviant, perhaps. There’s something wrong with the way I think. Sick things make me feel alive. But despite everything I’ve just said, the girl who was exhausting my patience with her accurate yet annoying rebuttals was the culmination of everything I’d been researching for the past ten years.

"Anyway… behold, our stop for the night!" I said, feigning a bow toward the building looming before us.

"A… cheap hotel? I wish you’d forgotten to give me a sense of smell… I’d love to not have it right now."

"Cheap, yes, but we need to keep up appearances… my little pet."

"We don’t need to pretend to be poor. Technically, we are poor, socially and economically speaking, of course." She said, heading toward the door.

"We’re humble… humble in a world full of rot… a fantastic rotting world." I placed my hand on my chest before grabbing her shoulder. "I didn’t tell you to go in. The effectiveness of all this hinges on discretion."

"And how do you measure discretion when you look like someone constantly under the influence of opium?"

"I base it on others’ perceptions… see, what’s more common to see: someone like me or someone like you?"

"Someone with my inhuman beauty, as you like to call it?"

"Oh, yes, yes! Perfect down to the smallest detail! I won’t deny it, after all, I was the architect of your perfection. But, hard as it is to believe, I’m not a god. What I can do is limited by the wretched time we live in. That said, an opium addict raises fewer suspicions than a beauty covered in scars."

She didn’t argue. Like a good pet, she followed my orders, adjusted her cloak to cover her face even more, and walked behind me.

The owner of the place reeked of alcohol and misery… he must’ve been a fascinating person if judged solely by that. Coincidence, fate, or the fact that someone had died here recently, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he gave us the room with a window facing the intersection of the next streets, which was my plan all along.

Thank you, murderers, for making my job easier.

"One room?" She asked.

"One room."

"Separate beds?"

"Of course."

"Perfect. I don’t want your proximity to disturb my sleep."

"You don’t say the same during the transfusions."

"Need and desire are two entirely different concepts. For now, I need your blood, but I don’t desire the sick man who carries it." She said as we climbed the stairs.

"Ouch! Did you hear that? That was the sound of your words breaking my heart… the pain..." I replied, pretending an arrow had pierced my chest.

Taking a second look at the hotel… maybe I’d leaned too hard into humility. But the location was what mattered, not the condition of the place, which was utterly deplorable... but not as bad as the room itself.

"Hmm… I’d have preferred sleeping on the street over this. You do know these sheets have never been changed, right?" She asked, setting our bags beside the nightstand and removing her cloak.

"Good observation. Evidence?"

"The stiffness of the fabric and the faint traces of dead skin. Either someone rented this room for a long time, or, worse, the person who stayed here had the worst hygiene."

"Interesting…" I murmured, lifting a corner of the sheet. "Do you think someone died in this bed?"

"God… do you always have to make those kinds of comments?" She asked rhetorically, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling various items from my suitcase.

"It was just curiosity." Said adjusting the sheet again. "Where’s your modesty?" I asked, watching her shed her clothes and assemble the small device.

'Device' is a bit of an overstatement for the little invention. It was a manual pump with two tubes at its ends and a pair of syringes. Essentially, a rudimentary way to perform a blood transfusion.

"My modesty lies right in the middle, between the need to survive and the almost animalistic urge to break your neck." She replied, injecting the needle into her jugular.

"I see, I see… so you plan to fuel local myths?" I asked as I loosened my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. "I don’t mind making these ignorants believe in vampires, but I do mind having a visible mark on my body," I added, injecting the needle into my aorta.

"If it bothers you so much, you could’ve done something to avoid leaving marks on mine, don’t you think?" She said, perhaps in a moment of extreme self-awareness, examining her arms as I pumped. "So… what exactly are we doing here?"

"An investigation."

"Details."

"Ah… details. What would the world be without details? Well… they say, they murmur, they whisper—some shout, others write—that there’s a certain balance in the world, a certain… measure of decay in the soul…"

"I disagree. I think that’s the most ignorant, absurd, and empty idea possible, but go on."

"…Amid all that chatter, there’s an interesting one. One where drinking a sip of blood from a small vial can grant any wish."

"That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’d like to believe you don’t take it seriously."

"Not at all… I act out of simple curiosity, with the certainty of being right but not without the thrill of being wrong," I replied, gesturing theatrically. "The point is, it still takes malice to cause that imbalance, and that’s why we’re here."

"Right… sure. So you’ve gone from grave robber to murderer?"

"Never! I’m anything but that… and that ‘anything’ is an endless list."

"Uh-huh. And whose blood is it?"

"Hmm… maybe you’ve heard of him? A magical carpenter from almost two thousand years ago?"

She burst into laughter as she removed the needle. "That’s so absurdly idiotic that now I’m curious to see how far you’re willing to go."

She dressed again, stood up, and opened the window. Her steps were nearly silent yet carried an unparalleled elegance, like an actress in a French play.
If that play were set in hell itself.
Mind you, that's my other way to say France.

"Where’s this supposed oh-so-magical blood?"

"The Vatican, obviously. I thought that was a given."

"Doesn’t it occur to you that we’re quite far from the Vatican? We could’ve gone there directly. What are we doing in this place?"

"For now… waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"A drop of malice..."

First Night.
London, Whitechapel, April 1888.