Parnicius woke up strapped to the table. As he became increasingly aware of the degree of his restraints, he began to panic and struggle. The forehead strap gave enough, so Parnicius turned to his right. Nicodimus was strapped down and vivisected, his mouth held wide open for inspection. Parnicius's scream startled a masked man in a surgeon's apron; he dropped the metal pan in his hands.
Martin stomped in the tent. "Enough with ye!" he shouted, served with a Scottish burr and a backhand. He rested an elbow on the familiar's chest, pressing the air out of Parnicius, until he was barely a whisper. "We got questions, so save your breath for 'em!" The hunter stood up, allowing Parnicius to gasp for air.
Martin turned his attention to the man on the floor. "Geddup, Monty! An' pick up that heart!"
Monty dusted himself off. "Sorry. I got startled, dropped my guard. Won't happen again..."
"It rarely happens twice, yeah?" Martin pointed at the dead one. "What can ye tell me about him?"
Monty began the autopsy. "Advanced necrosis of the extremities; necrotic tissue in significant portions of the heart and lungs... The jaw separates in three areas... teeth comparable in count and structure of human teeth. The canines, however - do not retract."
"Really? That's interesting. An' the eyes?"
Monty peeked under an eyelid. "Yellow sclera, no iris... Carpathian?"
Martin grinned wide. "Carr-pathian! We got us a royal! Box up that heart, an' keep ye jesus tree under ye shirt, or the whole tent'll go up!"
Martin turned his attention back to Parnicius, studying his neck and wrists. "Did ye know that about ye friend? He's a classic, he was; real archetype. You ever see him turn into a bat?"
Monty interjected, "Are you sure that's safe, sir?"
"Oh, this runt's nothing! See for y'self!" Martin pulled his protege toward their prisoner. "Flush cheeks, harried breath, pissed pants: he's a familiar!"
Martin pulled the silver cross off Monty's neck and waved it over Parnicius, "Does this hurt? Does it?" Parnicius shook his head.
Martin placed the cross on Parnicius' forehead. "Does that hurt? Eh?"
Martin swatted his forehead, shaking the table and yielding a yowl from Parnicius. "How about that? Y'see? No reaction to the Holy Cross or to contact with silver, and he's got a thin skin! Ain't no vampire; just some boy in black lace who didn't get hugged enough, did ye? Just a snack on standby!"
"Who the hell are you?" Parnicius whimpered.
"Martin Van Helsing, scion of Professor Abraham, and inheritor of his life's work, converting pseudo-science to science. Monty there's me assistant, aide-de-campe, and Boswell. Your master there is one of 70 species we've cataloged in our field guide. And you... well, you're bait."
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Disputes Over Psychiatry's Manual"
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