The Reinvented Miss Bluebeard (London Paranormal 03) (2 page)

Although mostly mortal and not of a supernatural bent, Eve Bluebeard did have a skeleton or two in the old family wardrobe. There was a werewolf or three, and warlocks, though only one vampire now that her great-great-uncle was dead. This rich, diverse ancestry had given Eve a compassion for the supernatural, and also marginal inclusion into the otherworldly world.

Her father, literally an old sea dog, had inherited a few shapeshifter traits, though he was not yet nor would he ever be a full-blooded werewolf. Captain Bluebeard couldn't change shape under the full moon—or any moon—but he did have a terrible growl, a worse bite than bark, acute hearing, and could sniff out a ship in the dead of night. He also aged somewhat slower than humans. Eve had a few werewolf attributes herself, but interspecies marriages to mortals had diluted the Bluebeard blood severely. By the time the shape-shifter genes reached Eve, she was left with merely an acute sense of smell and rather warm blood, often going without a cape until winter's first snowfall.

It had been Eve's paternal grandmother who had passed on the genes. Grandmother Ruby had been a full-blooded werewolf, and had raised Eve after Eve's mother died when she was a girl. Eve had loved Ruby dearly, even though as the years passed the woman had gone beyond eccentricity into sheer lunacy. Werewolves, as Eve learned early in life, could shift shapes only when the moon was full, and in fact they
had
to change form then. But after the full moon came and went, Eve's dear daft grandmother would howl and wander the house in search of her full-length fur wrap that she always seemed to "lose" for twenty-some days every month.

It was from tending to her grandmother in the old woman's final years that Eve had recognized what she wanted to do with her life, which had nothing whatsoever to do with pirates or plunder. Instead, she yearned to help others who were struck with mental instability—especially those who were stark, howling mad. Thus, after her grandmother's death, Eve had dedicated her life to the cause. Helping the supernaturally insane, she hoped to become a "psychiatrist"—a new scientific term for those who studied illnesses of the mind.

In the past, this new field of psychiatry would have been considered witchcraft, and practitioners would have been burned at the stake. But as time marched forward, so did acceptance. It was the modern world now, and medical science was finally venturing out of the closet. The medical community had discovered that the mind could be diseased like other parts of the body, and with this groundbreaking revelation it had become the general consensus among men of intellect that the insane could be helped to live more normal lives.

Eve had learned that different methods were used by different doctors—like placing hotheads in icy cold baths, or dressing the depressed in straitjackets with silver linings. Fortunately, the days of putting a bowl with a cracked egg underneath a bedlamite's bed to draw out evil spirits had faded into the past. The more modern asylums no longer even threw their mad in pits or left them unprotected from the elements. It broke Eve's tender heart to know that those who most needed kindness had in the past been literally left out in the cold.

Eve herself knew what it was to face bigotry and disdain. When she had entered the University of Vienna to study medicine, she had found herself in an elitist world where males ruled and most men believed females were vain and bird-witted. They believed women should stick to their own professions, stay courtesans, governesses, and wives. Every female was to be mistrusted and ridiculed. And while she'd grown tremendously during her years of medical school, both as a doctor and a person, it had still been devastatingly hard for Eve. Because she was female, the other interns ostracized and belittled her whenever possible. The abuse also came from many of Eve's professors, all of whom were supposed to be highly learned doctors. She had often mused, while she sat along the banks of the Rhine and memorized her lessons, that even getting in the door and taking your coat off in this profession was like fighting on the Barbary Coast.

Yes, Eve had learned that, regrettably, in spite of mankind's new sympathy for the mentally ill, women were still held in subtle contempt. Females, most especially grand ladies, were thought to be creatures of excessive feeling and tender sensibilities—goofy gigglers, meaningless chatterers, and carriers of perfume-filled handkerchiefs drenched with tears. They were a delight to gaze upon and delightful for sport under the bedcovers, but never a man's boon companion or equal. And certainly none had the wit to become a doctor.

No, a female would never be considered strong enough, wise enough, or emotionally stable enough to work at an insane asylum—most especially one filled with monsters. To most men's reasoning, a female psychiatrist in the paranormal field would be sheer folly and quite unsuccessful—would probably be eaten by one of her fiercer patients. But Eve vowed she would not only work at an asylum; she would run one.

Despite harassment, belittling, and the tide of public opinion, Eve had studied hard and prevailed, refusing to buckle under the pressure. With her typical Bluebeard stubbornness, she had not only attended medical school, but had graduated at the top of her class—to the bewilderment of all the males concerned. She had returned to London victorious, with a degree in hand as well as a marriage contract, the latter being much to the surprise of her father. Proudly she was now Dr. Evelyn Griffin, respected psychiatrist for mad monsters.

Eager to start her new life, she had hired staff and hung up her shingle at the Towers, her deceased uncle's now-renovated manor. The first year was difficult; however, the second year had been easier, and by the third season the Towers was becoming well-known in the supernatural community. Even more astounding was the knowledge that Dr. Eve Bluebeard Griffin was charting new territory, proposing that the insane could be cured by talking, in what she termed her "Verbal Intercourse" sessions.

In these conversational sessions, Eve worked very hard at delving into the twisting and turning corridors of her patients' thoughts, trying to unravel the terrors and secrets of each one's subconscious mind. She probed festering memories and night terrors, which mortal and monster alike hid deep within. Whether it was a gargoyle, a leprechaun, or a vampire, their terrors were buried much deeper than six feet under. Eve was the person who lanced these boils, opening the graveyards of secret fear and exposing them to the naked light of day. Only then, she believed, could her patients begin to heal.

Her task was monumental and extremely difficult, yet Eve thrived on the challenge. Every day and every night was a new adventure where she sailed into the uncharted seas of turbulent minds. And even with a lack of articulate and necessary detail from her patients, Eve held hope that time and determination would free them from their private demons.

Turning her attention from the lush gardens outside her study, Eve began to tap her fingers upon the skull gracing her desk and glanced grimly down at her father's note with more than a little trepidation. With luck, the Captain wouldn't have been into his ninety-nine bottles of beer, which he liked to take down from the wall and pass around. Her wish was probably in vain, though, she realized wryly. He was a pirate captain; beer was like mother's milk to him. As was rum.

Crumpling the note in her hand, she disposed of it in the brass rubbish holder beside her desk. "Tomorrow, of all days. How I wish for a stiff wind to Jamaica and my father sailing there."

The door to her study suddenly burst open, crashing against the solid oak wall. Right behind the banging door stood her butler, Teeter. His countenance stiff, he maintained his usual starched dignity. Teeter was the epitome of an English butler, with one exception. To Eve's dismay, Teeter never failed to enter or exit a room without a great deal of slamming doors—a common complaint against ogres or those with ogre blood. Since the butler's grandfather was an ogre, Eve took Teeter's entrances and exits in stride. She was nothing if not flexible, having learned to be so at an early age aboard the
Jolly Roger
, her father's ship.

When she had first inherited the butler along with her estate, she had begged, pleaded with, and threatened him. But all her efforts to reform Teeter had been to no avail. He had resisted all her efforts.

"Your next patient—one Mr. Frankenstein—is here to see you, Doctor," Teeter said.

Eve sighed as her butler banged his way back outside her study. Good help was impossible to find these days.

Eve watched her patient enter the room to engage in their Verbal Intercourse session, called fondly by her patients "fireside chats." The nickname was due to the fact that her study held a massive green-marbled fireplace that dominated the east wall and pleasantly warmed the spacious chamber.

Her oversize patient moved to seat himself on an over-large chair—a chair that had been constructed especially for his large frame when he'd first become Eve's patient seven months ago—and smiled shyly at her. Although he wasn't a resident of the asylum, the patient came once a week to meet with Eve, an arrangement made by his adopted father, Dr. Victor Frankenstein. Dr. Frankenstein had heard of Eve's kindness in treating monsters with quirks, and since most monsters frankly had more serious quirks than he, the Frankenstein monster had been easy to add to her patient list.

Monstrous or not, her patient, this Frederick Frankenstein, was a gentle giant who loved helping blind men cross crowded London streets and listening to violin music. Eve felt that Frederick was a sterling example of "Never judge a pirate by his ship, a madman by his conversation, or a monster by his face." Despite the unevenness of his features and the scars crisscrossing his visage, he was a compassionate soul. To less informed or bigoted people, Frederick at first glance would appear an ugly man, but inside he was pure gold. Well, not actually gold, she corrected herself. Dr. Victor Frankenstein had been quite explicit in the materials that went into the creation. Still, Frederick did have a heart as big as his almost-seven-foot self; he liked everybody, and was always willing to lend a helping hand—or rather, a dead earl's helping hands.

Smiling cheerfully at Frederick, Eve checked her notes.

Frederick Frankenstein is not wild and crazy, stir-crazy, non compos mentis, or even slightly dicked in the head. No, Frederick is merely unhinged; perhaps he has a screw or two loose. He has a peculiar habit of eating goldfish. During sessions he's revealed acute feelings of inferiority that are complex in themselves. He often feels as if he isn't as electrifying as anyone else, which, after hearing of his creation, I find to be wrong in many aspects.

Some members of the ton thought Frederick to be a half-wit, because of his often slow speech, but Eve knew better. His wit had come from Lord Delbrook, and it was very whole indeed. Frederick's feet and legs had once been attached to a very large duke, Hans Holbrecht. His hands were those of an earl, and his aristocratic nose came from a German prince with the family name of Blucher. Unfortunately, the rest of Frederick was composed of criminals and the lower classes. But then, as Eve had learned in her cadaver class, the corpses of good men were hard to find.

The chair groaned as Frederick shifted his massive frame. He smiled apologetically, his lopsided expression stretching the tiny scars across his lower jaw.

"Dr. Eve, it's nice seeing you again," he managed to say, blushing a little.

His blush was nothing new to Eve, since she often had that effect on men, or saw them stuttering in her presence. Many women would have become vain about their beauty, but Eve was not most women. Very infrequently did she think about her appearance, and when she did, she often shrugged it off and went about her business.

Men were not so cavalier about it, however, for Eve was a lovely woman. She had thick wavy hair, of dark reddish gold, which she wore in a Psyche knot. Her eyes were the color of the rain-tossed seas of the tropics. Her face was heart-shaped, with prominent cheekbones, and she had a lush pink mouth with Cupid's-bow lips.

"It's nice to see you too, Frederick. How have you been feeling this week?" Eve returned Frederick's smile readily, feeling the warm glow of knowing that she was creating a trusting relationship between herself and her patient, which would help Frederick relax so he could delve into his fears. She jotted a quick note:

Be sure to have Frederick's chair reinforced. He must have put on some weight. Appetite healthy.

As she studied her patient's chart, she felt not only virtuous, but also a little victorious. Together she and Frederick were creating a new personality. This feeling of power must be what Dr. Victor had felt when he first beheld the monster, and ran around screaming, "
It's alive, it's alive
!"

The gentle giant sighed. "Sometimes all I want is a good bowl of soup and to listen to Vivaldi."

"Sometimes all I want is a good book, a brisk breeze blowing in my face, and a nice cup of Indian tea," Eve replied.

"Sometimes I wish I looked like everybody else—anybody else."

"Not everyone can look like Prince Charming," Eve reminded the monster, understanding that he felt less than perfectly put together. He did stand out in a crowd. After all, he was six-foot-eight, with stitches crisscrossing his face and a greenish cast to his skin. Unless you were a troll, that wasn't becoming.

"Who wants to look like an oversize frog?" he asked.

"Nonsense, Frederick Frankenstein! Never a frog," Eve said. She studied him speculatively, a faint smile on her face. "You're far too distinguished for that."

"Distinguished?" He sounded intrigued.

"Yes, distinguished. And you have lovely gray eyes. They are so expressive. You're fine as you are—a very healthy, strapping young man with a kind heart. But you need to come to that realization by yourself. You may be different, but
vive la difference
."