The Gene Wizards

Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Curfew's Epiphany

The way Curfew saw it, cackling with private, misunderstood laughter as he lay sprawled on the polished oak floorboards of the family mansion, this was why his family were not just Vanpyres, but vampires. You could see it in everything they did: there was intention but no purpose - impetus, but no life. They were all part of a near-invincible entanglement of hierarchies and institutions that were sucking the life blood out of most of the population, while the latter, incredibly, were colluding with it. It was so much more comfortable to stay half-asleep than to wake up and face reality. How many Goliaths there seemed to be, and how few Davids.

Count Moribund's wife, the terrifyingly gorgeous, high-maintenance Countess Verruca - vain, honed, vapid, steely-eyed and religiously self-centred, was the perfect foil for the Count, as unloved as she was loveless. All lashes and cheekbones, she was admired in Paris and Milan, Gstaad and elsewhere, consuming cocaine and pool boys with quietly growing hysteria, as the beauty treatments grew lengthier, pricier and slightly less effective with each season, and the hour-glass slowly and relentlessly emptied itself into nothing.

"Coffee," said the Countess to the air in front of her, rather than to their butler, before seating herself opposite the Count. She looked like frozen disdain. Firball had already left.

"Right away, madam," replied Phuk Yu, leaving the dining room with an immaculate but unappreciated bow. He returned moments later with the pot of coffee he had already started making the moment he had heard her bedroom door snap shut. Out of the corner of her eye Verruca had spotted Curfew sprawled on the landing as she made for the stairs, but had not stopped to investigate. As her butler placed the coffee pot on the table, he took a small step backwards in a movement that left him facing slightly away from the Countess and towards the Count. His face assumed an expression of business-like concern.

"Not wishing to disturb your breakfast, sir, madam, but I fear that Master Curfew may be in need of some... er, attention?"

So unusual was it for their butler to hesitate in his speech that the Count bestowed on him his full direct gaze for a second, and even lowered his newspaper.

"Attention?" he repeated.

"Yes, sir, I fear that Master Curfew is .... unwell."

"You mean he has a hangover," the Count stated, rather than asked.

"Not exactly, sir – that is to say not only."

"Oh, do come out with it!" snapped Countess Verruca icily to Phuk Yu's back.

Phuk Yu turned on her his full subservient gaze.

"Master Curfew is lying half-naked on the landing and is surrounded by a collection of titles from the household's antiquarian Old Testament volumes, which he appears to be devouring with great interest. He has neither washed nor eaten in over 48 hours and I am not entirely sure if he can hear what is being said to him."

"Since when was that anything new?" muttered Countess Verruca laconically, stabbing at a grapefruit.

"The Old Testament?" repeated Count Moribund, as if this were far more alarming than his son's naked stench and lack of nourishment.

"Indeed, sir," replied the butler, placing himself in that temporary state of suspended animation that experience had taught him was required when the Count and Countess faced any inconvenience involving their offspring. Predictably, their concern for appearances prevailed over concern for his welfare.

"Well for goodness' sake cover the boy up and get him back to his room," exploded the Count, flicking his Financial Times back open.

"I suppose you ought to call the doctor," added the Countess languidly, scooping out the last of her grapefruit pulp.