And so there was another enticing young aristocrat at his mercy, sleeping and helpless before him. Ruthven had lost faith in gods and devils over a century ago, but he could not help seeing this as a deliberate provocation on Creation’s part. A temptation, even. Because this time, he had done nothing to draw his prey in. He had not, in fact, been looking for a new toy at all. This young man had literally turned up on his doorstep, asking for entrance.

Ruthven had not yet made himself known to the youth, snoring unawares beneath thick wool blankets in the guest parlor of Perth Estate, moonlight diffusing through stained glass panes of the western window, lending the room an ethereal air. Indeed, Ruthven had these past fifty brief years remained a virtual ghost on his ancestral lands, unknown even to the mortal descendants who currently called it home. It was these occupants, perceived by Ruthven only from afar, like characters on a distant and dimly-lit stage, that the young man had come to visit. He was probably the son of some old family friend of Ruthven’s mortal kin. Such visits were common in the traveling season. So, fate had nothing to do with it.

But despite his vow to withdraw from a world that now inspired only ennui in him, Ruthven felt familiar old hungers stirring. He was compelled to know more about the youth. And Creation, vile tempter, had made that easy for him, too. The handsome cherub’s journal lay open across his chest, ink on the quill grown long dry. It seemed he had fallen asleep while writing. Ruthven perused the newest entry, a German script rendered in a flowing, almost feminine hand.

From the journal of Henry Clerval – 7 July 1791

I am sorely vexed by Victor’s refusal to accompany me to Perth. He promises he will join me here in a month’s time, after he has completed whatever lonesome task called him away. I fear his melancholy over the murder of poor little William has conquered his will. Victor has spurned the hospitality of his family’s old acquaintances, leaving me to continue our tour alone, and forcing me to impose most inappropriately upon the Ruthven clan. Nonetheless, they have been generous hosts, extending me every courtesy and treating me as though I were a son of the Frankensteins, rather than just the friend of a son. I attribute this generosity in no small measure to Victor’s decision to allow me to carry his father’s letter of introduction. I could easily have posed as Victor upon arriving here, but chose instead to present myself honestly, and Lord and Lady Ruthven seem only to have magnified their graciousness as thanks.

Inclement Scottish weather confined me indoors for the day, and so I passed the time, with Lord Ruthven’s permission, reading the extensive histories of Clan Ruthven that fill the manor house’s library. They are an ancient line, founded by Thor Svenson in the early 12th Century, during the reign of Scotland’s King David I. They are the same Ruthvens whose son Patrick led the infamous conspiracy that kidnapped King James VI of Scotland in 1582 (a matter the current family rarely discusses). Precisely when and how their noble lineage came to befriend Victor’s ancestors, I have not yet discovered. Lord Ruthven himself does not seem to know the particulars, either, remarking only that the bond is at least as old as his late grandfather. I am sure the answer lies somewhere in these records. Perhaps tomorrow’s weather will grant me greater time to explore the question.

I cannot help but think studying such history would ease Victor’s melancholy. Perhaps knowing these details would show him that he is not alone in the world, and has no cause to force himself to be so. Even before little William’s foul murder, Victor brought a great sadness home with him to Geneva. I have often asked what happened to him at university in Ingoldstadt to so darken his spirits, but Victor will not speak of it. Elizabeth tells me that the truth will out, if only we stay loyal to those whom we love in their times of trial. For Victor’s sake I hope this to be true. If we cannot find a way to rescue him from the dark night of his broken heart, I fear he will never again emerge into the light.

So, the boy was Swiss. A long way from home, and all alone. The perfect target, were Ruthven so inclined. Henry was just the sort of society dandy Ruthven once took great pleasure in tormenting or corrupting. Even now, he could recall fair Aubrey, their sojourn together in Greece, Aubrey’s delectable sister…

After those affairs, Ruthven had retired from a world with nothing new to offer him, returned to his clan’s ancestral Perthshire, merely to linger. There were only so many ways to corrupt the innocent, and it was a project with diminishing returns. After a few hundred years, it all just gets so boring. Perhaps he would enter the long sleep that had comforted him through most of the 17th Century. Afterwards he would feel invigorated, at least for a time.

He could take just one little taste of the boy’s blood, though. It would be a trifle, and his prey would be none the wiser.

No, he was finished with the world. This boy is nothing new. There is nothing new.

Ruthven walked over to the mirror. Luckily for him, the wives’ tales were false, and he could see his reflection. Dark, tightly curled hair, angular facial features just slightly softened at the vertices, brown eyes, lips once described as supple. The lean physique of a highland warrior.

The way he’d always been. The way he’d always be. Never changing, nothing new.

Ruthven sighed with ageless lungs. He crept over to the stained-glass window, looked out over the fog-cloaked moors of Perth, up at the moon whose light gave him power, its endless cycle of predictable change.

He would leave the boy be, let the world move on along its tired, changeless cycle.