# Having Nothing to Hyde

Author: StGeorgesHorse
Tags: Backstory, Human, Jekyll and Hyde, Plot Development, Robert Louis Stevenson, Story Progression, Werewolf, london

#96 of The Moonrise Chronicles

                The
little man laughed. "So you know the poem then. That was written by a female compatriot
of mine. It gets misquoted a lot these days, if it's remembered at all. Allow
me to assure you, this is no trap. You are free to walk out this door at any
time you like."
                They
entered the house, aware of a thousand comingled odors, all of them draped with
the cobwebs of the ages. And yet, the place was clean and neat; one might even
say well manicured.  The furniture was a
treasure trove of antiques, though there existed a chance that it was new when
it was installed. There were paintings hung on the walls that were from well
known artists. Overall, it was like walking into a well appointed museum.
                He
escorted them to a comfortable Victorian couch and took a seat opposite them.
                Edward
spoke first. "I take it then that you're not denying who you are?"
                He
smiled. "That depends on who you think I am."
                "From
the clues you left, I'd say someone who was reported dead a long time ago."
                "That
doesn't narrow it down one bit you know. There are many people fitting that
description."
                Maggie
cut in. "We think that you're Robert Louis Stevenson."
                "That
would be correct. Belfour, in case you were wondering,  was my mother's maiden name. I tend to shorten
down the whole bloody thing, as most people would think I was being pretentious
to use the entirety of it."
                "Pretentious?
How would they think you were being pretentious when by all accounts you're dead?"
                "Some
of my friends know me from way back my dear. Your best friends stick with you
through thick and thin. Two world wars makes for some very solid
relationships."
                "So
there are more werewolves than just yourself in London?"
                "Werewolves?
That seems such an unkind word. But if you wish to use that term, then yes,
there are more of us, just as I assume that you know of others. We don't do out
of our way to advertise, so please don't go asking me for names."
                Edward
nodded knowingly. "We wouldn't think of it. After all, there is safety in
anonymity."
                "Good.
Because I recognized fellow souls back there at the restaurant doesn't mean
that I have a free and loose relationship with my own safety." 
                Maggie
was looking around while listening, but drew her attention back to the little
man. "Pardon my directness, but could you tell us about your famous book?"
                "My
dear, which one? Of course, I am only teasing you. With the reputation of Mr.
Hyde having gone through any number of permutations over the years, I can only
assume that is the one you mean. Not unless you have a ken for pirates and
treasure."
                "No,
you were right the first time. What connection do you have with your creation?"

                "And
why should I tell you? What do I know about you?"
                "Nothing."
                "Correct.
I say that an exchange is in order. I have no difficulty in telling you want
you want to know, but I think that the trade should not be one sided. So, shall
we start with your names?"
                "Well,
I guess you could call me Maggie Peterson, or Leeds if you like."
                "Which
is it?"
                "It's
complicated."
                "Life
often is. Can you imagine how boring it would be if it weren't?"
                "Well,
I guess my real father's last name is Leeds, but I didn't know that; and my
step father's last name was McGill, but then something happened and I was
adopted by Edward here. And since we're going to get married, then I guess
Peterson is the one that will stick."
                The
little man looked from one to the other. "I see. There is much to this tale that
goes without explanation. I know of no Leeds or Peterson with the trait we
share in common. But then you are American, the country once known as the great
mixing pot. What is your lineage?"
                Edward
went first. "My grandparents were from France, from the region of Gevaudan."
                "Is
that so? Might that mean that you have a connection with one of our errant kind
from several  hundred years ago?"
                "Guilty.
She was a direct ancestor from what I understand."
                "Curious.
And what of you young lady; the lass with so many names?"
                "My
grandmother is Anastasia Nikolaevna, the youngest daughter of the last tsar of
Russia."
                "Is
that so? She wasn't perhaps one of the fine ladies seated at your table was
she?"
                "She
was, as was my great aunt Maria and my great uncle Alexei."
                The
man's nose twitched. "Again, there is a story behind all of this, for I swear
there was an age discrepancy in those three. No, no, not now. I will be more
than willing to listen to an extended, detailed description when there is
greater time. For now, I have enough to piece together what I need. "
                Edward
raised his eyebrows. "Oh have you now?"
                "I think
so. If I am wrong, you may clarify things when the need arises. For example,
though you are legally her protector, you two managed to fall in love."
                "Yes."
                "And
you have somehow gotten involved in piecing together a puzzle of incredible
complexity which you are still putting together."
                "Uh, I
guess so."
                The man
smiled. "There are many pieces to be had, and not all of them will fit into the
image you hope to achieve. So be forewarned; what the end result of your work
will be shall likely not become clear until well after you are finished."
                Maggie
leaned forward. "What the hell does that mean?"
                The
little man leaned forward too. "It means that the effects of your actions
cannot be fully recognized until after you have planted the seeds and have seen
them grow. Might I ask what you are intending to do with any information I
grant you?"
                "I
guess it depends on what it is."
                "Fair
enough. You see, what I am about to tell you would pass for fiction or fantasy
to an ordinary person. In that, I find occasionally regaling someone with the
truth is hardly more that a storytelling for entertainment purposes. But for
you, who I firmly believe knows better, my story will carry with it some
greater value than that of a bedtime tale."
                He
stood and went to an old writing desk and pulled a dusty book from a slot. He
returned with it, dusting off the cover."
                "While
this story wasn't published until 1886, the actual facts leading up to its
writing date back much further. As you may or may not know, I was the son of a Scottish
lighthouse designer. That was a family business and not one I ever had an
interest in. I was a sickly child, and often alone. I suppose you might know
something about that."
                Maggie
was squirming. "How do you know that we're of The Kind?"
                "And aren't
you?"
                She
smiled and grew a pair of wolfy ears.
                "So
then that matter seems to be settled. I think I'm a good judge of character at
this point in my life. So where was I? Oh yes, my father. He and his family
designed many of the lighthouses that still dot the coast of Great Britain.
Life in Edinburgh was alright, though hardly something to be looked back upon
with any great love. I was always ill, from a disease the doctors couldn't
identify. Mother did, but thanks to religion and medical ignorance, she never
said a word. It was only when I stayed at grandfather's house near Colinton
that I learned some of the dark family secrets. 
It hardly mattered that he was a minister in the church, for religion
can strike anyone. I once remarked that I often wondered what I inherited from
that old minister. We were both fond of preaching sermons, in our own way,
though I often wondered that neither of us was ever fond of listening to the
other. I think that neither of us wanted to know the truth behind the other."
                His
audience of two was listening with quiet and rapt attention.
                "Illness
was a common thing in the family, who had dwelt in the lands of Scotland since
the fifteenth century.  I had no idea
what that condition was until I was reading an old private journal that I
discovered hidden in a hidey hole. Of course, I thought it mostly some
fantastic story that had been written by one of my ancestors, except that there
were multiple entries in it, all in different handwriting."
                "During
this time we moved a few times within Edinburgh, trying to find a house that
assisted with our health, instead of merely exacerbating it. Mother blamed it
on the moisture, but the fact was, the first house had a garden filled with
flowers, and among them aconite. The previous owner had been an herbalist and
stored great quantities of dried plants indoors. The smell seemed everlasting
and was quite nauseating."
                Maggie
made a face. "I know about that stuff. We used it once to kill..."
                Edward
elbowed her.
                Mr.
Stevenson smiled."Oh, I have no qualms about killing, though I have been lucky
enough to have been saved that necessity for a very long time.  Oh course, my childhood nurse was an old
Calvinist, and preached the bible even more than my grandfather ever did, but
that book is only old words, and without any real power. That ancient,
handwritten journal contained more information of value than a thousand years
worth of distilled mysticism that originated in the Middle East."
                Maggie
was all excited. "What was in that book?"
                "Stories.
Formulae. Drawings. Dates."
                Edward's
eyes widened. "Formulae?"
                The
little man smiled. "I see you have a good mind. Yes, formulae for all kinds of
things. But one of them was very intriguing, once I had read the entire thing.
It detailed the problems my ancestors had suffered at the same peculiar disease
that I suffered from. You might not think of it in those terms, and yet, those
were different times. Of course, I was still too young to understand much of
what was written, but the contents sparked my imagination. It was later, after
I had my first transformation, that what was in there became more important."
                Maggie
was sitting there with her legs swaying back and forth. "How old were you?"
                "Around
age eleven when I was away at the academy. I had had the journal for a couple
of years, but it was once found and I nearly lost it. I had to play at being
unable to read, and that I had the old thing only for its drawings. It was a
weak ploy and yet accepted by everyone. Everybody who looked at it thought it
something old and queer, but harmless."
                Edward
beat Maggie to the question. "Do you still have it?"
                "Yes,
but it is hidden away again. Some things in it have proven to be too dangerous
for anyone to ever know of again."
                "The
potion?"
                "Yes
young lady, the potion. But at the time, it meant only a little to me, as it
was one of many things written  within
the pages."
                "So you
were able to keep your alternate ego hidden away?"
                "I left
the academy to preserve my secret. From then on I was tutored during my
"spells", interspersed with time back at the academy for the next year and a
half. I did my best to hide my condition from all except my grandfather. He was
disappointed that the effect had hit again, after being subdued in the family
for a long time."
                "Subdued?"
                "Yes.
There hadn't been a full transformation for generations. He had hoped that the
general ill health of the family was a sign that the disease, as he called it,
had lost its hold. Symptoms such as I had suffered from, as well as mother and
he, and his father before him, were called the wulver's distress. "
                "Wulver?
Was that a person?"
                "No,
not precisely. A wulver was a sort of werewolf, if you like that term, which
haled from a few areas around Scotland. Some who know the tales recognize it
most as being from the Shetland Islands. It is said that there was a half man,
half wolf that lived there, and while nothing is known but the legend, there is
some thought that he was an ancestor of our family. Certainly, other family
members suffered the curse before it struck me."
                "Curse?
What kind of thing is that to say? I think it's a wonderful trait to have."
                "And I
suppose that you've never had the desire to feast on your fellow humans?"
                "I did
in the past until we found a cure."
                The
little man went pale. "What?"
                "We
found something that cured the need to feed on humans. If you were like me, you
spent you early childhood able to eat anything, and after the transformation,
you found you only had stomach for fresh flesh."
                "Yes.
But how did you cure it? Everything we tried failed or..."
                "Or
what?"
                "I'll
get to that."
                Edward
held up his hand, as he was back to wearing his ring. He didn't need it, but he
wanted to keep track of it. Maggie held up her hand showing off hers.
                "Those
can't be... Only the queen and one other had one of those. The rest were declared
lost or destroyed."
                "Queen
Victoria? What happened to hers?"
                "No one
knows, but if you are her relatives, perhaps the ring found its way to Russia.
It would explain its disappearance."
                Maggie
was looking thoughtful. "There were ten total. Leastwise, that's what Leo
said."
                "Leo
who?"
                "Da
Vinci. He's the one who helped to create them."
                "And
how do you know this?"
                "Duh.
Because he told us."
                The
little man was visibly shaken, though the cause was unclear. "Are you saying
that the great master is still living? That's impossible, unless..."
                "Unless
what?"
                "He already
knew the secrets of the potion."
                "Nope.
He built himself a great big freezer and put himself away for cold storage."
                The man
shook his head. "That sounds farfetched. Even Jules Verne kept his fantasy at a
believable level."
                "You
can meet him if you like. He's in Rome right now, working at the Vatican for
the pope."
                "Riiiiiight.
I will not call you liars, but you must understand how difficult that is to
believe. It makes my story pale by comparison."
                "Oh,
now don't go saying that! Your story has become a classic in the horror genre.
If it's based in fact, I'm sure I speak for both of us when I say that we are
totally interested in hearing all about it."
                He
cleared his throat. "If you insist. You see, like people have done in the past,
there was always a movement to change things that didn't fit into the quiet
little niches society chose for them. If you think your homosexual population has
trouble now, you should have seen things a hundred or more years ago. Being gay
was easy to hide. Being a werewolf, especially one who has poor control over
his or her changes could suffer even more for a momentary indiscretion. I
wasn't the only one to have such trouble, and at one point, I met up with
someone who was trying very hard to cure himself of his changes."
                "And
who was that?"
                "That
I'll not tell you, in deference to his valiant, if misguide efforts. Needless
to say I was living here in England by then. I showed him the journal, which he
read from front to back several times. It was his idea to try the most
promising of the formulas, and despite the toxic ingredients, contracted a
chemist working on Harper Street to mix the chemicals and extracts." He stopped
and sucked in a breath before continuing. 
                "He
tried it out on himself, taking no heed to the chances that it could kill him.
He was desperate to either be cured or to die trying."
                "What
happened?"
                "He
died."
                "Uhh,
that seems anticlimactic."
                "Life
can be my dear. He didn't die right away mind you, but only after weeks of
taking the mixture. At first it seemed to help, but then the side effects took
a hold of him. But never once during that time was he able to transform. Well,
not to any degree that resembled a wolf."
                "Uhh,
what do you mean?"
                He
smiled thinly. "We found out the hard way that sometimes you're better off
leaving nature alone, even if it plays cruel tricks on you. "
                She
shuddered a little. "What happened?"
                "Have
you read the story?"
                "Not
really, no. It's not on my reading list."
                "Well,
trust me, the story I wrote is nothing like the real thing, otherwise people
would have grown suspicious. It's also why I waited so long to put it into
print. I wanted time for the furor to die down."
                "And?"
                His
smile at her impatience seemed to show he was reassured by her interest. "The
potion stopped the physical appearance of the true - as you like to call us -
werewolf. There was no hair, no keen ears, no clever nose, no sharp eyes. There
was no paws and no tail. But the transformation still tried to work. The more
it was pushed, the greater the internal turmoil. My friend, may God keep his
soul; he purposely tried to change form to test the effects of the mixture. It
was promising for as long as it lasted, but there is only so much a body, even
an enhanced one like ours could take."
                "So he
turned into what exactly?"
                Edward
groaned. "I think I know. He turned into a grossly contorted version of a human
being, filled with all the feral range, but none of the finer points that make
us what we are."
                "An
astute deduction Mr. Peterson."
                "Not
really. I think I saw some version of that transformation earlier."
                "Saw?
Where?"
                "In my
head. I see things. I take it the transformation looses a mindless version of whoever
takes it?"
                "Mindless?
No, not really. But the passions of the individual are worn on the cuff, so to
speak. And the transformation is triggered by emotional catalysts. For example,
if you saw someone who you felt had wronged you, and that made you angry, then
you were at risk of losing control. If you did, then that person was already
dead. My friend killed many before he himself died."
                Maggie
was looking properly concerned. "And you took this potion too?"
                "Yes."
                "Can I
ask why?"
                "I did
it because I wanted to try and live a normal life for once. It can be very
disquieting to your friends and guests if in a moment of lapsed judgment you allow
your hair to grow or your nails to emerge for all to see. I grew tired of
hiding what I was and thought to be rid of it."
                "And it
looks like you did, " said Edward.
                "Oh,
not as well as you think. I took it for a shorter period of time as did my
friend, thus I spared my miserable life for a while longer. It was only when I
went to Forest
of Fontainebleau in France that I found the answer."
                "France?"
                "Yes, so the fact
that one of you lays claim to a heritage from there is quite interesting to me,
though the name Peterson is hardly French."
                Edward felt a rise
in his heart rate. "My grandparents used an alias while hiding in America.
Their original name was Marquette. "
                The little man
smiled. "And what are the chances of that? Have you ever heard of the saying
that like calls to like?"
                He answered
excitedly. "I have. It would account for us constantly running into other
weres."
                "It is why I
recognized what you were, back at Harrods. Some have a stronger version of that
gift than others. Like this girl here. She seems to be saturated in much that I
chose to be rid of."
                Maggie looked with
pity on the old man. "But why? I love what I am!"
                "And
you have someone who loves you for it. Treasure that. Not everyone has that
much tolerance unless they themselves have experienced it. I had no one; not
really, and I was intent to remove the blot from my existence. Over in France I
met up with a member of the human race who also suffered from the condition,
only she had a husband who also had the transformation in his blood.  I remember them quite well. Their names were
Jacques and Marie Marquette."
                "That
was my grandmother and grandfather!"
                "So
then the ring you wear was theirs?"
                "Yes!"
                "I
guess I shouldn't be surprised. They mentioned having some bad blood in their
heritage, but never mentioned the Beast. That means then, that they were
descended from the House of Bourbon?"
                "I
guess. I haven't had the time to clear up all of those details, but one or the
other of them was from it."
                "Nonsense.
They could be from different branches, and therefore distant relatives, but of
the same blood. It was often the case with royal families."
                It made
sense.
                "So
what were they doing when you met them? They had to be very, very young at the
time."
                "They
were, and they were hiding for their lives. We all were in one way or another."
                Edward
was excited. He barely remembered his grandparents without having suffered
through a mindwipe, and now that he did have his memories back, he was eager to
have them supplemented with more information. His parents had not flown with
them, preferring to take a regular flight to Rome, and they promised to be
there when they had all their arrangements made. He rather wished they were
here now. He was still upset with them, and all of the elders for that matter,
but then, it seemed he was in a better position than they had ever been to deal
with the extraordinary, so he was trying to let that slide.
                "Tell
me about them!"
                "What's
there to say? They were very kind, intelligent people, and very open with their
changing. Unlike me, they seemed to enjoy normal food, a fact which I was
immediately envious of them for. I told them about my formula, and how I had
wished it to work. Together we examined it from the first ingredient to the
last, but found it to be too toxic for even the strongest person to tolerate
for long. That's when they introduced me to the ring."
                Maggie had
her brows knit, but then looked up. "You tried using the power of the ring to
protect you from the toxic effects of the drugs!"
                "Very good
my dear. Yes I did."
                "What
happened?"
                "An
excellent question. This happened."
                He
stood and tore through his suit like it was made from papier-mâché. 

Source: https://sofurry.com/view/831974