by Kim Newman
He had lost sight of Jago, and of Dravot. A horse sweeping past knocked him down. When he regained his feet, he found his watch smashed. It hardly mattered. The afternoon was over, and Penelope would be waiting no longer.
‘Death to the Dead,’ someone cried.
33
THE DARK KISS
When the streets were cleared, there were surprisingly few bleeding bodies dotted about. Compared to Bloody Sunday it had been a minor skirmish. Godalming, dragged along by Sir Charles, could scarcely tell there had been a riot in St James’s Park. Inspector Mackenzie, a dour Scot, was with them, trying to keep out of the Commissioner’s way. During the hour of excitement just after nightfall, Sir Charles had been a changed person. The ground-down, persecuted bureaucrat whose foolish subordinates could not catch Jack the Ripper disappeared; he was again the military commander with lightning judgement under fire. ‘These are Englishmen and women,’ Mackenzie had muttered, ‘not bloody Hottentots.’
It appeared the Christian Crusade had held an unannounced rally, intending to present a petition to Parliament. They demanded that the taking of another’s blood without consent be considered a capital crime. Sundry vampires mixed in with the crusaders, and violence was exchanged. An unknown person had taken a shot at John Jago, who was now recuperating in a prison hospital. Several well-connected new-borns alleged that they had been assaulted by warm mobs, and a murgatroyd named Lioncourt was put out because a broken flagpole had been shoved through his best suit.
General Iorga, a commander of the Carpathian Guard, had been caught in the fighting. Now he stood with Sir Charles and Godalming, surveying the aftermath. Iorga was an elder, swanning about in his cuirass and long black cloak as if he owned the earth on which he walked. He was attended by Rupert of Hentzau, a young-seeming Ruritanian blood who thought a good deal of his gold-braided uniform and seemed as skilled at toadying as he was reputed to be with his rapier.
Sir Charles smiled grimly to himself as he handed out compliments to the men he thought of as his troops.
‘We have won a significant victory here,’ he told Godalming and Iorga. ‘With no loss of life, we have routed the enemy.’
It had all blown up and dissipated so suddenly there had been no opportunity for the incident to develop. Iorga had ridden around doing damage but Hentzau and his comrades had not arrived on the scene in time to turn a scuffle into a massacre.
‘The ringleaders must be found and impaled,’ Iorga said. ‘And their families.’
‘That isn’t how we do things in England,’ Sir Charles said, without thinking.
The Carpathian’s eyes blazed with hypnotic fury. According to General Iorga, this was no longer England, this was some Balkan pocket kingdom.
‘Jago will be charged with unlawful assembly and sedition,’ Sir Charles said. ‘And his thugs will find themselves breaking rocks on Dartmoor for some years.’
‘Jago should get Devil’s Dyke,’ Godalming put in.
‘Of course.’
Devil’s Dyke was partially Sir Charles’s invention, an adaptation of a system devised for making use of native prisoners-of-war, for concentrating civilian populations to prevent them from giving succour to their soldiery. Godalming understood the conditions in the camps made what was usually understood by penal servitude seem a breeze on the Brighton promenade.
‘What about the fellow who started it?’ asked Mackenzie.
‘Jago? I’ve just said.’
‘No, sir. I mean the bloody fool with the pistol.’
‘Give him a medal,’ Hentzau said, ‘then cut off his ears as punishment for bad marksmanship.’
‘He must be found, of course,’ Sir Charles said. ‘We can’t have Christian martyrs hanging around our necks.’
‘Our honour has been challenged,’ said Iorga. ‘We must exact reprisals.’
Even Sir Charles was less a hothead than the General. Godalming was surprised by the elder’s dimwittedness. Long life did not mean a continual growth of intelligence. He understood why Ruthven spoke of the Prince Consort’s entourage in such contemptuous terms. Iorga was tubby around the middle and his face was painted. Once, for a moment only, Godalming had seen the rage-filled face of the Prince himself. Ever since, he had held the Carpathians in undue reverence, imposing the ferocity and stature of their leader on to the image of each of them. That was ridiculous. No matter how brutes like Iorga or blades like Hentzau might try to imitate Dracula, they were never more than feeble copies of the great original, essentially as trifling as the floppiest murgatroyd in Soho.
He pardoned himself and left the Commissioner and the General to continue mopping-up. Both intended to stand around giving Mackenzie contradictory orders. As he passed Buckingham Palace, he tipped his hat to the Carpathians at the gates. The flag flew, indicating that Her Majesty and His Royal Highness were in residence. Godalming wondered if the Prince Consort ever thought of Lucy Westenra.
At the Victoria Station boundary of the park were several horse-drawn wagons, penned full of sorry-looking crusaders. Godalming understood that as riots went, tonight’s affair had been strictly third-class.
He whistled, red thirst pricking the back of his throat. It was good to be young, rich and a vampire. All London was his, more than it was Dracula’s or Ruthven’s. They might be elders, but as he was realising, that actually put them at a disadvantage. No matter how they tried, they could not be of the age. They were historical characters and he was contemporary.
When he first turned, he had been in a continual funk. He thought the Prince Consort would come for him any night, and serve him as he had served Van Helsing or Jonathan Harker. But he now had to assume he was forgiven. He might have destroyed Lucy Westenra, but Dracula had more important warm wenches to pursue. It was not inconceivable that he was grateful to Godalming for disposing of the get of his first dalliance in England. He would presumably not have wanted an un-dead Lucy for a bridesmaid, looking red daggers at the radiant Victoria as she was led down the aisle of Westminster Abbey by her devoted Prime Minister. That wedding had been the culmination of last year’s Jubilee celebrations. The union of the Widow of Windsor and the Prince of Wallachia bound together a nation which, shaking as it changed, could as easily have flown apart.
He was expected at Downing Street at two o’clock tomorrow morning. Business was conducted through the night now. Then, before dawn, he was to attend a reception at the Café Royal, as Lady Adeline Ducayne welcomed a distinguished visitor, the Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Lady Adeline was taking such care to cosy up to the Countess because the Bathorys were distantly connections of the Draculas. Ruthven described the Countess Elizabeth as ‘an elegantly revolting alley-cat’ and Lady Adeline as ‘a wizened skeleton one generation out of the swamp’, but he insisted Godalming be present at the affair in case matters of importance were discussed.
For the next six hours, he was at liberty. His red thirst grew. It was good to let the need gather, for it gave an edge to feeding. After a brief return to his town house in Cadogan Square to change into evening clothes, Godalming would go out on the razzle. He understood the pleasures of the hunt. He had several possibles picked out and would make one of those ladies his prey this evening.
His fangs were sharp against his lower lip. The prospect of the chase excited familiar changes in his body. His tastes were sharper, his palate more varied. His swollen teeth malformed his whistling. ‘Barbara Allen’ became a queer new tune no one would recognise.
In Cadogan Square, a woman approached him. She had two little girls with her, on leads like dogs. They smelled of warm blood.
‘Kind sir,’ the woman said, hand out, ‘would you care...’
Godalming was disgusted that anyone would stoop to selling the blood of their own children. He had seen the woman before, cadging coins off inexperienced new-borns, offering up the scabby throats of her smelly ragamuffins. It was inconceivable that any vampire past his first week could be interested in their thin blood.
�
�Go away, or I shall summon a constable.’
The woman departed, cringing. She dragged her children with her. Both little girls looked back as they were pulled off, hollow eyes round and moist. When they were all used up, would the woman find more children? He thought one of the girls might be new, and considered the possibility that the woman was not their mother but some horrid new species of pimp. He would bring the matter up with Ruthven. The Prime Minister was very perturbed by the exploitation of children.
He was admitted to his house by the manservant he had brought with him from Ring, the Holmwood country seat. His hat and coat were taken.
‘There’s a lady for you in the drawing room, my lord,’ the valet informed him. ‘A Miss Churchward. She has been waiting.’
‘Penny? What on earth could she want?’
‘She didn’t say, my lord.’
‘Very well. Thank you. I shall attend to her.’
He left the man in the hall and entered the drawing room. Penelope Churchward was perched primly on a stiff-backed chair. She had taken a piece of fruit – a dusty old apple, since he only kept food for his infrequent warm guests – and was flaying it with a small paring knife.
‘Penny,’ he said, ‘what a pleasant surprise.’
As he spoke, he nicked his lip with a razor-tooth. When the red thirst was upon him, he had to watch his words. She set aside her apple and knife, and arranged herself to address him.
‘Arthur,’ she said, standing up, and extending her arm.
He carefully kissed her hand. She was different tonight, he knew with an instant intuition. Something in her attitude to him had been budding; now it was in full bloom. The chase had come to him.
‘Arthur, I wish...’
Her sentence trailed off, but she had made her wish clear. Her collar was open, her throat exposed. He saw the blue vein in her white skin, and imagined it throbbing. A loose strand of her hair hung on her neck.
Steadily and with considered resolve, she allowed him to embrace her. She moved her head out of his way and he kissed her throat. Usually, his prey moaned as he first bit, gently piercing the skin. Penelope was relaxed and compliant, but made no sound. He clutched her tight to him as blood swelled into his mouth. In the moment of communion, he tasted not only her blood but her head. He understood her measured anger and sensed the rearrangement of the ordered paths of her thinking.
He gulped, taking more than he should. It was hard to draw away from the fountain. No wonder many new-borns killed their first fancies. Penelope’s blood was of the finest. With no impurities, it slipped down his throat like honeyed liqueur.
She laid her hand on his cheek and pushed him away. The flow ceased, and he found himself sucking cold air. He would not be stopped. He swept her up in his arms and threw her on to the settee. Growling, he held her down and pulled at her collar. Her chemise tore. He mumbled an apology and fell upon her, his mouth gathering a fold of the flesh of her upper bosom. Her blood thrilled him. His teeth caught in bitemarks, blood seeping around them as he worried at the wound. She did not resist. Blood bubbled into his mouth, and there were violet sunbursts behind his eyes. There was no warm sensation to compare. It was more than food, more than a drug, more than love. Never did he feel more alive than in this moment...
... he found himself kneeling by the settee, prostrate on her chest, silently sobbing. Minutes had been burned from his memory. His chin and shirtfront were soaked with blood. Electrical charges coursed through his veins. His heart burned as it filled with Penelope’s blood. For a moment, he was almost insensible. She eased herself into a sitting position and lifted his head. He stared at her with dazed eyes. Angry purple wounds stood out on her neck and breast.
Penelope smiled a tight, quiet smile at him. ‘So that is what all the fuss was about,’ she commented.
She helped him up on to the settee like a mother posing a child for a photograph. He sat, still tasting her in his mouth and head. His shudders subsided. She dabbed her bites clean with a kerchief, wincing in minor irritation. Then she buttoned her jacket up over her ripped chemise. Her hair had come undone, and she fussed with it for a moment.
‘There now, Arthur,’ she said. ‘You’ve had your satisfaction of me...’
He could not speak. He was glutted, helpless as a snake digesting a mongoose.
‘... now, I shall complete the exchange and have my satisfaction of you.’
The paring knife was in her hand, shining.
‘I understand this is quite simple,’ she said. ‘Be a dear and don’t struggle.’
Her knife was at his throat, slicing. It was sharp enough to slit his tough skin, but he felt no pain. The knife was not silvered. The gash would heal over almost instantly.
‘Ugh,’ she said.
Penelope swallowed her distaste and put her tiny mouth over the cut she had made. Shocked, he realised immediately what she was about. Her tongue kept apart the lips of the wound as she sucked blood from him.
34
CONFIDENCES
‘You should be upstairs, resting,’ Amworth told her. ‘You’ll mend sooner.’
‘Why should I get well?’ Geneviève asked. ‘The hopping toad will only return and finish me off.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes I do. I don’t know why it’s going to destroy me, but I know it will. I’ve been in China. Those creatures don’t give up of their own accord. They can’t be reasoned with and they can’t be stopped. I might as well go out in the street and wait for it to come for me. At least that way, no one else would be in the way.’
Amworth was impatient. ‘You hurt it last time.’
‘And it hurt me worse.’
She was not entirely better. She often found herself moving her head around, to test her broken and re-set neck. Her head had not fallen off yet, but sometimes it felt about to.
Geneviève looked around the lecture hall that had become a makeshift infirmary. ‘No Chinese callers?’
The nurse shook her head. She was listening to the chest of a little new-born girl. For a moment, Geneviève thought it was Lily. Then, she remembered. The patient was Rebecca Kosminski.
‘I wish I knew which of the enemies I’ve cultivated was responsible.’
The Chinese vampire was a hireling. All over the East, such creatures were employed as assassins.
‘I expect I’ll be told. It would seem a waste not to let me know why my head is being torn off.’
‘Shush,’ Amworth said. ‘You’re frightening the girl.’
With a squirt of guilt, she saw the nurse was right. Rebecca looked thoughtful but her eyes had shrunk to tiny points.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘Rebecca, I was just being silly, making up stories.’
Rebecca smiled. In a few years, she would never believe a lie that transparent. But now she was still a child inside.
Feeling useless – all her duties had been reassigned for a specified period of convalescence – Geneviève loitered in the infirmary for a few minutes then drifted out to the corridor.
The director’s office was locked; Montague Druitt lurked outside. Geneviève bade him a good evening.
‘Where’s Dr Seward?’ she asked.
Druitt was reluctant to talk to her but got the words out. ‘He’s off somewhere, with no explanation. It’s most inconvenient.’
‘Can I be of assistance? As you know, I have the director’s confidence.’
Druitt shook his head, lips pressed tight. It was business for warm men, he was thinking. Geneviève could not tell what the man wanted. He was another of the Hall’s scorched souls; she had no hope of making common cause with him, much less of being any help.
She left him in the corridor and traipsed out to the foyer, where an unfriendly warm nurse directed a stream of malingerers back into the fog, occasionally deigning to admit someone obviously suffering mortal injury.
Dr Seward had been much absent recently. She supposed he had some private grief. Like everyone else. Thro
ugh all the pain of her broken bones, she still could not get the death of Pamela Beauregard out of her mind. Everyone lost people. She had been losing people for hundreds of years. But in Charles, the loss still burned.
‘Miss Dieudonné?’
It was a new-born woman. She had come in from outside. She was dressed well, but not expensively.
‘Do you remember me? Kate Reed?’
‘Miss Reed, the journalist?’
‘That’s right. The Central News Agency.’ She stuck out her hand to be shaken; Geneviève responded weakly in kind.
‘What can be done for you, Miss Reed?’
The new-born let go Geneviève’s hand.
‘I was hoping I could talk to you? It’s about the other night. That Chinese thing. The butterflies.’
Geneviève shrugged.
‘I don’t know if there’s anything I can tell you that you don’t know. It was an elder. Evidently the butterflies are a quirk of its bloodline. Some German nosferatu have a similar affinity for rats, and you must have heard of the Carpathians and their pet wolves.’
‘Why were you singled out for persecution?’
‘I wish I knew. I have passed blamelessly through life doing nought but good deeds, and am beloved by all whose path I have crossed. It is beyond conception that anyone could nurture in their heart hostile feelings for me.’
Miss Reed did not appear to notice the irony. ‘Do you think the assault has anything to do with your interest in the Whitechapel murders?’
That had not occurred to Geneviève. She considered a moment. ‘I doubt it. Whatever you might have heard, I am scarcely an important figure in the investigation. The police have talked to me about the effects of the murders on this community, but that is the extent of my involvement...’
‘And you’ve been consulted by Charles... by Mr Beauregard. The other night...’
