Anno Dracula ad-1

by Kim Newman

  Beauregard waited for the deluge.

  The Prince – Consort no more – was on his feet, cloak rippling around him like a thundercloud. Tusks exploded from his mouth, his hands became spear-tipped clusters. His power was dealt a blow from which it could never recover. Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, was King now; and the stepfather who had dispatched him to pleasurable but purposeless exile in Paris was scarcely likely to exert any great influence over him. The Empire Dracula had usurped would rise against him.

  If Beauregard died now, he would have done enough.

  Dracula raised a hand, the useless chain dangling from his wrist, and pointed at Beauregard. Beyond speech, he spat out rage and hate.

  The late Queen had been the Grandmother of Europe. Seven of her children still lived, four of them warm. By marriage and accession they linked the remaining Royal houses of Europe. Even if Bertie were set aside, there were sufficient claimants to contest the throne. By a nice irony, the King Vampire could be brought low by a gaggle of crowned haemophiliacs.

  Beauregard walked backwards. The vampires, suddenly sober, gathered. The women of the harem and the officers of the guard. The women pounced first and bore him on to the floor, ripping...

  ... Charles had tried to save her from harm by keeping her out of the designs of the Diogenes Club, but she’d stubbornly insisted on seeing Dracula in his lair. Now they would probably both die.

  She was thrust aside by Dracula’s women. They were on Charles, claws and mouths red. She felt the razor-kiss of their nails on his face and hands. She pulled one hell-cat – that Styrian bitch Countess Barbara de Cilly, unless Geneviève was mistaken – from the fray and pitched her screeching across the room. Geneviève bared her teeth and hissed at the fallen woman.

  Anger gave her strength.

  She strode to the huddle that had formed over Charles and hauled him free, thumping and stabbing with her hands. In their lair, the courtiers were soft, replete. It was comparatively easy to cast aside Dracula’s women. Geneviève found herself spitting and shrieking with the other she-creatures, pulling handfuls of hair and scratching at red eyes. Charles was bloodied, but still living. She fought for him as a mother wolf fights for her cubs.

  The hell-cats scrabbled backwards, away from Geneviève, giving her room. Charles stood by her, still in a daze. Hentzau stood before them, Dracula’s champion. His lower body was human, but he had an animal’s teeth and claws. He made a fist and a point of bone slid from his knuckles. It grew long and straight and sharp.

  She stepped back, out of range of the bone-rapier. The courtiers retreated, forming a circle like a prize-fight crowd. Still shackled to his dead Queen, Dracula watched. Hentzau whirled about, his sword moving faster than she could see. She heard the whisper of the blade and, moments later, realised her shoulder was opened, a red line trickling on her dress. She snatched up a footstool and raised it as a shield, parrying the next slice. Hentzau cut through cover and cushion, fixing his blade-edge in wood. As he pulled free, horsehair bled from the gash.

  ‘Fighting with the furniture, eh?’ Hentzau sneered.

  Hentzau made passes near her face and locks of her hair floated free. From somewhere by the doors came a shout, and something was thrown to the floor before Charles...

  ... the strangled voice was John Merrick’s. At his feet was his sword-cane. The poor creature had wrested it from the custody of a footman. Beauregard had not expected to survive his Queen. For him, these seconds were an afterlife.

  The Guardsman who had extruded a sword from his skeleton closed on Geneviève. Hentzau did not reckon a warm man worth the worry. He was light on his feet, a fencer’s muscles moving in his knees, his sword-arm keen enough to fetch off a head.

  Beauregard picked up his cane and drew the silver-edged sword. He understood how the Ruritanian must feel, with a weapon as an extension of his arm.

  With a tap, Hentzau whisked Geneviève’s stool from her hands. He grinned and drew back for a thrust at her heart. Beauregard sliced down, knocking Hentzau’s point out of true, and slashed back, the edge of his blade slipping under the Guardsman’s jaw, sliding through coarse fur, opening skin and scraping bone.

  The Ruritanian howled in silver pain and turned on Beauregard. He launched an assault, sword-point darting like a dragonfly. Even in agony, he was fast and accurate. Beauregard parried a rapid compass of attacks. Suddenly, a thrust came. He felt a fish-hook sting just under his ribs. Throwing himself backwards, half-seconds ahead of the piercing blade, his heels skidded on the marble. He fell badly, knowing Hentzau would close on him and puncture his arteries. The women of the harem would drink from his fountaining wounds.

  Hentzau raised his sword-arm like a scythe; the blade began a swishing descent. Beauregard knew the arc would terminate in his neck. He thought of Geneviève. And Pamela. With a convulsion, he brought up his own arm to ward off the blow. The handle of his sword slipped slightly in his sweat-slick fist and he gripped it hard.

  A shock of impact ran through his whole body. Hentzau’s arm sliced against Beauregard’s silver. The Guardsman staggered back. His sword-arm fell in a dead lump, cut clean through at the elbow. As blood geysered, Beauregard rolled out of the way.

  He regained his footing. The Guardsman gripped his stump and stumbled. His face turned human, moulting hair. After Hentzau’s howl had subsided to a succession of choking sobs, there came an exaggerated clanking sound. Beauregard and Geneviève turned to its source.

  Prince Dracula stood on the dais. He had detached the Queen’s chain from his arm, and dropped it...

  ... he came down from his throne, steam pouring from his nostrils. For centuries he had thought himself a higher being, apart from humanity; less blinded by selfish fantasies, she knew she was just a tick in the hide of the warm. In his bloated state, the Prince was almost lethargic.

  Geneviève held Charles to her and turned to the doors. Before them stood the Prime Minister. He was civilised, almost effete, in this company.

  ‘Aside, Ruthven,’ she hissed.

  Ruthven was uncertain. With the Queen truly dead, things would change. Willing to try anything, Geneviève held out her crucifix. Ruthven, surprised, almost laughed. He could have barred their path, but he hesitated – ever the politician – then stepped out of the way.

  ‘Very clever, my lord,’ she told him, quietly.

  Ruthven shrugged. He knew an empire had foundered. She guessed he would immediately concentrate on his own survival. Elders were skilled in survival.

  Merrick held the doors open. In the antechamber, a startled Mina Harker stood, unsure in her shock. Everyone was reeling, trying to keep up with the rapid changes. Some of the courtiers had given up and returned to their pleasures.

  Dracula’s shadow grew, his wrath reaching out like a fog.

  Geneviève helped Charles out of the throne-room. She licked blood from his face, and felt the strength of his heart. Together, they would ride this whirlwind.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ he tried to explain.

  She shushed him.

  Merrick shut the doors and put his enormous back to them. He made a long howl that might have meant ‘go!’ Something smashed against the other side of the doors and a clawed hand punched through above Merrick’s head, a dozen feet from floor-level, tearing at the wood. The hand made a fist, and enlarged its hole. The doors shook as if a rhinoceros were slamming against them. An upper hinge flew apart.

  She saluted Merrick and limped away, Charles by her side...

  ... he told himself not to look back.

  As they ran, Beauregard heard the doors behind them bursting outwards, and Merrick being crushed under falling wood and stamping feet. Another ill-used hero, lost too swiftly to be mourned.

  Sweeping past Mina Harker, they emerged from the antechamber into the reception hall, which was full of vampires in livery. A dozen different rumours animated them.

  Geneviève pulled him onwards.

  He heard the thunder of pursuit. Among the c
latter of boots, there was a single flap. He felt the draught of giant wings.

  Bewildered guards let them through the Palace doors...

  ... her blood raced. There was no carriage, of course. They would have to make their way on foot and disappear in the crowds. In the most populated city in the world, it should be easy to hide.

  As they stumbled down the wide steps, a cadre of Carpathians quick-marched up, swords rattling in their scabbards. At their head was the General everyone made fun of behind his back, Iorga.

  ‘Quick,’ she shouted, ‘the Prince Consort, the Queen! All will be lost!’

  Iorga tried to look resolute, not delighted at the prospect of some unknown harm to his commander-in-chief. The cadre redoubled their speed and jammed into the great doorway just as Dracula’s retinue tried to come through. They should be through the main gates by the time the Carpathians had disentangled themselves.

  Charles, the exhilaration of his duel fading, wiped his face with his sleeve. She took his arm and they strolled lopsidedly away from the clamour.

  ‘Gené, Gené, Gené,’ he murmured through blood.

  ‘Shush,’ she said, guiding him onwards. ‘We must hurry.’

  ... people, warm and un-dead, streamed around from all sides. The Palace was being attacked and reinforced at once. In the park, a choir of demonstrators sang hymns, blocking the path of a fire engine. In the grounds, loose horses ran, kicking up scuds of gravel.

  He needed to draw breath. Geneviève, her grip on his arm fierce, let him pause. The instant he stopped running, he was aware of the mauling he had sustained. He supported himself with his naked sword and gulped cold air into his lungs. His mind and body shook. It was as if he had died back in the throne-room and was now an ectoplasmic form liberated from earthly flesh.

  Ahead, people swarmed over the Palace gates. The weight of numbers made them swing inwards, knocking over a couple of Guardsmen. This riot came at a most convenient time. The Diogenes Club took care of its own. Or his other friends, the Limehouse Ring, were intervening on his behalf. Or he was lost in the tides of history, and this was simply a fortunate occurrence.

  Holding aloft torches and wooden crucifixes, a crowd of roughs, faces streaked with burnt cork, shoved into the courtyard. Their leader was a nun, her wimple disclosing a Chinese cameo of a face. Tiny and lithe, she summoned her followers, and pointed up at the skies.

  A deeper darkness than night fell. A great shadow was all around, thrown over the crowds. Twin red moons looked down. Slow-flapping winds knocked people off their feet. The bat-shape filled the sky over the Palace.

  For a moment, the crowds fell silent. Then a voice was raised against the shape. More voices joined. Torches were tossed into the air, but fell short. Stones pulled from the drive were hurled. Shots were fired. The huge shadow soared higher.

  Iorga’s men, regathered after their undignified tumble, charged the crowds, laying about themselves with sabres. The mob was easily beaten back through the main gates. Beauregard and Geneviève were sucked out of the courtyard with the retreat. A lot of noise had been made, but little damage was done. The Chinese nun was the first to disappear into the night, her followers scattering after her.

  Well away from the gates, he allowed himself to look back. The shadow had alighted on the roof of Buckingham Palace. A gargoyle-shape looked down, wings settling like a cloak. Beauregard wondered how long the Prince could cling to his perch.

  In the night, fires burned high. The news would soon spread, a match touched to the powder-keg. In Chelsea and Whitechapel and Kingstead; in Exeter and Purfleet and Whitby; in Paris and Moscow and New York: there would be repercussions, rippling out to change the world. The park was full of shouting. Dark figures danced and fought...

  ... she felt a twinge of regret for her lost position. She would not return to Toynbee Hall and her work would pass to others. With or without Charles, in this country or abroad, in the open or in hiding, she would start anew, building another life. All she took with her was her father’s crucifix. And a good dress, somewhat spotted.

  She was sure the creature on the roof of the Palace, even with his night-eyes and lofty vantage point, could not see them. The further away they walked, the smaller he became. After they were past the piked skull of Abraham Van Helsing, Geneviève looked back and saw only darkness.

  ANNOTATIONS

  Over the years since Anno Dracula first appeared, some readers have made their own lists of the ‘borrowed’ (frankly, misappropriated) fictional or historical characters who appear in it. Especially those who go unnamed or disguised. A few have posted these online. To keep the game alive, I’ve opted not to spell out the origins of every walk-on character or checked name (at this date, I doubt I even could). This is literally a vampire novel, in that it battens onto other works of fiction (primarily, Bram Stoker’s Dracula) and draws life from them, so I am happy to acknowledge victims. Where appropriate, further reading or viewing is listed. Since I’m wary of explaining away too much, some mysteries remain...

  EPIGRAPH

  Bram Stoker hyphenated ‘were-wolves’, so – for consistency – it remains in that archaic form throughout the novel. The hyphen disappears from the series thereafter. Stoker was probably thinking of the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould’s The Book of Were-Wolves (1865). ‘Un-dead’ is a Stoker convention, too.

  CHAPTER ONE: IN THE FOG

  The chapter title comes from Richard Harding Davis’s novel In the Fog (1901). The first fragment (now lost) of what would become Anno Dracula – which didn’t even feature vampires – was called ‘Beauregard in the Fog’. It did have footnotes, as I recall.

  The second paragraph has, in all previous editions, included the jumbled phrase ‘setting down the human thought mind’.

  ‘Brevis esse laboro, as Horace would have it.’ The sprinkling of Latin and Biblical saws in Anno Dracula was suggested by Eugene Byrne, who pointed out that Victorians in conversation and letters habitually quoted classics the way we quote pop song lyrics or lines from The Terminator. Horace, incidentally, meant the opposite of what Seward is saying. The full quote is Brevis esse laboro, obscurus fio (‘When I labour to be brief, I become obscure’).

  CHAPTER TWO: GENEVIÈVE

  Several different versions of the vampire Geneviève Dieudonné exist in my bibliography, distinguishable by their middle names. Her lives are so complicated I’m having to look up her wikipedia entry to write this note (and that’s not 100% accurate).

  First to appear was Genevieve Sandrine du Pointe du Lac Dieudonné, in Drachenfels, a novel set in Games Workshop’s Warhammer Fantasy world which I wrote under the name Jack Yeovil. All the Yeovil/Warhammer novels and stories are collected in The Vampire Genevieve (Black Library).

  Geneviève Sandrine de l’Isle Dieudonné is the character in the Anno Dracula series.

  Geneviève Sandrine Ysolde Dieudonné appears in a series which has been collected in The Man From the Diogenes Club, Secret Files of the Diogenes Club and Mysteries of the Diogenes Club (MonkeyBrain); this also follows several other characters from the Anno Dracula world (including Charles Beauregard and Kate Reed) in a continuum which more closely resembles the one we live in.

  Arthur Morrison. Morrison was the author of the Martin Hewitt stories, The Dorrington Deed-Box and A Child of the Jago. The Whitechapel of Anno Dracula includes several streets from Morrison’s books, including the slum he called the Old Jago.

  As one critic pointed out, the reason Holmes is removed to a concentration camp in Anno Dracula is to get around a problem I have with many Holmes/Jack the Ripper stories – the great detective would have identified, trapped and convicted the murderer before tea-time. Devil’s Dyke is a real place, on the Sussex Downs.

  CHAPTER THREE: THE AFTER-DARK

  The Diogenes Club. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle introduced the Diogenes Club in ‘The Greek Interpreter’, along with its most prominent member, Mycroft Holmes, brother of the more famous Sherlock. Later, in ‘The Bruce-Partington Plans
’, we learn that not only does brother Mycroft work for the British government but, under certain circumstances, he is the British government. The notion that the Diogenes Club is an ancestor of Ian Fleming’s Universal Export, a covert front for British Intelligence, comes from Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond’s script for The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes.

  CHAPTER FIVE: THE DIOGENES CLUB

  Ivan Dragomiloff, the ethical assassin, is the lead character of Jack London’s novel The Assassination Bureau, Ltd. (unfinished, completed by Robert L. Fish). Basil Dearden’s 1969 film of the book, with Oliver Reed as Dragomiloff, is one of a knot of overpopulated period-set ‘romps’ which influenced this book. See also: The Wrong Box, The Best House in London, Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines and (especially) The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: THE PRIME MINISTER

  Lord Ruthven is the title character in John Polidori’s ‘The Vampyre’, which is based on a fragment by Lord Byron. Ruthven is generally taken to be a caricature of Byron. Before Dracula, Ruthven was the default fatal man vampire, and he appeared in a run of sequels, theatrical adaptations and operas in the nineteenth century.

  For Lord Ruthven’s roll-call of vampire elders, thanks to the authors J.M. Rymer, Charles L. Grant, Robert McCammon, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Les Daniels, Suzy McKee Charnas, Stephen King, Joseph Sheridan LeFanu, Mary Braddon, F.G. Loring, Julian Hawthorne and Bram Stoker and the actors Robert Quarry, Ferdy Mayne, David Peel, Robert Tayman, Bela Lugosi, Jonathan Frid, German Robles, Gloria Holden, Barbara Steele and Delphine Seyrig.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: THE MYSTERY OF THE HANSOM CAB

  The chapter title comes from an important early detective novel by Fergus Hume.

  Red Thirst. I owe George R.R. Martin thanks for this term, which comes from his vampire novel Fevre Dream. I also used it as the title of one of the Jack Yeovil Genevieve stories.

  CHAPTER TEN: SPIDERS IN THEIR WEBS

  Of the named and unnamed Victorian-Edwardian master crooks who appear in this chapter, only Guy Boothby’s Dr Nikola – an ambiguous mastermind who made his debut in A Bid for Fortune, and continued to search for the elixir of life in later novels – has fallen entirely off the radar.