Genevieve 02 - Genevieve Undead

by Jack Yeovil

  'What's his hook, Balthus?' she asked. 'What makes you Tybalt's puppet?'

  The guide turned to her. His beard had grown recently, and was creeping up his cheeks towards his eyes. A thatch of ruddy fur swarmed up from his chest and around his neck.

  'I might change,' he said. 'Some day.'

  'A touch of warpstone, eh? Poor faithful dog-altered. Well, you can find a new master and fetch all the sticks you like after this.'

  Balthus didn't look happy about it.

  Back in the hall, Rudiger was impatient to leave.

  Magnus, already drifting into the dream from Anulka's tea, was trying to say something, trying to talk to Doremus. The graf's son knelt by his 'uncle,' trying to listen, but Rudiger was pulling him away.

  'Time for that later,' the graf said. 'We must be on the trail before it cools.'

  Genevieve squeezed Magnus' hand, and followed the three men out of the lodge. The dogs were tired, so the hunters would have to do without.

  Around the lodge, where the trees were cleared, it was a pretty morning. The sun was heavy on Genevieve's eyes, but in the dark of the woods things would be better.

  The graf was striding off. He had told Balthus they were heading for Khorne's Cleft, to pick up the mare's trail there.

  Genevieve hesitated, looked back at the lodge, and followed the others. It would be no trouble for her, keeping up.

  They travelled a recently beaten path, the way Rudiger and Doremus had brought Magnus. Genevieve smelled blood on the ground. Under some circumstances, she was more sensitive than a good dog. But she did not volunteer to stand in for Karl and Franz.

  Rudiger was grimly exultant. He sang under his breath, hunting songs of the Forest of Shadows.

  Unaccountably, Genevieve did not just want to kill him. She wanted to break him, humble him and drink his blood. What he had told Doremus yesterday was true: you could take strength from your kills. Genevieve wanted his strength.

  Rudiger had changed since he had killed his woman. He wanted Genevieve by his side, and kept tugging at her, keeping her up with him.

  She guessed his interest in her, and planned to use it against him. When Balthus led Doremus away, she would take her teeth and claws to him. Once it was over, she could pitch him into Khorne's Cleft, and his body would be gone forever.

  They came to the Cleft. This, she understood, was the site of the kill. Genevieve noticed Doremus looking into its depths, hoping for a glimpse of Sylvana.

  Rudiger was unaffected, down on his knees, looking for hoof-prints.

  'Here,' he said, tapping the frosted ground.

  Genevieve examined the spoor, noting the distance between prints.

  'She must be huge,' she said.

  'Yes,' grinned Rudiger. 'An old bitch unicorn, seventeen or eighteen hands, ivory longer than my arm.'

  She smelled his arousal.

  Rudiger took her slender wrist, and encompassed it with his mighty fist. She could break his back with her slim hand.

  'I want her horn,' he said.

  He stood up, and followed the mare's hoofmarks into the trees. Doremus followed, reluctantly it seemed. Genevieve thought the way they were taking was familiar.

  'She took her time,' Rudiger said, pointing to a chewed branch well out of human reach, 'had some breakfast. She's a cool one, trying to gull us all the time. She'll take a lot of killing.'

  The graf strode ahead, following the path the mare had made.

  Genevieve looked to Balthus, and the guide turned away. She knew she couldn't count on him, but she hoped she wouldn't have to.

  'Look,' Rudiger said, pointing to a flattened area, 'you can see the outline.'

  There was a blanket of thin scum on the leafy ground, and the last traces of a skeleton.

  'This was your kill of yesterday, son,' Rudiger said. 'Your wounded stallion must have found her, set her off against us. That's war, of course. We must kill the mare, Doremus, before she kills us. This is what it is to be a man.'

  She had heard raving lunatics make more sense.

  Rudiger went on ahead, came back, and called them on, urging them to run.

  She got the feeling Doremus was at the end of his patience with his father. He shouldn't be difficult to distract.

  'Come on, come on,' Rudiger said.

  Genevieve realized what it was that had been plucking at her mind. 'I know this path,' she said.

  'Yes, yes,' Rudiger agreed. 'The track to the lodge. The mare has doubled back, gone on the attack. Very clever, but we aren't fooled.'

  She was appalled.

  'But the count'

  'An old huntsman's trick, my dear. Leave the wounded as bait. Magnus taught it me when I was a child.'

  Rudiger laughed, and Genevieve could have struck him down. Her nails were lengthening, sharpening, and her anger was keen.

  But the graf was gone, running ahead, all caution flown, enthused by the chase.

  Balthus caught her eye, and nodded towards a fork in the trail. He could mislead Doremus, and she could end it.

  She shook her head.

  'We've got to get back to the lodge,' she said. 'Count Magnus is in danger.'

  'Uncle' Doremus said. 'How?'

  'The mare has his scent, his blood,' Balthus explained. 'She'll want to finish him.'

  'And my father?'

  'Knew?' Genevieve asked. 'Of course he knew. Come on.'

  Stirring Doremus out of his doziness, she ran on, following Rudiger, following the mare.

  The trees thinned, and they neared the lodge.

  From ahead, she heard a howl. A man's howl of grief and fury.

  Outpacing Doremus and Balthus, she ran, dodging trees, pushing against the ground. She was fast as a leopard when she had to be.

  But she was not fast enough.

  The doors of the lodge hung open, and Rudiger stood before them, still shouting his anger.

  Genevieve pushed past him, and saw she was too late.

  Anulka was crumpled in the entrance, a bloody hole gouting under her chin, twitching in her last dream. Count Magnus Schellerup lay beyond, beside the overturned and smashed table. He was twisted like an old blanket, and the deep gores in his chest exposed ribs and vitals. The mare must have tossed him on and off her horn like a child playing with a cup and ball toy.

  She skidded on the blood, and fell to her knees.

  The smell of the blood was in the air around her, and she salivated. The blood of the dead was repulsive to her, tainted food. She had been reduced to drinking it too many times, but it still made her stomach turn. Magnus' blood, in her, cried out.

  Doremus was with her now, the wind gone out of him.

  'Uncle'

  It was too late.

  Behind her, Rudiger was striding back into the woods, determined to have his revenge.

  Genevieve took a cushion, and laid it against Magnus' bloody head, covering his scar. She looked at the unblemished half of his face, and at Doremus. Then, she shivered, the world turning around and coming down, with a nauseating lurch, in a new configuration.

  She understood. And she understood what she had to do.

  Leaving Magnus, pushing past Doremus and Balthus, she followed Rudiger into the forests.

  Her foreteeth slid out of their gumsheaths.

  * * *

  X

  Doremus wept in his heart, but no tears came.

  Uncle Magnus was dead, and there was nothing more to do for him. He looked at the old man's face, his scar covered by the vampire girl's curiously tender gesture. For all his life, Magnus had been there, the old Invincible, warm where his father was cold, understanding where his father was indifferent, encouraging where his father was demanding. The count had not been invincible, in the end. But he had died quickly, of a mortal and honourable wound, not lingered with some disease, leaking uncontrollably from all orifices, mind befuddled, body diminished.

  It was not such a bad death, Doremus told himself. Then he looked at the blood, at the ripped wounds, and k
new there was no such thing as a good death.

  Balthus was waiting, in attendance. There were servants all around now, chattering, tutting. Where had they been when the mare was killing the count? Hiding for the sake of their skins?

  Doremus followed his father and the vampire, Balthus jogging along with him.

  No matter what he felt about his father, about hunting, about the kill, Doremus swore he would track down this thing that had slaughtered his uncle and end her life.

  He would find the mare before Rudiger, and this time he would have a clean kill. Then, he would burn his bow.

  The forests swallowed them up.

  * * *

  XI

  Following his trail, Genevieve hunted the huntsman.

  This had nothing to do with Tybalt.

  This hunt was hers.

  She imagined the mare's horn gouging against Magnus' ribs, sinking deep into his belly, pulling out his intestines.

  And she remembered the cold madness of the Graf Rudiger von Unheimlich.

  At this moment, there was no more dangerous beast in the forests than a she-vampire.

  Always, she had kept herself apart from the Truly Dead, those vampires who preyed on the living for pleasure. She had listened to them enthuse about their sport and felt superior to the grave-grown things with their foul breath and red eyes, faces set in beast's snarls, clinging to their coffins and catacombs by day, gliding on the winds by night in search of juicy necks, relishing the fear they cast about them like a shroud.

  She remembered those she had known: the Tsarina Kattarin, bloody tyrant who reigned for centuries, exultant with the blood of her subjects flowing over her body; Wietzak of the World's Edge, a mouthful of teeth like razor-edged pebbles, chewing the flesh of a peasant child; even her father-in-darkness, Chandagnac, dandyish as he dabbed the gore from his lips with a lace handkerchief, old and alone behind his handsome face and manners.

  For the first time in nearly seven hundred years, Genevieve Dieudonne understood the righteousness of the red thirst.

  She regretted those she had spared: Tybalt, Balthus, Anulka, Otho. She should have gutted them, and drunk the blood fresh from their bellies. She should have drunk an ocean from them.

  Rudiger was travelling fast, keeping ahead of her.

  She knocked young trees out of her way, enjoying the crack of breaking wood. Birds flew from their falling nests, and small animals scurried out of her way.

  'Halt,' a voice said, piercing her red rage, and striking her at the heart.

  She stood still, and found herself in a small clearing.

  Barely half a dozen yards away, the Graf Rudiger stood, warbow raised, arrow ready.

  'Silver head, wooden shaft,' he explained. 'In an instant, it would be through your heart.'

  Genevieve relaxed, stretching out her arms, opening her empty hands.

  'Normally, I'd tell you to throw down your weapons, but I can hardly expect you to pluck out your teeth and nails.'

  Her red rage flared, and she saw Rudiger's face coloured by a bloody film. She fought to control herself, to let the killing thirst die.

  'That's right,' Rudiger said. 'Get a leash on your temper.'

  He gestured with his arrowhead, and Genevieve sank to a crouch. She crossed her legs under her, hands tucked under her bottom.

  'That's better.'

  Her teeth slipped back, shrinking.

  'Tell me, vampire, how much has that grey book-keeper put on my head? How many of his precious crowns will he part with to get his way?'

  Genevieve kept quiet.

  'Oh yes, I know all about your mission here. Balthus has the soul of a dog, and the loyalties too. I've known from the beginning. Tybalt doesn't understand that there's more to a man than a price.'

  Calm in triumph, Rudiger reminded Genevieve of Mornan Tybalt, eyes glittering as a scheme was fulfilled.

  'I'd kill him if it would do any good. But once Balthus gives testimony, there wouldn't be any point. The jumped-up clerk's son will be back where he belongs, toiling in some tiny office, struggling for every scrap of food, for every tarnished pfennig.'

  Could she get to him before his shot her?

  'You're better than that, vampire. Tybalt must hold you to some crime to make you his tool.'

  Behind Rudiger, in the woods, something large was moving. Genevieve could sense her, could feel her excitement.

  'Let's make a truce?'

  Rudiger relaxed, and let his arrow slide loose.

  Genevieve nodded, needing the time.

  'See,' Rudiger said, holding the bow in one hand and the arrow separately. 'No harm.'

  He came to her, but not within her arm's reach.

  'You're pretty, Genevieve,' he said. 'You remind me'

  He extended his arm, and his fingertips touched her cheek. She could grab his arm, maybe tear it off

  'No, you're an original,' he said, taking his hand away. 'You're a huntress, like the mare. You'd be good with me. After the hunt, there are other pleasures, rewards'

  She felt his lust curling out at her. Good. It might blind him.

  'Strange to think you're so old. You look so green, so fresh'

  He took her and kissed her, rough tongue pressing against her lips. She tasted the blood in his spit, and it was like pepper in her mouth. She did not fight him, but she did not join him.

  He let her go.

  'Later, we'll raise your enthusiasm. I'm skilled with more than the bow.'

  Rudiger stood up.

  'First, there's ivory to be had. Come on'

  He stepped into the woods, and she got up, ready to follow. She did not know what would happen next.

  She had the mare's scent. And so, obviously, did the graf.

  * * *

  XII

  They were back at Khorne's Cleft. On the other side, from which Sylvana had fallen.

  For Doremus, this would be a haunted spot now.

  By day, it was stranger than it had been at night. The waterfall sparkled, and it was possible to see all manner of colours and lights in the water.

  Balthus was down on all fours, smelling the ground. His backbone had lengthened, straining his jerkin, and his ears were pointed, shifting back on his skull.

  It seemed only natural. Even Doremus could sense the call of the woods.

  He was still seeing things. And hearing them.

  The trees whispered, and the rush of the waterfall was a hissing chatter, talking to him, singing him strange music.

  It was bewitching.

  He felt like sitting down, and listening hard. If he paid attention for long enough, he was sure he could make out what was being said to him.

  It was the unicorn blood in him.

  Balthus sat up, snorting, slavering. Then, he bounded off into the woods. Doremus should follow him, but he felt a lassitude creeping over him. The whisperings held him back.

  Balthus was scurrying away.

  Doremus followed the guide, trailing after his noise. Balthus was yapping like a hound.

  Tonight, he would want to be kennelled with Karl and Franz, leaving the leech alone in his bed.

  He found Balthus at the edge of a clearing, pointing. He pressed his back to a tree, and caught his breath.

  Something was moving between the trees, something with a silver-white hide that flashed.

  Doremus had an arrow ready.

  He kicked Balthus, sending him off to the right, hoping to attract the mare's attention. If she charged the guide, Doremus would get a perfect shot. He could take her in the neck, or the eye, or the withers. Then, he could use his knife to finish the job if it needed finishing.

  He would prefer a clean kill. It would make his father proud.

  The mare came to a halt and raised her head, listening. Doremus knew the true kinship of hunter for prey, and understood her thinking.

  She suspected a trap, but was measuring her chances. Was she confident enough to charge anyway?

  Balthus barked, and the mare went for
him.

  The unicorn galloped out of the woods, and exploded, bigger by daylight than Doremus had imagined last night, into the clearing. Doremus stepped out from behind the tree and advanced a few paces, arrow coming up

  There was a shaking in the ground as the unicorn's hooves struck. Then, the rumbling increased and became a sharp, earthy scream.

  The ground was giving way.

  Doremus fired, but his arrow shot upwards, skittering above the unicorn's eyes and clanging against her horn as she batted it aside, its force spent.

  The earth tipped like an unbalanced stone, and Doremus slid down it. The unicorn lost her footing too, and whinnied a long stream of forest oaths.

  Doremus lost his bow and started tearing at the rippling ground, pulling himself out of the subsidence.

  The mare, heavier than he and stuck with hooves rather than fingers, just floundered, and sank further.

  Turning his head, Doremus saw the unicorn's head shaking, horn waving, as she fell through into the abandoned dwarf tunnel beneath.

  He had lost her.

  * * * * *

  * * *

  XIII

  They ran to the sound, and found where the earth had given way. Doremus was squatting by the hole.

  'The mare's down there,' he said.

  Rudiger needed no more. He scrambled into the hole, calling for them to follow.

  'I can see down there,' Genevieve said. 'You can't.'

  Balthus, part-way through some change, fumbled a tinderbox and a candle out of his pouch and struggled with them. His pawlike hands couldn't work the flint. Doremus took the candle, and struck a light to it.

  Carefully, they let themselves into the hole. It was about twice as deep as a man is tall, and led into a tunnel.

  'This must be an arterial route,' Genevieve said. 'It's tall enough for us, and for the mare.'

  There were much smaller side tunnels, cobwebbed over, which neither man nor unicorn could have got through.

  'An easy track,' Rudiger said. 'We just follow the broken webs.'

  Balthus whimpered as a spider the size of a housecat scuttled out of its lair.

  Rudiger took the point of his boot to it, and it squealed as he crushed it against the wall.