by Kim Newman
A child stood under a street-lamp watching the soldiers, a girl of eleven or twelve. Dressed in a clean pinafore, she had very white skin. In the fall of light, she shone. She was warm. Poe heard her heart beat, heard every rustle of her clothes. Through the fug of war, he tasted the sweetness of her breath.
She looked at him with old eyes. For an instant, she was Virginia. They all looked like Virginia, no matter the colour of their eyes or the style of their hair. There was always a touch of Virginia. He was drawn to the child, pulled across the cratered street, There was already an understanding between them.
'Herr Poe,' Ewers called, distant and irritated.
Reaching the light, he hesitated. The girl's face glowed with life. He was not sure he could touch her without being burned.!
Caution fought his impulses. She was not Virginia. This was a practised French flirt. She was here for someone like him. He saw scabs on her throat, healed bite-marks spreading like a rash from just under her tiny ear down to her collar. She smiled. Her teeth were not good.
Ewers, who had caught up with Poe, voiced exasperation, but did not get between them. He recognised Poe's need.
'If you must,' Ewers said. 'But be quick about it. We are expected at the château.'
Poe imagined Ewers was in another country. His voice was faint, the girl's heartbeat loud. With practised ease, she took his hand and tugged him past the light, towards an alley.
'This is what the posters warn against,' Ewers complained.
Ewers could not spoil the moment. There was already a perfect love. Poe could not close his mouth over his incisors. He cooed, trying to soothe the child. She was not disturbed by his fierce expression.
'Hurry up, Poe. Bite the whore and be done with it.'
Poe waved his hand to silence Ewers and was drawn into the dark, pulled down to his knees. He felt cobbles through his thin trousers. Rinds of hard ice lodged between the stones. The girl slipped into his arms and kissed him gently on the cheek and lips. Her taste was fire. Overpowered, he forced her head back and clamped his mouth to her pulsing neck. Old wounds opened as his teeth slid through her skin. Sweet blood seeped into his mouth, covering his tongue.
He drank, greedily, impassioned. The child writhed in his embrace. As he drank, he knew her. Her name was Gilberte, but her family called her Gigi. He saw her father shot, her mother run off. He saw her in other embraces, suckling other vampires. Her short life was beautiful tragedy. Her blood was poetry.
'Careful, you'll kill the little beast,' Ewers said, hands on Poe's shoulder, wrenching him away.
With a great effort, Poe left the flowing wound. The child's blood warmed and delighted him still, but he was overcome with regret and shame. His face was wet with tears.
'There'll be hell if she dies,' Ewers said.
Poe looked into the girl's face. It was a blank but he tasted her hate, her contempt. Gigi was cold in his arms, not dead but her mind flown for the moment, hidden deep inside as her body suffered this unpleasant transaction.
'Damn,' Ewers breathed. 'Poe, this is all your fault.'
Ewers was in the grip of sudden bloodlust. Poe had forgotten that the German was a vampire too. His eyes flushed red, his face roughened. Blunt fangs grew out of his unsmiling face.
'The least you can do is watch the alley,' Ewers ordered.
Gigi was not even afraid. It was only by force of will, compounded by Ewers's nagging, that Poe had resisted draining the child completely. He was not sure Ewers could exert as much self-control. His own past was not innocent of unwilled tragedies. With time, all vampires become killers. With more time, Poe feared, all vampires come to delight in killing.
Ewers fell on the shrinking child, ripping the collar from her bloody neck. He was a savage, brutally forcing her to yield what Poe had coaxed from her.
The German drank from the feebly struggling girl. His whole weight was on her. His back heaved. Two buttons above his coat-tails caught stray light, flashing like blind eyes. Poe imagined himself driving a length of sharpened wood into Ewers's back, piercing his dead heart.
This girl, tonight, would survive. Poe would see to that. But other girls, other nights, would not.
As he glutted himself, Ewers made noises like a pig. His face was bloodied. The red was black in the dark. Gigi was in a merciful swoon, great gashes in her neck and chest still leaking.
He took Ewers's arms and tried to lift him away. Ewers spasmed and was insensate in Poe's grip. He was easily rolled off Gigi. Poe ignored him and saw to the child. Her heartbeat was faint but strong. She would recover. He cradled the girl, not wanting to drink further. Their link faded, memories passing from his mind, but he wished to treasure her a few moments more. Only in these brief moments could he be calm in himself, at peace.
Cold doubts nibbled around the edges of his momentary contentment. Ewers, wiping his face, stood. He rearranged his clothes huffily, with pointed little gestures. He was angry, but smug.
'You are just like me, Poe. In us, desire runs strong. It is why we create.'
The child moaned, swimming from the pool of sleep towards the surface of consciousness.
*We are not alike at all,' Poe said, coldly.
Ewers brushed the thought aside and summoned concentration. He was unsteady. Gigi's blood was rich. Poe too felt added senses, a dangerous exhilaration coupled with awareness of the yawning abyss below. Scarlet sparks danced in the corners of his vision.
'We are expected at the château,' Ewers insisted. 'We must commandeer transport.'
Poe laid down the girl. She curled up like a cat. He rearranged her collar. Ewers had torn off too many buttons. Poe could not refasten her chemise and pinafore but made sure she was decently covered.
'Ewers, we have an obligation. To the child.'
Exasperated, Ewers fished in his waistcoat. He tossed a coin to the cobbles. Poe scooped it up and slipped it into the girl's hand. In half-sleep, she made a fist about the treasure.
They left Gigi and returned to the station. A car stood outside, driver at the wheel, officer standing by. When the officer saw Poe and Ewers, he snapped off a straight-backed salute.
'I am Oberst Theo von Kretschmar-Schuldorff. I have looked forwards immensely to meeting the great writer, Mr Edgar Allan Poe.'
The officer spoke in clear English. He was a sharp new-born.
'Well, this is him,' Ewers said, in German.
Poe shook the officer's hand. Kretschmar-Schuldorff's eyes swivelled sideways tinily, taking in the condition of the new arrivals. Poe had wiped himself with a handkerchief but Ewers's clothes and face were spotted with drying blood. The officer had formed an opinion but would do his duty and keep it to himself.
Ewers stormed off to reclaim his trunks from the martinet-in-the-making. Poe was helped into the car by Kretschmar-Schuldorff. The Oberst treated him with the deference due a very old lady whose dreadful smell must never be mentioned.
What Poe had taken from Gigi was gone completely. His red thirst was abated but fearful realities returned. The noise of shelling and the stench of death were again paramount.
'I no longer use my stepfather's name,' Poe told the officer. '1 am simply Edgar Poe.'
Kretschmar-Schuldorff took mental note. Names and ranks were as important as uniforms and decorations to his class. He was a Uhlan, attached to the Air Service. Many gallant cavalrymen traded steeds for wings in this war.
Ewers returned with his serf, each dragging a trunk. The corporal's black olive eyes were alive with resentment.
'We thought ourselves abandoned,' Ewers said, brusquely. 'What kept you?'
Oberst von Kretschmar-Schuldorff did not shrug, but his eyes narrowed minutely. Hanns Heinz Ewers was not making a comrade of this man.
The war,' he said, explaining everything.
16
Twice Bitten
The rule of "once bitten, twice shy" seems to have no currency with you,' said Major Cundall.
'Under the circumstances, you might say "o
nce bitten" means we're on to something.'
Cundall sighed but his blood was up. Winthrop saw past the mask now. Behind the cynicism, the flight commander was a tiger. He had not won his DSO and Bar with wittily cutting remarks.
'So Diogenes insists we have another bash at Malinbois?'
'It's the general thought,' Winthrop explained.
Through an enchantment, Albright's cracked plates had been developed. Jagged white lines streaked across the photographs and areas were blank, but the castle could be seen. Winthrop laid out the photographs on the farmhouse table. The vampire pilots gathered round.
'This is the tower we're interested in,' he said.
Cundall considered the indicated area. 'Looks like a diving board. Do the air pirates of JG1 make prisoners walk the plank?'
The top of the tower was sheared off. A board affair jutted out of it. The area of interest corresponded with the most damage to the plate.
'What's that shadow?' Bigglesworth asked, 'mostly under the blotch? Is that an observer? A gun position?'
Diogenes had also thought it a puzzle. Winthrop tapped the scale marks at the edge of the photograph.
'If it's an observer, he must be a giant,' he said. 'Fifteen feet tall.'
'It's a gargoyle, old thing,' put in Courtney. 'Devilish fond of gargoyles, the Hun.'
'Malinbois was French until JG1 moved in.'
'Plus de gargoyles en France, too,' said Courtney. 'You should have clocked the mademoiselle from Armentieres I sported on my last leave.'
Some pilots laughed bitterly. Winthrop suffered less ragging on this visit. Nobody mentioned Spenser or Albright. He noticed the odd new face and tried not to think which old ones were absent. There was an army show on, readying for the enemy push everyone expected before spring. Cundall's Condors had spent the last few days knocking spotters out of the sky.
'Looks like we're in for a twilight patrol,' Lacey said, almost keen. 'If we flit over en masse, we'll ruffle the red fighting eagle's feathers.'
'Baron von Richthofen,' Roy Brown said, miserably. 'Someone has to kill him some time.'
'Someone has to kill everyone some time,' said Cundall, thinking it over. At bottom, he was a cautious sort. It was probably why he had survived this long.
'Diogenes suggests a full patrol this time,' Winthrop said, knowing the flight commander was entitled to be annoyed with the change of policy.
'Fair enough,' Cundall said, mildly. 'Courtney, pick an observer and take the Harry Tate.'
The pilot - a Tasmanian, Winthrop had learned - groaned. The RE8 was not a popular kite. They were called 'flapping ducks', close relatives of the sitting variety.
'I'll fly the tip of the formation. Don't fret so, Courtney. I'll baby you through.'
Courtney theatrically clutched his heart. For his part, Winthrop was pleased the flight commander was choosing the men for this patrol rather than delegating the task.
'Since we had such little fortune with the As last time,' Cundall said, cruelly, 'we'll put the Bs in the air this show. Bigglesworth, Ball, Brown, you're up. And, to add a little alphabetical variety, let us, by all means, have a Williamson to balance things out.'
The pilots began climbing into their Sidcots and hauling on fleece-lined boots. Albert Ball, bent the wrong way in several places, wriggled into flying kit by unorthodox but efficient means. Roy Brown, the sour little Canadian, drank from a pitcher of milk and cow's blood.
'Tummy trouble,' Ginger explained. 'Brown's soothing his ulcer.'
Brown looked pained but kept drinking. Winthrop understood how a man in this line of work could nurture an ulcer.
'I say,' Courtney said, 'my usual dance partner in the Harry Tate is Curtiss Stryker and he's off sick. Ate someone who disagreed with him, I fear.'
Allard looked grim, expecting to be volunteered. Instead, Cundall turned to Winthrop, smiling evilly.
'Winthrop, my precious prince, have you ever fired a Lewis gun in anger?'
'I know which end to hold.'
'That'll do you.' He thumbed towards the ceiling. 'Ever been up?'
'I've been given a lift across the Channel a couple of times. I've even held the stick and not plunged to earth.'
'A veteran,' Courtney snorted.
'Topping,' Cundall said, 'you won't puke or anything. Care to come along on this jaunt? After all, it is Diogenes' show. Not mandatory, or anything. Just thought you might like the trip. The scenery is terribly picturesque at sunset.'
'I'd love to come,' Winthrop said, evenly. He was not entitled to be afraid.
'Good man,' said Cundall. 'Ginger, find our friend some kit, would you? He's a warm one, so we'd best keep him that way.'
Whatever the patrol was like, it could not be as bad as hanging around waiting for it to come back. If it came back. He had the impulse to jot a few lines. He pulled out his pocketbook and a stub of pencil.
Last will and testament?' Courtney asked.
No, just notes. Gathering intelligence is a matter of making notes."
'Whatever you say, old son. I always cheer myself up thinking of people I owe money to. If I go west, plenty will be mightily browned off.'
Winthrop thought hard, and wrote 'Dear Cat, if you get this, I've run into serious bother. Don't let it knock you too much. Love you desperately. Edwin.'
It was feeble but it would have to do. He begged an envelope from Algy Lissie and gummed the letter in. It was a duty done.
Ginger returned with full flying kit. Winthrop did not ask who had last worn it. Like a discreet valet, the vampire helped him dress. First, he was required to empty his pockets of documents which might interest the Boche if he were captured. A couple of enigmatic despatches from the Diogenes Club went into a shoebox. He chose to keep his matches, cigarette case and a picture of Catriona.
'Pretty girl,' Ginger commented. 'Swanny neck.'
Winthrop shivered a little and signed a form pasted to the top of the box. 'I swear on my honour that I do not have on my person or on my machine any letters or papers of use to the enemy.'
Over his khaki shirt and trousers, Winthrop put on two ragged wool pullovers and a pair of Arctic pyjama bottoms. Then he clambered into his Sidcot, a loose gaberdine one-piece lined with lamb's wool. Paying careful attention, Ginger practically mummified Winthrop's head: applying first a silk scarf to the neck, then a liberal smearing of cold whale oil to the cheeks and forehead, a thick balaclava helmet, a non-absorbent Nuchwang dogskin face mask and, finally, triplex goggles tinted for night-flying. The outfit was completed by thigh-high boots and muskrat gauntlets. With everything buckled together, Winthrop was completely swaddled, a rotund snowman, his arms stuck out and he waddled rather than walked.
'It's getting hottish in here,' he said.
'It'll get cold sharpish up there,' Ginger said. 'Now put your cross on this.'
Ginger presented an FS20 for signature. Winthrop glanced at the form as he scribbled his name. After a list of the gear issued to him, it stated These are property of the public. Losses due to the exigencies of campaign must be certified by the officer commanding.'
'Grand,' Ginger said. 'Now, if you go down in flames, the RFC will dun your widow and orphans for the cost of your underwear.'
'I'm not married,' Winthrop said, thinking of Catriona.
'That's probably for the best.'
'Good old bloody old Harry Tate,' Courtney said, patting the side of the RE8. The two-seater spotter was supposed to be sheepish in the air, which was why Cundall was putting up five Sop with Snipe fighters as guard dogs.
Winthrop gave Dravot his letter and told him to forward it to the addressee if anything untoward happened. The sergeant nodded, understanding, and did not try to tell him he was certain everything would be all right.
Courtney helped Winthrop climb into the rear cockpit. It was not easy to slip his clothes-expanded bulk past the ring-mounted Lewis. Once he was in the wicker seat, the handles of the machine-gun stuck uncomfortably into his chest.
T
he pilot hauled himself up and hung on the machine's side, peering into Winthrop's cockpit. He showed him how to fasten the Sutton safety harness: four straps for shoulders and thighs, fixed together with a central pin held by a spring clip. If struck just right, the whole thing came apart allowing swift escape. Not that there was anywhere safe to go at 6,500 feet.
'A tip, old thing, if you see anything flitting past with a Maltese cross on its planes, fire about fifty yards in front of it. If you point at its side, it'll be gone by the time the bullets get there.'
'What if it's coming straight at me?' Winthrop asked.
Then empty your drum into its nose and pray. Because there'll be a Hun behind a pair of Spandaus with exactly the same idea.'
'Where's the camera lever?'
Courtney tapped a toggle.
'I'll tell you when I'm taking pictures so you can steady the aeroplane.'
'You can tell me what you like but I doubt I'll hear a thing. It's noisy up there.'
He remembered his Channel flights. Even on a still day, the rush of wind was a roar. And even in mid-summer, the thermometer quickly fell below freezing. Recalling the stabs of colicky abdominal pain that had made a howling misery of his first flight, he summoned a mighty burp. At height, intestinal gases swelled to double their volume on the ground. Courtney did not pass comment on the big belch, but looked a fraction less worried about Winthrop.
'How's our new ace?' Cundall asked. The flight commander, helmet in hand, was looking over the RE8.
'He'll be the Hawker of 1918.'
The pilot was ragging him. In November 1916, Major Lanoe Hawker, VC, DSO, was Britain's highest-scoring pilot. Shot down and killed by Manfred von Richthofen, he was the Red Baron's eleventh victory.
'Just look after him, Courtney.'
'Not a hair on his head will be harmed. This I pledge on the honour of Cundall's Condors.'
'I'm a lost cause then.'
Winthrop no more truly felt brittle bravado than Courtney. It was how pilots were supposed to act, so they all did their best.
Courtney ducked under the wing and dropped into the forward cockpit, jostling the stick. The movable feast of Winthrop's Lewis was augmented by the pilot's fixed Vickers.
