by Kim Newman
Vampire personalities were unstable, shifting. Constantly taking sustenance from others, they became a patchwork of their victims' traits, shrinking in themselves, losing their original characters. Kate's sisters-in-darkness withered in their minds before their bodies gave out.
When she turned, Penelope, Charles's fianc6e, became unrecognisable. A recluse now, she received warm young visitors in her dark house, clinging with tenacity to a life-in- death she despised.
Kate knew she was strong. She was still undead, still herself, still sane. Or as sane as she had ever been. If she'd lived, contrary to what the kindly Charles said, she'd have been a spinster freak, a dotty old aunt in trousers.
This was the road she had cycled the night Edwin was lost. Again the sky was muddy white. This time, it was near dawn not near dark. Again aircraft were aloft. Three Camel fighters returning to the field. They weren't flying from the lines, so they'd not been out on an offensive patrol. They were 'stunting', which was frowned on, turning wheels in the air, each trying to tie the circle tighter than his fellows. For every two pilots killed by enemy action, another died in training or recreational flight. Two Camels harried the third, hawks moving in on prey, trying to force him down.
A very few vampires could grow wings and fly. Kate was not one of those. Looking up, she felt the call of the sky. She'd like to fly one of these machines. As a child, she'd been teased mercilessly, by the same horrid Penelope whom Charles later failed to marry, when she admitted she wanted to dress as a boy and go to sea. This was the same impulse, something childish frozen in her by her turning.
The Camel which was leading its comrades in mock chase went into a spin, corkscrewing towards a line of shabby trees. She thought the fighter out of control. In her anxiety, she squeezed Charles awake, and pointed up.
'Damned fool,' he said.
The fighter brushed the tops of the trees (Kate heard branches snap, saw them fall) and, unbelievably, pulled out of the dive. Kate whistled. The Camel came up hard from beneath and behind, zooming up the tails of his fellows. If the pilot fired his guns, he could pot them both.
'That will be Edwin,' Charles said.
'Surely, that's an expert's flying. Edwin is a beginner.'
'An expert would know enough to be afraid.'
In aerial combat, the surest way to victory is to attack from below and behind, the position Edwin assumed against his mock enemies. Even a two-seater with a ring-mounted rear gun could rarely fire upon an attacker coming from below and behind. The tactics of the dog-fight, evolved in the last three years, boiled down to getting behind the target.
'Flies like a Hun, that fellow,' said the driver, not without contempt. 'A shooting star. VC in a fortnight, dead in a month.'
Edwin's quarry flew off in opposite directions: one tried to imitate his manoeuvre by throwing his Camel into a spin, the other made for the clouds.
'In a real dog-fight, they'd have escaped, despite his marvellous dive.'
Charles shook his head. 'In a real dog-fight, he'd have killed them before they could shake him off.'
There was a tiny chattering noise.
'Gordon Bennett,' the driver swore. 'That bloke just shot 'is mate.'
The Camel that was heading up was not hit, it seemed.
'It'11 just be some sort of noise-maker,' Kate said.
'Don't think so, miss.'
The diving fighter pulled up, ragged and wobbly, but found Edwin still on his tail. There was another chattering.
Tiny flame-puffs burst in the Camel's tail-plane.
'He shot 'im that time,' the driver said.
They were at the main gate of Maranique. The guard passed Charles's car but did not salute. He might be a VIP but he was also a civilian. The guard was the same corporal who had let Kate in last time.
The car drew up at the farmhouse just as the Camels approached the field. Captain Allard, in a long black coat and a wide-brimmed hat, stood outside watching, along with a cadre of pilots, including old friends Bertie and Ginger. Allard was grimly silent, but the others argued heatedly. She guessed their point of controversy. Another staff car was parked by the farmhouse, chauffeur standing by. Kate caught the smell of Distinguished Personage, and wondered what else there was to worry about.
As the sun rose, the Camels landed. Edwin touched down first and taxied neatly towards the sheds. He was completely masked by helmet and goggles, but she knew at once it was the man who had drunk from her. A hot needle pierced her heart, reminding her of unfinished business.
The second fighter, tail-plane dotted with smoking holes, thumped down, one wheel slipping into a rut. It limped, turning awkwardly, to a halt. An incensed pilot jumped out and ran across the field, stripping off helmet and gauntlets. His big boots, designed for warmth not agility, made him as dumpily clumsy as a kinema comic.
As the third Camel made a careful landing, the angry pilot of the second tore up to Edwin, who was calmly lifting his goggles. Kate heard a blue streak of abuse.
She helped Charles across the field. Allard and the pilots also moved in on the argument.
'You shot me, you cold-hearted devil bastard! What the bloody hell are you trying to do? Win the war for the Hun?'
'Steady, Rutledge,' Ginger said. 'Give Winthrop time to explain.'
Rutledge, a vampire with tiny horns and a fierce moustache, was a new face.
'Well ...?'
Rutledge looked up to Edwin. The pilot unwound his scarf, detached his mask and shifted his goggles. Black soot circles outlined cold eyes.
'He would have claimed victory,' Edwin said to Allard. 'I chose to mark my man.'
'Confounded dolt, you could have done for me!'
'I tagged you. I did not kill you.'
Allard, called upon to judge the issue, considered.
'Allard, if I'd meant to shoot Rutledge down, he'd be shot down.'
Allard, eyes burning, seemed to look into Edwin's heart.
'That is true,' he said.
Rutledge's mouth opened in protest. He thumped the side of Edwin's fighter. The canvas shook. The pilot was near hysteria.
'Captain, he shot me! An Englishman shot me!'
'He is telling the truth. He knew he would not kill you.'
'He damaged HM Government property.' 'Fined a day's flying pay.'
Edwin accepted Allard's verdict. There was cold understanding between the acting flight officer and the new pilot.
Rutledge stormed off. Edwin hauled himself out of the cockpit, hanging like a monkey from the cross-strut of the upper wing.
'Not a docile kite, the Camel, not like the Pups we trained on. This bird has to be broken in. Turns like a dream, though.'
Allard nodded.
The third pilot, a vampire American, had landed and ambled over. He was pale with excitement, but more exhilarated than angry.
'Lockwood, do you regret going for me like that, with such a comrade?' Edwin asked.
Lockwood shrugged. 'Seemed like a good idea at the time.'
The American walked off. Edwin took off his helmet.
'Hullo, Beauregard,' he said, acknowledging the visitors. 'Miss Reed.'
Miss Reed!
Kate, her Irish flaring, guessed a great many people would be in a permanent state of rage around this new, improved Edwin Winthrop.
'How did you enjoy the show?'
'You fly as if you were born to it.'
'I am reborn, Beauregard.'
Edwin dropped to the ground like a circus tumbler and stood straight. He was still warm, but there was a vampire sharpness to his smile, a thin coldness in his eyes.
She'd seen the look before: in the warm servants some elders impressed into their service, feeding them drops of blood and the promise of eventual turning. But Edwin was no vampire's slave. Certainly not hers.
'You fly like Ball,' Bertie said, stating a fact rather than giving a compliment. The new pilot accepted the judgement. There was something of Albert Ball in him, just as there was something of Kate Ree
d. But he ruled himself. There was an iron determination that all was down to Edwin Winthrop.
'Probably shouldn't have popped off at old Rutledge, though,' Ginger remarked. 'That sort of stunting's bad for morale. Never know when you'll have a Hun on your tail and Rutledge will be the only one who can shoot the blighter down.'
'I think that unlikely.'
Bertie and the others admired Edwin but did not accept him yet. They could not trust him not to value his own unfathomable cause over that of the squadron. Kate knew how they felt.
'I think it would be useful if we had a chat, Winthrop,' Charles said. 'You, myself and Kate. I wish to clarify a certain situation.'
'Is this a personal matter?'
'If you choose to make it so.'
Jiggs, the mechanic, opened up the cowling of Edwin's fighter. He tutted as a wave of oily heat wafted out.
'I have a patrol to fly in an hour. I'm the only warm man in the squadron. We're under strength for day-flying.'
Kate was not sure how warm Edwin was.
'This need not take long.'
'Very well.'
35
Important Visitors
A long black automobile was parked in the courtyard of the château. Six motorcycles, with uniformed outriders, formed a neatly serrated wall of defence around the car.
'Important visitors,' Theo said.
Poe, queasy from exposure to the risen sun, suppressed a cringe. In his experience, important visitors usually meant some new reversal. His dealings with publishers in America and Europe always involved violent argument, broken contracts and long-lasting bitterness. His current patrons might well be disposed to couch criticism of his work in terms of wooden stakes and silver bullets.
Imperial eagle pennants hung from the hood of the car. The outriders were sleek new-borns. Their undoubtedly military black leather uniforms were unfamiliar. Poe assumed this was a new outfit, an adjunct to the Air Service or Dr Mabuse's secret police.
In a German Utopia, everyone would wear a magnificent uniform. Lavatory attendants would look like field marshals. Field marshals would stagger under the weight of braid and brass.
Poe was acutely aware of his status as the lone civilian at Malinbois. Even Ewers had taken to sporting a natty cavalry officer's outfit, earned by some obscure reserve status.
He had an impulse to conceal himself behind Richthofen.
A motorcycle rider, arm fixed in a salute, opened the car's rear door. An insectile elder unbent from the dark interior. A grave miasma emerged with him. Attendants held a black canopy aloft to keep the creature in shade. His rat face hung in the shadow, dirty white eyes shifting, as he stood up stiffly.
'It's the Graf von Orlok,' Theo explained. 'One of Dracula's closest advisers.'
Only the very very old looked this ghastly. Orlok wore an ancient greatcoat, fastened by dozens of buttons and hooks. He was hump-backed, spider-fingered, rodent-toothed and hollow- cheeked; his swollen head was bald under a fur cap and his hands were locked into arthritic claws. Poe had never seen a vampire so repulsive. This was one specimen Ten Brincken would never be able to measure and categorise. Orlok was a fiend of hell, not a creature of science.
'I thought we had more time,' Theo muttered.
Poe would have pressed his friend for an explanation but Theo cut himself off. He had said more than he ought.
Orlok looked around, shaded against the sun. His eyes squirmed in their sockets. Poe tried to stand to attention. Richthofen was instinctively erect, ready for inspection.
General Karnstein marched out of the great doorway, Ten Brincken and Dr Caligari flanking him. Sundry fliers lolled behind the general. They had done their best on short notice to get into dress uniform, the licence for individuality usually afforded heroes suspended for the moment.
The general saluted Orlok, who waved a claw and snarled. Poe realised the elder chose not to speak.
The little lakeside excursion party joined Karnstein's cadre. Baron von Richthofen took his place at the head of the fliers. Theo fell in behind the General and to his left. Poe stood by Theo and was eclipsed as someone - Hanns Heinz Ewers, of course - stepped in front of him.
The tallest outrider returned Karnstein's salute and removed his goggles. He was a handsome new-born Prussian with a clipped moustache, a fixed smile and a duelling scar.
'Hardt of the General Staff,' he introduced himself.
The new-born was Orlok's mouthpiece. He wore a black leather coat and helmet. Hardt looked around the courtyard and up at the skies.
'So this is the lair of our knights of the air. I'm a navy man myself. Submarines.'
Karnstein nodded.
'You've impressive quarters, General. And an impressive record. Which of your men is our Red Fighting Eagle?'
Karnstein gestured. Richthofen stepped forward, saluting. Hardt returned the salute and shook the Baron's hand.
'It is a privilege,' Hardt said. 'You are a hero.'
'I do my duty.'
Poe could not look away from Orlok. The elder seemed almost frail, as if his long fingers would snap and crumble like old twigs. If a sunbeam fell on him, he'd burst into a puff of dust. But there was a strength in him that came with centuries. The spark in him that had clung to life must be hideously strong. The truly old were beyond comprehension.
'Sir,' Ewers addressed himself to Hardt, 'has Dr Mabuse had time to absorb the import of my report?'
'You are ... ?'
'Hanns Heinz Ewers.'
'The doctor will give due consideration to your complaint, Herr Ewers. As I'm sure you understand, more pressing matters demand his time.'
Ewers hung his head and chewed his lip angrily.
'And is this the cause of your trouble, Herr Edgar Allan Poe?'
Poe understood the brand of treacherous calumny Ewers had communicated to Mabuse. Ewers, no friend of his, must be working hard to undermine his position. Poe could only shrug. Hardt looked him up and down, grinning.
'Herr Ewers claims your reputation is inflated,' Hardt said, smiling.
Poe tried to return the new-born's steady gaze.
'On the contrary,' he said, hoping bravado would conceal unease, 'it might stand higher were I not plagued by arrant plagiarists. If my work is so overrated, one wonders why so many stoop to imitate it.'
Ewers glared evil at him. Poe had not realised the depths of the man's envy.
'We find Herr Poe's work satisfactory, sir,' put in Richthofen.
Hardt raised a sardonic eyebrow. Poe was himself surprised.
'You feel your collaborator is suited to his task?'
'Eminently so, sir.'
Hardt looked at Ewers with a sharp smile and a repressed, almost French shrug.
'It seems the matter is settled without further debate, Ewers. Our Fighting Eagle must be judged the expert. Thank you for calling attention to the matter, but it seems your worries are entirely unfounded.'
Ewers's face was red with swallowed fury. Veins in his temples expanded and pulsed. Poe gathered Baron von Richthofen had just saved his life. If not that, at least his position. And Ewers had tried to eliminate him.
'Shall we go inside?' Hardt suggested. 'The Graf von Orlok finds out-of-doors tiring after sun-up.'
Karnstein stepped aside. The fliers formed a guard, lining the entrance to the Great Hall. Flanked by his motorcycle guards, Orlok inched across the cobbles, taking care to remain inside shadow. Hardt took his pointed elbow and helped him on to the first of the three steps that led to the great door.
There was a pause. The silent vampire was a traditionalist. He would not step across a threshold unless invited.
'Graf von Orlok,' said General Karnstein, 'you are welcome to the Château du Malinbois. Please come and go of your own will.'
Orlok ground fingernails together like cicada legs. Hardt helped him up the steps. Once inside, surrounded by gloom, the elder wriggled away from his outriders. In the close confines of the passageway that fed into the Great Hall, Poe
almost choked on the death stink of Orlok's old clothes.
Karnstein followed Hardt and Orlok up the steps, pointing out the way to the Hall. Poe stayed close behind, followed by Theo and Ewers. He felt a pricking in his spine as he imagined Ewers thinking of thrusting a dagger into his back.
Richthofen hung back, letting the elders go their way, and stood between Theo and Poe. He glared out through the door at Ewers, who remained on the bottom step, still digesting his fury.
'Ewers,' said Richthofen, 'I shall thank you not to concern yourself with the affairs of my biographer.'
'Baron, I ...'
Poe, standing behind the Baron, saw only the neatly trimmed back of his head. Ewers was struck terrified. For an instant, Richthofen's ears were pointed and the set of his jaw changed. Turning round, he was as impassive and bland as ever. Poe was grateful he had not been staring the Baron in the face for the last few seconds. A blood tear trickled down Ewers's cheek. He was still gripped by terror.
They left Ewers in the courtyard and caught up with Orlok's party as General Karnstein showed them the wall of trophies, enumerating each flier's individual victories.
'This is most impressive,' Hardt exclaimed. 'The Graf von Orlok admires the achievements of JG1. As does his estimable cousin, the Graf von Dracula.'
'It will be a great privilege for these men,' Karnstein said. 'They are new-borns. Few of their kind are chosen for such exalted service.'
Poe had missed a vital point. What service was the general speaking of?
'To commemorate the significance of this position,' Hardt said, 'Berlin has decided its name should officially be changed. The Château du Malinbois is a little too French for our taste. From now on, in honour of the eagles of JG1, this will be the Schloss Adler.'
The Eagle's Castle.
Orlok prowled by the trophy wall, spindly claws tapping his chin as he looked at the relics of the dead. He seemed not to hear the talk, though his huge rat-ears must be sharp enough to catch the tiny sounds that plagued Poe. Hardt was merely the smiling mask, the dancing puppet. Orlok was the master.
'Now, if your intelligence officer can make himself available.'
