by Kim Newman
Watson was given to shifting his weight and looking in odd directions. To his ever-twitching bat ears, small sounds were like rifle shots. He was always saying ‘Did you hear that?’ Tonight, there weren’t even small sounds. Not this side of Yōkai Town.
‘Run along, Smiler,’ said Dravot. ‘We’ll keep your spot warm till the Brysse piece turns up. If you bump into ’er, kick ’er up the jacksie and inform ’er she’s to wend her way ’ere sharpish, or we’ll want to know the reason why. Now, ’op to… lef’-right, lef’-right…’
Watson saluted and jogged off.
Kostaki opened the warehouse door.
‘We should check the sleepers,’ he said.
The temporary mausoleum was utilitarian. Stacks of crates under tarpaulins. Trunks of the sleepers’ belongings stored in a locked room, protected from pilferage. Larcenous dockworkers and sailors had been a problem since Plymouth. By the rules Kostaki laid down, guards were to take a turn of inspection around the warehouse at the beginning of every watch.
‘The snoozers can wait,’ said Dravot. ‘I’ve a thirst on.’
He swigged from a hip flask. His eyes glinted red. He wiped his dripping moustache with his hand. He offered Kostaki the flask. ‘Finest wild boar, fresh-bled on Mermaid Ancestor Place not an hour ago,’ he said. ‘With a pinch of pepper. It’s the stuff, Worshipful Brother. The stuff indeed.’
Kostaki thanked him and refused.
Dravot shrugged. ‘More for me, then. You know not of what you’re missin’. Savin’ the palate for more refined fare, are we?’Ave you requisitioned a nutritious, nibblesome Nipponese?’
Kostaki didn’t answer.
Dravot swallowed again and screwed the cap back. He sloshed the flask as a last temptation. ‘Billy Bottle’s stuck close through many a campaign,’ he said, patting the flask. ‘Seen me from brandy to blood. A better friend than a Bible is Billy Bottle. ’E’d stop a bullet for me.’
This morning, an elder – Arcueid Moonstar – woke in her box and pushed off the lid. She was disoriented after lassitude. Lady Geneviève had to give her salts. She remembered her name, but was patchy on how she came to be aboard the Macedonia. She’d gone to sleep in a long jersey, wool skirt and knit cap. She looked like a serious girl – a student or governess. She refused blood. Which was odd, but Kostaki didn’t draw attention to his own abstinence by asking about hers.
‘I dream of other stars,’ she said. ‘Cold stars.’
‘Another mouth to feed,’ commented Dravot. Except she wasn’t. ‘Another princess too, a princess from the moon,’ Dravot went on. ‘We’ve one too many as it is. Want to bet Tina Sparkles ’as the Moon Maid put down? What kind of a name is “Arkwayd” anyway? Anagrammatical or somesuch. ’Ave you heard of anyone else called that?’
‘I can’t think of anyone else named “Dravot” either.’
Dravot chuckled. ‘Not many to the pound, I admit. As your Scotchman says “’Ere’s tae us wha’s like us… damn few and they’re a’ deid.”’
‘“We’re a’ deid”, you mean.’
‘’Appen so, Brother Taki. ’Appen so.’
In London, Kostaki had known a Scotchman. A Scotsman, he would have said. Inspector Mackenzie. A warm man; an honourable officer. Danny Dravot killed him and arranged it so Kostaki was arrested for the murder. The Diogenes Club set out to damage the reputation of the Regiment. The Crimson Bums had a reputation worth damaging then.
In the Tower, Kostaki vowed to settle the debt but circumstances changed. He was released into a new world. The vampire who shot him in the knee and knifed Mackenzie in the back was his Lodge Brother. Kostaki discerned traces of Mackenzie in Dravot. Some vampires downed a jigger of soul alongside a pint pot of blood. In Dravot, somewhere, was the Scotsman’s fading ghost.
If circumstances changed again, Kostaki and Dravot might return to opposing lines. One could kill the other. Most likely, a duel would leave both truly dead. But any murdering would be professional. Execution, without rancour. Masonic loyalty superseded other allegiances.
Kostaki had told Dravot about the House of Broken Dolls, leaving out Miss Zark’s prediction and the mannequin Lady Geneviève.
He was warily on watch for the vampire doll and her puppet shows.
They walked past the statue by the gate. Guards inside hustled to point rifles at them.
Kostaki couldn’t see Lieutenant Majin. ‘I prefer it when Majin is there,’ he said. ‘In his place.’
‘That’s the cove we should mark closely, Brother Taki,’ Dravot said. ‘’E’s like a boy watchin’ red and black ants go to war. When ’e gets bored, ’e’ll empty a kettle of boilin’ water on the ’ole bloody lot of us.’
‘It’ll be black water… that wave of theirs. It’s daubed everywhere.’
‘The Lieutenant likes to splash it about. Bad ’abit, that. Ownin’ up when ’e doesn’t have to.’
‘He wants us to know it’s him, Dravot. That no one can stop him, that no one outside wants to stop him. He has his plans for this anthill.’
In Whitechapel, the Diogenes Club stung vampires and vampire haters alike. A tense situation was exacerbated. Fires were started. Inspector Mackenzie had seen through it.
‘To a copper, it’s the oldest game in town,’ the Scotsman said. ‘You stir up both sides, set them at each other like dogs. Then sit back and watch the fireworks.’
Was that stratagem being repeated in Yōkai Town?
Mackenzie had educated Kostaki in new ways of thinking – as, in a different way, had Danny Dravot. Neither would have been as easily fooled by Tsunako Shiki.
‘We should have heard from our spies,’ said Kostaki.
Dravot shrugged. ‘A slow sport, Brother Taki. Soldierin’ is football. Charge and ruck, ’ack and blast, boot the Spaniard’s ’ead into the back of the net. Cripple as many of the other lot as you can before the ref sees red. Then in the pub or down the bawdy house. ’Ooray, we’ve won! Now for a pie, a pint and a poke. All clear and above board and out in the open. Like you, Worshipful Brother. On the square, on the level. Espionage is cricket. The Great Game, they calls it. You falls asleep waitin’ your turn at bat… or stands about on the off-chance the ball will bonk you where you are. Scorin’ is arse-around-frontwise. Someone has to write it down in a notebook or else they lose track of ’oo’s winnin’. No one ’as to do that at a soccer match. It wears you down with its sluggardliness. Bop and run, bop and run… And it stretches out till sunset. Nothin’ ever settled. Bloody awful game, cricket. Played by gentlemen – which is to say, the worst pills and bounders turned out of Eton and Oxford and set loose to plague the four corners of the earth.’
In Moldavia, the accepted sport was fighting. Not boxing, wrestling or fencing – just fighting. Blow for blow, kick for kick, stab for stab, until the winner was standing, blooded. The loser was in the dirt, one way or the other. Kostaki excelled at that game – until Dracula told him he should not be content to fight other Moldavians. Turks were easier to put in the dirt and could be robbed of prizes. Moldavian losers had nothing worth taking. Even fighting was a poor sport, Dracula said, next to the proper pursuits of the Carpathian Guard – hunting… and killing.
Much rested on the Chinese assassin and the vampire mercenary. Within the walls of Yōkai Town, they risked stagnation at best… extermination at worst. Kostaki didn’t think the Princess was taking tea with the right people. Lady Oyotsu was polite and charming (if unnerving), but said little and gave away less. Conversation with her might be as useless as their visit to the feeble General who would never finish his letter. Kostaki had shared his worry with Lady Geneviève. Creatures powerful enough to face Dracula himself meekly accepted being penned like cattle. There was no lid to this cage – why didn’t the birds fly? Plenty here had wings. Once, these yōkai were formidable. They all trailed legends of their doings – revenges, murders, conquests, devastations. In the shadow of Majin’s statue, their fangs were sheathed.
His inclination was to take Lady Genevièv
e, at least, into their confidence. Dravot was against it. ‘The more in on the screw, the more likely it is to go awry.’
Kostaki couldn’t argue with that. But he was wary of more deceptions. They would not hold.
Someone scuttled towards them, disturbing the fog.
‘’Oo goes there?’ said Dravot, aiming his revolver. ‘Identify yourself, friend or foe, or be plugged through the noodle!’
Swirls and eddies. Hands stuck up and waved.
‘Mestres, mestres.’
Kichijiro threw himself at their feet.
‘This bastard again, eh,’ said Dravot, holstering his gun. ‘’Aven’t you a bone to pick with Mr Kitchikoko, Brother Taki? Somethin’ to do with a bagful of flirty pusses and a shabby trick played on Yokomori Street?’
The Renfield held his hands over his face and gabbled. ‘Misericórdia, misericórdia!’ He wailed and touched his head to the ground.
‘Mercy my eye,’ said Dravot. ‘Would you care to apply your size eleven to this bleeder’s bonce, Brother Taki? Or don’t you want the bother of scrapin’ him off after?’
The Renfield pleaded incoherently.
Kostaki was leery of the man. Once bitten…
But Kichijiro was never top of the bill. He was the warm-up act, the scene-setter. The Baptist, not the Redeemer. The bird who picked the crocodile’s teeth in return for not being eaten.
Kostaki looked into the fog. Golden eyes gleamed through murk. Cat’s eyes.
Dorakuraya.
While they were distracted by his Renfield, the Japanese vampire manifested.
Kostaki would severely discipline a sentry who let anyone get so close to a position without challenge.
The sleek silhouette coalesced from mist and darkness. Fog boiled out from under his cloak, pooling around his feet. His white scarf was a cold flame in the night.
And his eyes shone.
Dorakuraya came nearer, seeming to float on a cushion of mist, back straight and stiff as a ramrod. ‘My friends,’ he said.
‘Evenin’, squire,’ said Dravot.
‘My servant’s life is yours,’ said Dorakuraya. ‘Bleed him as you like. Drain him and toss him away.’
‘Not too peckish at the moment, thank you very much,’ said Dravot, patting the flask in his pocket. ‘Supped my fill tonight.’
Kostaki’s red thirst was keen as a sickle. Dorakuraya’s golden eyes – small full moons – affected him. Even a scrap as meagre as the Renfield was a sore temptation, for the blood was the life, and the life was delicious.
It had been so long without feeding.
He was mad to think he could hold to the pledge. A vampire who did not drink blood was not a vampire. Not a man, not even a ghost… nothing.
He tried to look away from Dorakuraya’s eyes.
‘Can we assist you?’ Dravot asked. ‘Brother Taki and me are always disposed to be of the ’elpful persuasion.’
‘I come to offer succour,’ said Dorakuraya, ‘and a prospect of eternal prosperity. As is fitting for such as we.’
‘Most generous, I’m sure, sir—’
Dorakuraya’s hand emerged from his cloak. He stretched his long fingers and held up his lightly furred palm in a gesture of command. The Sergeant stopped talking. Dorakuraya wasn’t looking at Dravot – just at Kostaki.
In a finger-snap, Dorakuray amoved closer still. The fog was agitated. A damp, intangible whirlpool. He stood between Kostaki and the silenced Dravot. Hair red as copper, golden eyes shining bright… chilling, calming, fascinating.
Kostaki remembered Dracula in the village square. His first sight of the Prince. A general, acting as his own recruiting sergeant. A pile of bloodied, chipped enemy swords at his feet. He fixed his gaze on first one youth, then another, then on Kostaki. He kicked a curved sword up in the air. Kostaki caught it. The hilt slapped into his hand with a sting. The blade completed him. Later, turning vampire was nothing compared to that moment, when Kostaki the fighter became Kostaki the soldier. Already, though he didn’t know the word, he was a Templar.
In his memory, the face of Dracula – moustached, pockmarked, gaunt – faded. The clean-shaven, paler, rounder Dorakuraya formed in its place. The Japanese vampire – get of a red-headed Jesuit, son of the Black Mass – stood in that Moldavian square. Before his arrival, Kostaki’s course was set and inevitable. A few years’ ruinous toil in field or forest, a bony wife and more stillbirths than sons, a drunkard’s death in a stream or a neighbour’s dirk in the back. The Impaler took him away from that.
Now, transfixed, he believed Dorakuraya carried the Dracula bloodline.
Kostaki remembered his first moments as a newborn, get of none, looking up, with changed eyes, at the proud Prince. Dracula had a grip on his own sword blade, cutting his heavy glove and slicing into his hand. He squeezed vampire blood onto the battlefield like a farmer watering crops. Kostaki had never admitted it until now, even to himself, but he was the Impaler’s bastard, turned in the shambles of war, recruited from one army into another.
Others too were blessed – or cursed – like him. It was no honour. Dracula was profligate and wasteful. Many of his get did not survive their first night. Even those who fought well and drank the foeman’s blood might combust at the first rays of dawn. The Prince sent wave after wave of mayfly berserker nosferatu against his enemies, never shy of adding to the butcher’s bill. Kostaki lasted that first night. A spark of caution, battle-won wisdom, and perhaps something more – something he owed his father-in-darkness – fit him for his new condition. After all, he was still here.
Over Dorakuraya’s shoulder, Kostaki saw Dravot’s mouth open and close. No words issued that he could hear.
Kostaki’s impulse was to draw his sword.
But he could not. He was held by Dorakuraya’s eyes.
Dorakuraya’s cloak parted like theatre curtains. He tossed his scarf over his shoulder and pulled open his shirt, diamond-shaped nails deftly popping buttons out of holes to reveal his bare, muscular chest. His flesh was the white of old tomb marble. Sparse black hairs sprouted from his chest. Red veins threaded through slabs of muscle. On one breast was tattooed a gold-eyed red bat, a ragged wing extended like a Hokusai wave.
With a long, sharp thumbnail, Dorakuraya pricked his flesh. Blood trickled, gold as his eyes. A shining river.
Kostaki tasted the blood, just by looking at it. It flowed over his tongue, down his throat, into his belly.
Warmth, rapture, wonder.
‘Drink deep, my friend,’ said Dorakuraya. ‘Drink… and behold…’
* * *
In the castle, he was visited by the Master’s three wives.
Mouths he knew well. They had kisses for him. Pearl white teeth, voluptuous ruby lips. Ladies, by their dress and manner. Wantons, under the velvet.
Tina, Drusey… Gené.
Light, dark… and blonde.
A sane woman, a mad child… and a lady elder.
Calm, wild… and delicious.
Kostaki’s knee didn’t trouble him. His mind was clear. His red thirst was slaked.
The Master was pleased with his good and faithful service.
Dracula.
No, the Master was something more than Dracula.
The Master was a golden-eyed vampire saint.
He was in a vaulted space, flagstones swept clean, vermin banished. Moonlight shone through tall mullioned windows. Pure, clear Templar voices sang the Ave Satani in the Black Chapel.
He sat on a plush divan. He was divested of his sword-belt, but it hung within his reach. The jewel on his pommel shone like a star.
The pale women plied him with warm blood from golden goblets. They took turns on his lap. Their bodies had warmth, but no weight. They wound slim fingers in his moustaches, traced his scars with pointed tongues, pressed cool lips to his. They tasted like sweet wine.
They laughed, like little bells. They stretched, like Persian cats. Their touch was gentle, fangs and claws sheathed.
Three faces beca
me one. A six-armed Kali folded into a single body.
The woman in his arms was not the Master’s. But his own. Kostaki’s wife.
Cat’s eyes. Golden irises. Black velvet pupils.
Lady Geneviève’s eyes… and her face, mostly. Her lips, her nose, her chin.
But Drusilla Zark’s cheekbones. Christina Light’s complexion. Arcueid Moonstar’s near-white hair. Francesca Brysse’s long legs and arched shoulders. Carmilla Karnstein’s hourglass shape, waist cinched in the fashion of the late eighteenth century. Elizabeth Báthory’s slender hands, nails polished scarlet. Clare Mallinger’s strange sleeping smile, the web-mesh of her cocoon laid over her mouth like fine lace. The infinite nape of Lady Oyotsu’s neck. The rumps of the girls of his village, finest in Moldavia. The wickedness of the bakeneko of the House of Broken Dolls. The wit of the women of the salons of London and Paris. The devotion of the nuns of Arcangelo, the compassion of the nurses of Sebastopol. The warmth of his mother, the sinew of his sisters, the spirit of daughters he’d not had and other men’s daughters he’d wished were his own. The love of all.
His vampire wife.
‘Kostaki,’ she breathed.
There was honour, reward and satisfaction. He was a worshipful Brother of the Order of the Knights Templar, he was a Commandant of the Carpathian Guard, he was high in the councils of the King of the Cats.
He was the heart’s blood, the brains, the sword of the Draculas. His father-in-darkness acknowledged him. For was not Dracula a generous master?
‘Are you satisfied, my lord?’ asked his wife.
He answered her without words.
* * *
A forest of stakes was raised within sight of the castle, tall and straight as the trees cut down and stripped to make them. The Master’s enemies hung twenty feet or more above bloody earth. Bodies twisted, pressed onto impaling stakes by their own weight, insides displaced. Ravens pecked eyes. Dogs lapped the pooling blood. Oaths and prayers coughed out of throats too torn for screaming. The enemy suffered, but did not die. Their lot was an eternity of well-earned pain.
Turks, first and always. Turbans nailed to their heads, pig parts stuffed in their mouths to mock their faith, cuts in their flanks dribbling thin blood.
