by Kim Newman
The Number! There is no such thing as the Number!
The familiar, seeping into his mind. He shut out the womanly, cowardly voice.
He looked into the ice, and raised his sword to cut deep.
The familiar pawed his boots, feebly now. She had lost a lot of precious blood.
He could taste that too. The blood of a wretch. No, the blood of…
(He saw her face – fair as her spirit. He remembered her strength, her gentleness, her refusal to back down, her grace and wit…)
…of a lady elder.
Strike now. Strike.
‘Don’t,’ said the familiar.
Why stay your hand, Captain? You have been given a direct order.
‘It’s not him, Kostaki,’ said the injured woman. ‘Not Dracula.’
Her words were a blow to his heart. A stiletto of ice to his brain.
There is no such thing as the Number!
Sword raised, he turned to the Master and saw red hair and deception. An inverted cross. The dream of glory was written across ice. The Seven were a phantasm – their image collapsed and ran, turned to water. The sun shone, melting the lies.
Not the sun: Lady Geneviève. And the one in the ice: Christina Light.
A gift, polished like silver. A light, bright as the sun.
Both pure, both poison to evil. And poison to him.
Something had tainted his mind. In this place, in the madness of fasting, in exile from his father-in-darkness and the fountainhead of his bloodline, he had let himself be fooled over and over. A tittering girl-thing with puppets, the cat-women, heartless and trivial, and this sham Dracula, this cast-off by-blow, this get of a fallen priest, this jumped-up faker.
Not Dracula, not Dorakuraya, not the Master, but Nemuri, Nemo, No One.
Fear sparked in the Japanese vampire’s eyes, then cunning – and his shining sword came out from under his cloak.
The lady elder tried to pull herself upright, grabbing Kostaki’s leg and the rim of the tomb. She coughed blood.
Kostaki knew what he had done, and burned with shame, terror, regret.
In his madness, he had lost something.
He would take it back.
28
YOKAI TOWN, DECEMBER 22, 1899 (CONTINUED)
Don’t just lie there, bleeding! Get up and stop the fool!
I knew it wasn’t Kostaki but the vampire behind him.
Oh, the Captain had run his sword through me all right. It’s just that he didn’t mean it. He was on strings, like Tsunako Shiki’s puppets. Kostaki’s little pest shared Drusilla’s penchant for unhelpful prophecy. She had told me to worry about who was playing the tune not who was doing the dance.
Don’t get distracted. This is more important.
You are the distraction. Nom d’une chienne qui fumée! I need to concentrate on my pain… on the blood I’m losing…
You’ll get it back in no time. You’re a vampire, remember?
A vampire who’s been impaled on a silvered sword.
Through the liver? No elder ever died from a stake through the liver.
You’re not a doctor, Christina. I am. Severe trauma to any vital organ can be fatal to a vampire. Especially if enough silver remains in the wound to cause gangrene.
Excellent! You’re boring me with medical lectures again. You must be recovering.
Kostaki’s carrack was good quality. The silvering wouldn’t come off. Shoddier electroplating made for deadlier (if dishonourable) weaponry. A true Carpathian Guardsman would kill enemies outright – not wait weeks as they lingered on their deathbeds, ravaged by symptoms akin to tertiary syphilis.
Gené, talk to Kostaki. Get through to him.
As he’s got through to me!
If you’re going to be like that about it…
Now who sounds like a governess?
I do not sound like a governess!
Now that’s a princess talking!
I do not believe in rank. That does not make me the same as a…
A servant?
A lackey of the corrupt bourgeoisie.
I tried to shut the buzzing voice out of my head.
In the delirium of pain, I saw black tendrils flowing from the redheaded vampire’s fingers, wrapping around Kostaki’s head like mummy bandages. A blindfold, a gag, tethers. Puppet strings.
I saw the trick.
Kostaki himself had warned me about the man, brother to Mr Bats. ‘A red-headed devil in a black cloak. He has his own ambitions. A priest of Satan, he calls himself Dorakuraya. He sees himself as the Dracula of the East.’
Dorakuraya.
Kostaki stood over Yuki-Onna, and raised his sword.
‘Don’t…’ I said. I sounded weak in my own head.
Dorakuraya’s ribbons streamed like banners – they were not entirely visible, but as I bled out, I saw beyond the normal range. He raised his hands, fingers dramatically crooked, hands shaped into claws or grapples. So, another conjurer – like Majin, like Tsunako. Like Dracula.
Vampires with powers of fascination all have a repertoire of hypnotic gestures. The Marquis de Coulteray and I once spent an evening trying to learn the trick. Neither of us could twist our hands into the required shapes. At least, not without breaking bones. Giving up the effort, de Coulteray concluded, ‘It’s no use… for this, you have to be double-jointed and Transylvanian!’
Dorakuraya, a long way from Transylvania. A conjurer – but also a poseur. Dressed in European style, hair redder than natural, assuming another vampire’s mantle, even mangling his name.
And not doing his own dirty work.
There must be a reason for that.
‘It’s not him, Kostaki,’ I said. ‘Not Dracula.’
Good girl. That’ll get through to the gallant Captain. Make him look at you, make him see what he’s done. That’ll rattle him back to his senses.
Kostaki didn’t thrust his sword into Yuki-Onna’s heart.
If Dorakuraya wanted her impaled, why not do it himself? He might have needed us – or at least O-Same – to penetrate the ice and reach the heart of the maze under the temple, but he had a sword, a strong arm and a clear shot.
Because it’s dangerous to disturb the Woman of the Snow.
Ah, yes.
For instance… look at me.
Christina was stuck in a wall of ice. How had that happened?
How do you think?
Did you try to kill Yuki-Onna?
Certainly not, though I am opposed on principle to tyrants of all types, including vampire royalty. No better than warm monarchs. All of them murderers. No, I reasoned it out. Why didn’t Majin just destroy us all?
As he is doing now?
Quite. Out of desperation. Proving my point.
Which is?
I thought you wanted me to stop buzzing.
You are extraordinary, Christina.
So noted, Sister Gené. My point is that Majin – the Demon Man – is afraid of Yuki-Onna, the Winter Witch. He doesn’t think he can face her straight on. While she hibernates, he can pick away at us. If she wakes, he’s got a problem.
So you tried to wake her. With what? A firm shoulder shake and a cup of tea?
Light.
Ah, that makes sense. You drew the curtains.
I illuminated the tomb, and this happened… this explosion of ice.
You were lucky. Anyone else would have been killed. Yuki-Onna would drain the life from them.
Which is why Count Carrot-Top is having a marionette do his killing for him.
Yes, of course.
You hadn’t thought of that.
Now you mention it, it’s obvious.
I saw it. You didn’t.
Yes, fine, fair enough. Not really the best time to gloat, is it? You’re embedded in ice and I’m bleeding to true death.
You’ll be fine.
If Kostaki mortally wounded the Woman of the Snow, she would blast him to icicles before she died. Look what happened to Christina when she just tried to rouse Yuki-O
nna. Dorakuraya would wade through the shattered, frozen corpse pieces of his catspaw and inhale the Ice Queen’s final breath. He would assume her mastery of the cold. He would be the Man of the Snow, the Winter Warlock. Majin, the Emperor, Black Ocean and whoever else stood in his way would be slain. We refugees might rate a blast of chill air to clear us into the sea, but no more. Dorakuraya would eventually stand against Dracula. Those who venerate to the extent of copying always nurture secret desire to topple and replace idols.
A cunning, mean, cowardly path to glory, but so were they all.
While I shivered at a horrible, possible future, Kostaki overcame his most implacable opponent – himself.
He looked at me.
At last, I saw an expression on his dead face. Horror, at what he had done. Regret, close to hysteria. I’d feel bad if I stabbed a close ally too – but I’m flexible in ways Kostaki isn’t.
I was no longer worried he’d try to kill me again. I don’t believe he was even trying to kill me when he stabbed me. The Carpathian Guard are famously good at killing people, yet I wasn’t dead. No – I’d just been in his way.
As Kostaki shook off Dorakuraya’s puppet strings, I was afraid he’d realise what he’d done and be broken in himself. Honour was his straitjacket. He abided by a code Dracula’s party had long since abandoned. Only someone as stubbornly idealistic could have been so sorely abused.
Idealistic? He’s still Dracula’s get.
Kostaki turned to face Dorakuraya, who produced a sword.
I tried to get up. Every move was agony. My wounds had healed, but my side was numb from silver. I couldn’t feel my right leg or foot.
I got a grip on Kostaki’s leg and hauled myself off the floor. I reached out to steady myself. My palm seared on the icy rim of the tomb.
The ice ground and cracked as Yuki-Onna turned to look up at us.
She was no longer asleep.
Mr Bats stood on the other side of the tomb, frowning. He chewed his attempt at a moustache. Would he side with us or his brother-in-darkness?
With shaking hands, Topazia pulled back the lock of her ancient pistol.
The ice wall shimmered. Christina, light with no heat, was coruscating… but still couldn’t break out of her glacier prison. The cold grip wasn’t just ice. It was the living aura of the Woman of the Snow. She controlled winter as Dracula controls wolves. And she kept the Princess away from her.
My blood was sprayed on the ice above Yuki-Onna’s elongated face. It seeped down to her. Fine stuff, my blood. Of the line of Melissa d’Acques. Yet it has been spurned by so many. Annie of the Black Island refused it, that toothsome hussar in Russia didn’t take to it, Lily Mylett of Whitechapel died despite it and, just now, Popejoy preferred bitter willow sap. Even you, Charles, had to have your nose pinched to make you open your mouth to swallow your medicine and a fruit pastille popped in afterwards to take the taste away. Finally, someone wanted my blood. A considerable someone, at that. The Woman of the Snow summoned my spillage. Rivulets wound between shards of ice. Rosy crystals formed and worked their way through cracks. Yuki-Onna’s mouth opened slightly. Red on her lips… in her eyes…
So, the sacrifice that raised the Sleeping Beauty was me.
You knew you were the heroine of this song.
The tragic heroine.
Watch the men fight over you. You’ll love that.
And you don’t? What about those duels of frog lords and heron marquises? You were smug about that.
Politics. Not romance.
I sat up, hand pressed to my side. I still couldn’t stand. Feeling was coming back – mostly itching. Aside from everything else, I had a bad case of red thirst. With so much blood lost, I needed to feed.
Mr Bats walked round the tomb with a distinctive slouching swagger. Taking a position midway between Kostaki and his brother-in-darkness, he looked at them both in turn. With a grunt, he aligned himself with the Captain and against Dorakuraya.
The two samurai regarded each other. Kostaki, honourable fool, stood aside.
‘It was always going to end this way between us,’ said Dorakuraya. ‘My tamiya-ryu discipline against your hyoho niten ichi-ryu style. It has never been settled which is best. That falls to us.’
‘You are my brother, Nemuri,’ said Mr Bats. ‘I thank you for cutting off the head of the apostate Rodrigues. You avenged our deaths. But I see our father-in-darkness in you now and nothing more. You must be ended.’
Mr Bats drew both his katana and wakizashi and assumed the ‘Two Heavens, One School’ stance, long and short swords raised over the head. Dorakuraya was master of the engetsu sappo – the full-moon cut. An anticlockwise circular motion, counting backwards to the moment of attack. This favours a long-handled sword. I anticipated impressing devotees of sword-fighting (chanbara) with accounts of how this ended.
Mr Bats advanced one step.
But Dorakuraya wasn’t truly interested in the ancient question of which school of swordplay is best. He wanted to win.
Rather than counter Mr Bats’ stance with his own, Dorakuraya threw himself to one side, thrusting his sword through the back of his cape, skewering Topazia through the heart – her eyes bulged with shock – and slamming her against the wall. Her pistol slipped from her grip and Dorakuraya snatched for it.
‘Ave Satani,’ he whispered, ecstatic in treachery.
Mr Bats scowled at such base behaviour but Topazia wasn’t having it. Her eyes were dead but her tail had a final twitch.
Her pistol fell… and her tail batted it out of Dorakuraya’s reach. The weapon flew across the chamber, turning over and over. It fell on the ice, and didn’t go off.
His base gambit a failure, Dorakuraya tried to wrest his sword from Topazia’s ribcage. All thought of an honourable match was abandoned – for who could duel with a killer of defenceless women? Kostaki and Mr Bats closed on the ginger poltroon. They executed precise moves. Blades passed through unresisting flesh and bone. A seeping diagonal cut Dorakuraya’s face from forehead to cheek. The cap of his head slid away, eye still blinking. Petre Gheria would have marked the dissection A minus. The brain-pan was sliced like a breakfast egg. Grey matter, surprised by exposure to cold air, became solid. Pink frost formed on gnarled whorls.
Dorakuraya was transfixed by Kostaki’s straight sword and Mr Bats’ wakizashi.
Collapsing inside his black mantle, the half-headless vampire took three steps towards the tomb and pitched over the rim, splaying on the ice. Strawberry dust poured away from his bones. His skeleton crumbled and became a man-length heap of grit. His scarlet-lined cloak dissolved as if soaked in acid. In moments, Dorakuraya was just powder, settling into the ice, following my blood, inhaled by Yuki-Onna.
In aping Dracula, Dorakuraya had succeeded only in dramatising the end of Stoker’s novel – where a kukri and a bowie knife sever the head and pierce the heart of the imaginary Count and he turns to ash.
All that was left of the Man Who Would Be King of the Cats was an upside-down crucifix. The damned thing was silver.
I wanted to go to Topazia, but my side still hurt too much. Nothing could be done for her anyway.
Alas, poor Monkey Minx.
She did better than either of us.
We’re not done yet. Look at the Cold Girl.
The ice bed was crimson – stained by my blood and Dorakuraya’s dust. Stately and with elegance, Yuki-Onna rose from her tomb, stiff as an unfolding knife blade. She stood, taller even than she’d seemed, cloak of hair draped over her shoulders, hanging to her ankles.
She was hungry. And the hunger of winter can never be satiated.
Ancient witch-queens tend not to distinguish between lesser folk. Those who would worship at their altars and those who would defile their graves look much the same in their eyes. Yuki-Onna might make an exception for the odd handsome woodcutter but this was not that sad song. This was the seventy-year winter. The battle that ended with one survivor. For cold is eternal.
As is…
<
br /> Very clever, Christina.
As is?
Light. Light is forever.
So…
I scooped up Topazia’s flintlock, trying not to think of Kawataro’s ill-maintained Colt blowing up in Kostaki’s hand. This pistol was centuries older than that. I didn’t know who’d owned the weapon. Had it been lovingly kept in a case all these years? Or just tossed in a trunk and dug out in desperation? In this icehouse, the powder would be frozen and the flint wouldn’t strike.
But we had one ball’s chance. A silver ball, I trusted.
Brave heart, Gené, said Christina.
Mille milliards de monstres mauvaises!I responded.
I looked up at Yuki-Onna, the beautiful, the terrible. Hair black as night, face white as snow, lips red as roses.
She smiled, lacquered black fangs like a bear trap.
Kostaki looked at the gun and shook his head. He thought it a feeble weapon against such a monster.
And so it was.
I didn’t fire at her.
I pointed at the wall – just above Christina’s head…
Just above! You’ve aimed directly at my face, Gené dear!
‘Fiat lux,’ I said.
I pulled the trigger.
A miracle! The pistol discharged, with a sulphurous puff.
The flash was mirrored, redoubled and repeated, all around the tomb. I closed my eyes, but was dazzled all the same. My ears rang from the percussive explosion.
I blinked uselessly. The flashes continued.
Ice cracked where the ball struck, as if a chisel hit a hidden fault. The pellet was held fast, inches from Christina’s red eye. She was right about my aim.
Great slabs calved from the wall and crashed to the floor. The genie was out of the bottle. And the Princess was free.
The Woman of the Light flew into the Woman of the Snow.
So cold…
What did you expect?
You have no idea. So cold, and so much more.
Yuki-Onna still stood over us. One of her eyes was red. The other shone.
Are you in there, Christina? Are you wearing her?
It’s not like that.
Then where are you? I only see her.
Look again.
Yuki-Onna was enveloped in a sparkling glow like a raiment of many jewels. The Princess wrapped around her – another puppeteer, but with a willing marionette. The lesson is work with the strings, not against them. From their entwined persons radiated an aurora borealis, though not very northern, so aurora orientalis, the Light of the East. They were heart-stopping in their beauty.
