by Kim Newman
The truth is I was delayed and passed on the information only minutes before the attack. If my report reached the German High Command, I would think them too busy gloating over dead Frenchmen to take notice. Mireau's colossal plan was to attack at dawn. That was it. He ordered twenty minutes' bombardment to clear the barbed wire and wake the German gunners, then breakfasted on cognac, snug in his field headquarters while a hundred thousand brave poilus climbed from the trenches to be chopped up by concentrated mortar and machine-gun fire. I'm a whore with no more notion of military tactics than a goose, but even I saw the plan was astonishingly obvious. Attack at dawn, I ask you! Why not a token feint to draw fire, duping the enemy into signalling guns positions, then specific bombardments to eliminate defensive positions, then the big attack? Does it not seem strange I can come up with a sounder plan than the fabulous General Mireau? It is no wonder the ass is insistent I be executed (at dawn, of course), for fear Hindenburg might call upon my services as a strategist. Then again, I'm sure Germany has a surfeit of five-year-old schoolboys who could draw up battle plans that would baffle and overwhelm the good general.
Kate Reed had said as much in her articles on L'affaire Mireau.
'Hit 'em hard,' Drummond said, 'at dawn! Wake the blighters up with cold silver.' This was a war fought by ferocious idiots.
Charles, you want to hear about the Château du Malinbois. Very well. It is the current headquarters of Jagdgeschwader 1, the group commanded by Baron von Richthofen. The press is full of their daring deeds. The expression 'Flying Circus' arose because of the unit's manoeuvrability. They have the knack of packing everything on to a train and moving to new positions. Early in the war, the Baron defied orders that his aircraft be painted en camouflage and insisted the machine be bright scarlet. Actually, as anyone who has tried to find a red ball in green grass will tell you, a red aeroplane blends surprisingly with the landscape. And by night, even to vampire eyes, red is black. It may be a surprise to you, but Germany's sky-high heroes are not universally beloved by their muddier comrades. The press blathers about the aerial feats of Richthofen's Flying Circus, but ground troops, and even fliers not assigned to JG1, call the squadron 'the Flying Freak Show'. The term is not inappropriate.
Malinbois is also a centre for research, under the directorship of Professor Ten Brincken. From my nights as a bride of Dracula, I recall this scientist as a supplicant at the court. The palace was always full of crackpots of one stripe or another. The Graf is a fiend for modernity, as bedazzled by trains and flying machines as a small boy. The professor, one of a parade of geniuses, was granted a private audience with the Graf. I saw him then, a broad-shouldered warm brute, glowering as he paced outside Dracula's office. I understood he was not an inventor but a biological researcher. My instant judgement was that I did not like the man. His face was storm-clouded and about him was a creepy aura. At that time, there was a craze among some of the living for injecting themselves with extremely dilute doses of silver salts. Having thus polluted their blood, they felt safe from the thirsty undead. Even had Ten Brincken not taken such precautions, I doubt I should have cared to taste his greasy blood.
When ordered to pay a visit to Malinbois, I assumed I was to be an ornament. Fliers are notorious for their parties. Germany indulges its heroes, and what greater indulgence could there be than Mata Hari?
I arrived late in the afternoon and was greeted by Ten Brincken, who had me strip in his surgery. He subjected me to an intimate examination, as if I were a horse destined for the auctioneer's block. Yes, he graded my teeth. With all manner of callipers and probes, he noted even the minutest measurements. I have no qualms about being naked in public, but I was not comfortable with the professor's prying fingers. He took a sample of my blood for analysis and placed the phial in a cool cabinet with many other labelled specimens. He asked me to shape- shift, to become a wolf or a bat. I refused. I do not perform magic tricks. He again demanded. In the examination room also was a uniformed officer, General Karnstein. He kindly ordered me to accede to Ten Brincken's request.
The Karnstein bloodline, which had its source in Styria, was one of the most distinguished in Europe. The General, one of Dracula's devoted allies in Austria-Hungary, was elder chieftain of his family-in-darkness. His involvement implied the Central Powers considered Malinbois a big show.
I changed, completely. I cannot explain. I simply think of one of my shapes and my body becomes malleable. I flow into another form. Like most of Dracula's get, I can take the shape of what I am told is a dire wolf, prehistoric terror of Europe. In Java, I learned the snake dance. I was the lover of a Malay elder, a pontianak. I have some of his blood in me. It sets me apart from the common nosferatu. For Ten Brincken and the general, I assumed snake-shape then sloughed the new skin. Ten Brincken caressed the cast-off as if it gave him pleasure, holding it to the light and admiring rainbows in the scales. All men, Charles, are putty in my jewelled fingers, so they say.'
Winthrop tried to envision Mata Hari's snake-shape. He had never seen her famous Javanese Snake Dance, but had heard accounts from besotted devotees.
Karnstein said I reminded him of some lost daughter-in-darkness who could become a large black cat. He likes new-born girls, that one. I knew if I turned my attention to the general, I could enslave him. Few elders are complicated. They may be powerful, but subtlety is beyond them. Ten Brincken filled out his charts and I was dismissed.
'A wing of the château was set aside for those like me, courtesans. Rooms were stocked with unguents and face- paints. There were trunks of costumes. Much of the finery was rotted. I could tell this revel had been planned by men with little knowledge of or interest in debauchery.
'I was not the only delight at this banquet. Other women and one youth, all vampires, were provided. In the dressing room, I found Lady Marikova, one of the wife creatures who served Dracula in his Transylvanian exile. She had to be attended by Lola-Lola - a sharp, fat new-born minx - lest she get into a snit and murder an admirer. Old vampire bitches are terrible things, but pathetic. Also on the guest list were Sadie Thompson, an American adventuress with dead black eyes; the Baron Meinster, a golden-haired, girlish rake; Faustine, leading ornament of a Venetian brothel; and an elegant elder, Lemora. All whores of no little skill, we had another thing in common between us. We were all Dracula's get.'
Dawn broke outside. Trees lined the railway track, many bent and broken. The fields were grey, thin snow layered over mud. The train neared Amiens. Winthrop heard the eternal muttering of the guns. Drummond flinched in the thin light and hauled down a blind.
Every schoolboy knew the spread of vampirism throughout the civilised world was almost entirely Dracula's responsibility. Before the 1880s, only a few superstitious souls believed in the undead. Dracula upset the board and set out the pieces in a new configuration. Vampirism spread from him, but his immediate get were fewer than some imagined. During his residence in England, he turned only three: Lucy Westenra, Wilhelmina Harker and Queen Victoria. Mrs Harker, now entirely forgiven and penitent, was his chosen conduit, extending the bloodline wholesale.
Many claimed to be Dracula's get but were usually merely of his line, many times removed from the source. So many of the breed gathered in one place was significant.
Baron Meinster and Lady Lemora, at least, were at the château against their wishes. Only one could have so much power over elders. As I said, our father-in-darkness never lets his get go free. We are all his slaves.
It seemed strange we should have been assembled. I was under the impression most, if not all, fliers were vampires themselves. Surely, a fitter reward for their valiant deeds would be a cattle-cart of strong-hearted, sweet-blooded warm wenches. They are not hard to find. I am sure the allies feed their own heroes in the same manner ...
So far as Winthrop knew, this was not true.
At the stroke of midnight - another predictable melodramatic touch - we were escorted down to the Great Hall by liveried attendants. The men of JG1 sto
od to attention in full uniform before the vast fireplace. Lit from behind by pure flame, the fliers did seem the demigods the press would have them. Many a broad chest was insufficient to accommodate an accumulation of decorations. In this hall, Pour le Merites were as common as brass buttons. The odd thing was that the Circus seemed turned out for a parade inspection, rather than, as I frankly expected, an orgy.
We were presented individually, announced to the company by General Karnstein. Then Ten Brincken passed among us, one of his infernal lists clipped to a board. Like a dance director, he paired us off. Thompson was assigned to a predator named Bruno Stachel; Faustine with Erich von Stalhein; Meinster with a sad flier who preferred boys, Friedrich Murnau; Lemora with von Emmelman. Ten Brincken conducted business like a pig-farmer supervising a scientific breeding experiment.
When my turn came, I was offered to Manfred von Richthofen. I believe this suggests my status as Germany's première harlot. Strange as it seems, the Baron did not find the prospect of my attentions especially appealing. Other fliers passed comments or made enthusiastic noises when paired off. One or two couples - including Meinster and his flittery flyboy - were already embracing, drawing gentle blood. Ten Brincken was irritated by this immodest abandon but more tolerant of it than of the Baron's flat refusal. I confess I was somewhat surprised, even hurt. Any of these fliers could be dead within the night. In such a situation, a man is entitled to what pleasures may come within his grasp.
Winthrop thought of Cundall's Condors and 'mademoiselle'.
The Baron's brother, Lothar von Richthofen, was delighted to be given the Lady Marikova and her maid Lola-Lola, but distracted himself to try to jolly the Baron into going with me. As Lothar cajoled, I looked closely at Baron von Richthofen. I had imagined a giant but he is of moderate stature. His eyes are ice-blue and something is lacking in them. He is devoted, I understand, to hunting and has little interest in other pursuits. The hall is decorated with trophies of his kills but he is not as boastful as others with lesser scores. My impression is that he is not even a great patriot, merely a pure-bred hunting dog.
Winthrop remembered Albright's dry corpse and tried to envision the thing which had emptied him in mid-air.
Ten Brincken was agitated when one of his associates, a Dr Krueger, pointed out some were getting ahead of themselves. Stalhein's head was thrown back, eyes glazing as Faustine nibbled him. An attendant pulled the girl away and held her back. Her eyes were red and she had a full set of fangs. She panted like a cat, tiny blood dribbles on her chin.
'You must not drink from these men,' Ten Brincken ordered, 'you must let them drink from you. This is of vital importance. Those who disobey will be punished.'
The stress Ten Brincken laid on the word 'punished' was curiously sickening. I did not wish to discover what punishment he had conceived for us immortals.
Stalhein adjusted his collar and shook his head. Lothar was still trying to coax the Baron, who stood with arms resolutely crossed, Blue Max glinting on his breast.
As I said, many elders drink only the blood of other vampires. It is a way of taking on the strength of new lines. But the diet does not suit most new-borns. The Circus are, mainly, young in darkness, barely a year or two out of their graves. It is common in Germany and Austria-Hungary for the sons of the aristocracy to be turned in their eighteenth or nineteenth year. The blood of Dracula's immediate get is strong. The merest pinprick, squeezed onto your tongue, would be enough to turn you ...
Winthrop had the impression Mata Hari was flirting with Beauregard. He wished he had been present at the interview; so much meaning was lost without the inflection.
... and a taste would be enough to madden most new-borns. When nosferatu go mad, they lose control of their shape-shifting talents. It is not a pleasant way to die. Ten Brincken was playing a very dangerous game. Either he cared not for the survival of these heroes, or else he was confident of their qualities. I have no doubt the first condition is in some measure true: Ten Brincken strikes me as a warm man fascinated and terrified by vampires. But I also think it a fair bet that any flier who had earned a place in JG1 would have the right stuff to taste the blood of Dracula’s get and profit from the infusion.
'Drink their blood,' Ten Brincken ordered, 'it is important.'
Lothar opened his mouth, transforming it into a snout bristling with teeth, and fastened himself to Marikova's swan-neck, chewing flesh, lapping spurting blood with a long tongue. The elder's wounds healed instantly, so Lothar tore again, smearing his face with precious gore.
'See, Manfred,' he said, voice surprisingly human through wolfish lips, 'it is not so difficult.'
Lothar's clawed hands rent Marikova's ball-gown, and his jaws tore her breasts and belly. He pushed the elder on to a divan and licked her open wounds. Lola-Lola held her mistress down, whispering soothing words into her ear, gripping her hand like a midwife helping a woman through childbirth. Marikova's face was frozen in indignation, but she was strong with the strength of centuries. I did not know if I could survive the rough treatment Lothar von Richthofen was meting out to Dracula's wife.
'Baron von Richthofen,' General Karnstein addressed the flier, 'it is necessary. For the war.'
The Baron looked at me without passion, without contempt, without interest. I cannot convey the emptiness of his eyes. Some nosferatu have a deadness in their heart that has nothing to do with true death. We vampires exaggerate the qualities of our warm days. You can imagine the traits I have carried over and amplified from life. In Richthofen, there .must have been a coldness, a need to retreat from physical and emotional contact. For such a man to be a vampire, to be eternally dependent on such contact, must be very like perdition.
Winthrop could not bring himself to pity the Bloody Red Baron.
'Very well,' Manfred said, the good soldier obeying an order. He stepped forwards, close to me. I saw healed scars on his handsome, square face. Under his cropped hair was a fading red weal. He had recently been shot in the head.
'Madame,' he held out his hand. I took it. A queerly boyish look passed across his face, as if he did not know what to do next. I believe he had never before been with a woman.
Ten Brincken nodded to one of the attendants, who slipped my peignoir from my shoulders.
'You appear to be in excellent health,' he remarked.
Other fliers followed Lothar's example. Stalhein had Faustine pinned down, and drank from her slit wrist as from a public water fountain. Meinster opened his dressing gown like batwings and moaned in a species of pleasure as Murnau knelt before him, sucking intimate wounds.
Manfred dipped his head and touched a sharp tongue to my neck. When I say sharp, I mean it literally. Some vampires have barbed points in their tongues, to pierce their companions' skin. The Baron clamped his mouth to my wound and sucked, ferociously. I felt points of pain and an ocean of pleasure. I was near swooning. The experience had not been this intense since Dracula took me for the first time. I was warm again, alive.
'Not too much, Baron,' said Ten Brincken, tapping Manfred's shoulder. 'It can be dangerous.'
I wanted to push him away but I had to hold him to me. I felt myself dwindling.
'Baron,' Ten Brincken nearly shouted, fear lost in his devotion to science, 'enough!'
I shook. My vision clouded red. I was dying again. We can kill each other, Charles. I have seen Dracula do it, and contemptuously spit out in a great stream the blood he has taken. That was how he murdered Armand Tesla. This is true death, from which there is no returning. This is the death I shall meet at dawn.
Two attendants held Manfred's arms, wrenching him away from me. His mouth was still attached to my neck like the sucker of a carnivorous plant. With a wet snap, it came free. Manfred shook his head, my blood dripping from his lips. Unsupported, I crumpled. Ten Brincken's stepped over me to examine the Baron. That told me where I was in his priorities.
The Professor clapped his hands and called for the fliers to leave off their drinking. For tho
se who had lost control, attendants had wooden-handled devices like tongue- depressors. A touch of a silver spatula causes enough pain to shock a vampire free of red thirst.
I felt myself lifted into a sitting position. I was as pliable as a broken doll. General Karnstein had taken notice of me. With a pointed forefinger, he slit his wrist and raised blood to my lips like water to a wounded man. I had not the strength to swallow but Karnstein let blood dribble into me. His line is pure and strong, but it was hours before I was fully recovered.
From the floor, I looked up at Baron von Richthofen. He turned away from me, but I could see the flush of my blood in his shaved hackles. Then, I fainted.
That night, Meinster's flier died. Murnau's skull became that of a huge rat, but his flesh did not change. Bone burst through his skin. The next day, we were sent from the château, duty done. That is all I know. You must think of this, for I believe it to be the important kernel of my story: he has shaped them, he has given them his blood, he has made them into something new.'
Winthrop must have asked her to be more specific.
I mean Dracula. He is the ringmaster of the Flying Circus, and the Red Baron is his star act.'
