by Kim Newman
There was gunfire. Specks of light in the air. In the direction from which the engine sound was coming.
He could see little, but imagined a fleeing Snipe, flying low, one of Richthofen's bat-staffel things on his tail.
More gunfire. Nearer. A machine passed over. He had the impression of swooping wings and wheels, a Snipe shimmering briefly in moonlight. He turned to follow the fighter's course.
A silent shadow passed, spreading a heart-deep chill. Like a bottom-dweller looking up at a manta ray, Winthrop cringed as the Boche flew over, intent on his prey. The Snipe streaked towards the British lines, wings wavering. It was gaining a lead, leaving the Boche behind. The shape-shifter rose in the sky like a hawk, pouring down fire.
Winthrop couldn't look away. Fire took the fighter in the tail. The Snipe went into a sudden spin. The fire-burst hurt his eyes before he heard the explosion.
The Boche hovered over the crash, underside reddened by firelight. A hugely distended white belly bobbed from the bat's midriff, blue and red veins swarming through the membranous canopies of the wings. He had never seen a vampire so completely shifted from human shape. Not even Isolde was so far gone. Richthofen's flying freaks had fed on Dracula's blood. He understood Mata Hari's confession. The Germans were scientifically cross-breeding to create these monsters.
The Boche rose from his kill on warm air and slipped into the dark of the sky. Slowly, with great straining flaps of his wings, the vampire circled away, returning to the German lines.
Winthrop cursed the murderer's tail. Something in him had died in the crash. Panic burned away, freeing a lizard-like cool from within his brain. This was what it was like to be reborn as a predator. His priorities changed. Immediately, it was important he survive the night and get back to the Allied lines. Beauregard must be told about JG1.
A painful step reminded him of his wounded knee. He needed a crutch. Stuck into the ground was the snapped-off blade of the Harry Tate's prop. It would do. At a pinch, it was sharp enough to pierce a vampire's heart. He wrapped his ruined helmet around the jagged end to pad it, and propped it under his arm.
The Snipe had been heading home. Now its fire was a beacon, signalling the direction he must take. He doubted the pilot would appreciate the use Winthrop was making of his flaming death but could afford no guilt.
There was no point in looking for the RE8's cameras. They must be smashed. If it came to it, Winthrop could draw pictures. Every detail was burned into his memory.
He set out, stumping towards the fire.
Alder, where he had grown up, was on the Somerset levels. In the wetlands, fields were divided by ditches rather than hedges. Outsiders often stood on the village green and assumed it a short walk across the moor to the church where Catriona's father was vicar. But if they took the 'short cut' rather than the winding lane, they would find themselves in a damp maze, forced to walk entirely around fields to find plank bridges laid over the ditches. It could take over an hour to cover the distance a crow could fly in a minute. No Man's Land by night was a similar matter of traps and blinds and dead ends.
Winthrop made his way methodically towards the Snipe's dwindling fire. After dawn he'd be a crawling target for any Boche sniper who cared to draw a bead. Actually, his baggy Sidcot was so muddy it might easily be taken for German grey and earn him a bullet from some enthusiastic but misguided Tommy.
He did not fret and swear when unbreachable tangles of wire or water-filled shell-holes barred his way. Patiently, he retraced his steps and found alternative routes.
His new-mended watch was broken again, stopped at quarter to nine. Possibly, it was not yet ten o'clock. Dog-fights rarely lasted more than a few minutes, though survivors often swore they had fought for upwards of an hour. There were hours before tomorrow's dawn.
Ground crunched and gave under his boots. He was walking on a horse that had been flattened like rolled-out dough. Birds had picked out the eye-sockets. The dead animal was alive with scavenging vermin. Squeaking rats writhed under their horsehide carpet and escaped in all directions. He didn't waste any effort on killing or hating rats. They were no worse than the human feeders-on-the-dead infesting this country.
His knee hurt more. The rest of his pains lessened, if only by comparison. The top of his jury-rigged crutch tore his armpit. His toes were numbed and he hoped the chill would set in around his knee soon.
Shells fell, but not too close. It was Allied policy to pour fire on No Man's Land by night, to discourage German excursions. As things stood, Winthrop considered the logic of the stratagem dubious, though he supposed it a mercy that he was unlikely to run into a lost scout out here in the mud. Even the most impoverished Boche would be equipped with a rifle and a bayonet and all he had to meet aggression was his trusty prop. This was such an impromptu jaunt he'd not even thought to bring a revolver.
The Snipe was directly ahead, its fabric completely burned away. Red-hot metal parts glowed in the last of the fire. It was impossible to tell which of Cundall's Condors this had been.
The daredevil Courtney was dead. Plucked and sucked by the Bloody Red Baron. Almost certainly, Cundall himself had gone west. Not to mention all the Bs: Ball, Bigglesworth, Brown. And, for alphabetical variety, Bill Williamson. Condor Squadron would be crippled.
A shell whistled and burst within a hundred yards. A scattering of dirt pelted his face. It was horribly possible an artilleryman was sighting on the Snipe's blaze, just to have a bright target in the dark.
When he returned, Winthrop would have suggestions to make which would, he felt, greatly improve the conduct of the war. After this picnic, he was entitled to bend Sir Douglas Haig's ear. He'd look up the journalist Kate Reed. As a matter of fact, he'd have looked her up anyway. An idea was forming, and Kate Reed was its budding heart.
With her red hair and sharp tongue, Kate was the vampire Catriona might become. Dainty little fangs in an appealing overbite. Behind her specs, she was smart and resilient. She was the nearest thing to a vampire elder in his circle of acquaintance. He would need an elder. There was no doubt of that. A newborn would not do. The strength was in the bloodline. The Red Baron and his murderous crew were proof of that.
A trap closed on his ankle, barbs sinking into his boot. He wheeled around, lifting his propeller-crutch. He aimed to strike at the thing which held him.
In the dark, there was a human croak. Winthrop saw large eyes in a black, charred face. And shining white teeth, extended vampire incisors exposed by the burning away of the lips.
It would be a mercy to stab with the prop.
The teeth parted with a hiss of breath. Another grip came, at his knee. The creature tried to climb up his leg, to haul itself upright.
It was the pilot. Winthrop couldn't tell which face this had been. The hiss died and the pilot let go of his leg, with an almost apologetic patting motion. The tatterdemalion stood, crookedly. From his twisted shape, he realised the vampire was Albert Ball. The pilot had survived another brush with Richthofen's Flying Freak Show, if barely. His Sidcot was fused with flesh, moulded black over his living bones.
'Good Lord,' Winthrop said.
The ruined leather of Ball's face made a smile. The pilot extended a contorted claw. Winthrop took the fragile hand and shook it, afraid fingers would snap off. He was grateful for the gauntlet that prevented him from touching the crackling greasiness of Ball's skin, but felt the cooked-through warmth of the pilot's grip.
'We'll have to get you home,' he said.
Ball nodded his bald skull. His flying helmet was burned on to him. Cloud drifted across the moon. The darkness deepened.
By himself, the chances had been slim enough. Now, Winthrop would have to get to the lines with the sorely wounded Ball.
These things were sent to try him.
'Come on, old son,' he said to Ball. 'It's this way, I believe.'
They walked towards the sound of the British guns.
21
The Castle
With Prussi
an insouciance, Oberst Kretschmar-Schuldorff dangled a Turkish cigarette from his lower lip. Smoke filled the car, wavering as they took the uphill road to the château. The officer sat opposite Poe and Ewers, sharp eyes glittering beneath his peaked cap, suggesting obscure amusement. None of the three cast a reflection in the dark windows. The driver knew his way by night, but the road was not of the best. Poe feared for Ewers's luggage, which was roped to the roof.
'We're not much used to visitors at Malinbois,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff admitted. 'So our facilities are primitive.'
Poe was prepared to be gracious. Any accommodation was likely to be an improvement on the ghetto. Ewers, irritability increasing by the hour, was less inclined to accept without complaint what life presented him.
'The château is ancient,' the officer said. 'There was a fortress on the site when Caesar divided Gaul. The current structure dates in part from the tenth century. It is of historical interest to vampirekind. It is named for the Sieur du Malinbois, an elder destroyed in the 1200s.'
'A sergeant at the station told us it was an evil place,' Poe said.
Kretschmar-Schuldorff shrugged without disturbing the smoke. A sardonic smile seemed always to underly his affectation of cool.
'Like your famous House of Usher, perhaps? Who is to say what is evil? In some, old feelings run deep.'
'He was not a true patriot,' Ewers said. 'He should be reported and demoted.'
'A man might be a patriot and not care for Malinbois,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff said. 'Who knows, Herr Ewers? You may not care yourself for our château.'
Through the windows, Poe saw the outlines of tall, broken trees pressing close on the road. The country here was dreary and uninviting. There was a centuried air of desolation, overlaid by the devastation of the last few years.
'There is a lake near the château,' said Kretschmar-Schuldorff, smiling more broadly, 'but it is not like the tarn of Usher. I think it unlikely that our quarters will crumble and pitch us all into stinking waters.'
'What an amusing thought,' Ewers said, trying to be cutting.
it is the duty of all intelligence officers to have only amusing thoughts. Our primary responsibility is morale.'
Ewers looked as if, at this moment, his morale was at its lowest. Strangely, Poe took heart. He wondered if his own comparative lightness of feeling was sparked by the warm girl's blood seeping through his undead body.
'When we round the next corner, Herr Poe, you'll be able to see the château.'
The car strained and made the turn. Poe saw the castle with the moon behind it: a black shape with towers and battlements. In the silhouette, only one light burned, high up in the highest tower.
'Is that for us?' he asked.
The Oberst shook his head, it is for the fliers.'
They drove along the shore of a placid lake. Beside it was a cleared space Poe took for the airfield.
'Don't they tend to crash their aeroplanes into the tower?'
Kretschmar-Schuldorff laughed, musically. 'Herr Poe, you will be greatly surprised by many things.'
He had the idea a great mystery was being kept from him, and a thirst was excited. It was like his red thirst, but for knowledge rather than blood. He had always loved wrestling with puzzles and ciphers and conundra. He was a journalist and a detective, but it was as a poet he most desired to solve mysteries. He sensed a fresh challenge to his ratiocinative powers.
A castle, a mystery, blood and glory. All the elements were here for a romance of the grotesque and arabesque.
'Look,' Ewers said, pointing.
There were darker shapes in the dark sky, flapping things faintly outlined by the moon.
'Bats?'
'No, Herr Poe. Not bats.'
The shapes moved in formation. Poe judged them much bigger than bats.
'Vampires?'
Kretschmar-Schuldorff nodded and lit a fresh cigarette. Match-fire reflections sparked in his amused eyes.
In a flash, Poe penetrated the mystery. He knew what these creatures were.
'Shape-shifters,' he said, delighted with himself. 'These are the Baron von Richthofen's fliers. They don't fly aeroplanes. They grow wings.'
'Exactly.'
Ewers was astounded, annoyed not to be let in on the secret. Poe's heart and mind soared.
it's a marvel,' he said. 'They have become angels.'
'Hell's angels, perhaps. Before the war is done, they might be fallen angels.'
The formation flew around the tower light. They must be huge, two or three times the height of a man. Their wings beat slowly, and they seemed to glide rather than fly. Poe would not have said it was possible, but here was the miracle itself.
'And all this is through the development of inherent vampire capabilities?'
Kretschmar-Schuldorff nodded. 'Tony Fokker has helped nature, designing contraptions they wear to increase airworthiness. And harnesses for the machine-guns. As yet, no vampire has been able to grow a set of Spandau teats and belch bullets at the enemy.'
'As yet?'
Kretschmar-Schuldorff shrugged. Obviously, that would come.
The first of the fliers turned in the air, wings spreading like sails as he slowed. He landed perfectly on the tower, wings cloaking around him. One by one, the fliers touched down. Smaller figures swarmed around them, confirming Poe's estimate of their height.
'Who would believe it? Even among those who have seen it, who would believe it?'
'Perhaps only a poet, Herr Poe. That is why a poet was required. You have seen it and you must convince the rest of the world.'
A straggling flier limped after the others. There was a great tear in the leather of one wing and he fought to stay aloft. Missing the landing site, this dark wounded angel slapped against the side of the tower and clung fast, barbs and claws gripping the ancient stonework. Tail dangling and wings folded, the injured flier climbed up to his fellows. Poe shared his pain, imagining what it must be like ...
'I must see more,' Poe said. 'Take me up there at once.'
Kretschmar-Schuldorff waved away eager guards and startled sentries, clearing their way through the castle. Salutes were snapped off and papers were presented.
They ascended inside the tower, Poe taking the lead. He rushed eagerly up the stone spiral. The quietly intolerant Ewers followed, like a nanny who disapproves of the latitude allowed her charge by indulgent parents. Poe wanted to see the marvellous creatures. All other concerns flew.
The stairs widened and emerged in the flagstone floor of a large chamber. Moonlight sliced in through arrow-slit windows. Torches burned in sconces. A curtain billowed slightly, cold air wafting through. There was a powerful zoo-like animal smell.
He skidded to a halt in the bat-shaped shadow of a giant. The flier was taller even than he had thought. Poe's eyes were level with the tops of a pair of colossal, polished boots.
Lifting his gaze, he saw a lightly furred body still human in its underlying shape. The wings were folded, like a floor-length coat of living velvet. Hanging on the chest was a surplice affair of canvas and leather that supported a pair of machine-guns. There were other additions: straps to stiffen spines and wires to connect wings. Muscular arms grew from the wingpits, functional but inelegant, with three-fingered hands that reached the gun-handles.
A tight leather helmet became a loose cowl as the head dwindled, then was removed by orderlies who stood on elevated platforms. Fiery eyes shrank, flaring ears contracted, rows of teeth slid back into sheaths. The gaping red mouth closed, forming human lips. Fur faded like a dissolving mask.
'Herr Poe,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff said, 'this is Manfred, the Baron von Richthofen.'
Poe could say nothing.
The Red Baron was resuming human form. Orderlies swarmed around like valets, relieving him of guns, boots and straps. As he shrank, his flying gear threatened to crush him and had to be removed with care. There were racks for the equipment.
The baron's two personal orderlies worked swiftly and expertly. Surp
risingly, they were warm men.
'These men have been with the baron throughout the war,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff explained. 'Feldwebel Fritz Haartmann and Kaporal Peter Kurten. They are the squires of our knight of the sky.'
Haarmann and Kurten did not bicker as they carried out their duties. Poe assumed they must be in a state of perpetual awe. Richthofen's square, blue-eyed face emerged from the bat- mask. Poe recognised him from the Sahnke card likenesses sold at railway stations throughout Germany.
The other fliers crowded into the chamber, pointed heads and hunched backs scraping the stone ceiling. There were dozens of ground staff to attend their transformations. There was so much activity that only Poe had the time to wonder.
'That is Professor Ten Brincken, Director of Experimentation.'
Kretschmar-Schuldorff indicated a grey-faced, broad- shouldered man, hunched in a grubby white coat. The professor growled, checking measurements against a chart.
'And this is General Karnstein, commandant of the château.'
A distinguished elder, with grey hair and a jet-black beard, stood by with quiet pride. There was something of the eighteenth century in the cut of his uniform.
Richthofen's face was completely human now. He had shrunk to eight feet or so, half the size he had been. Muscles flowed into new configurations as the skeletal structure adjusted. Haarmann and Kurten produced large, soft-bristled brushes and swept away the hair shed as the Baron changed. In an instant redistribution of bone and tissue, the flier sucked his rudimentary arms back into his midriff. The shape-shifting was fluid and painless, apparently without effort.
It was wonderful magic. Wings stretched out and became arms, leather folding up like a Chinese fan, smoothing into fair skin. Richthofen's iron face betrayed no discomfort, though other fliers yelped and groaned as joints popped and bones reset. Ten Brincken, a stern but proud parent, observed with approval.
Medical men stepped in like the trainers of a pugilist, placing stethoscopes to chests, observing wounds as they healed, taking notes. Orderlies like Haartmann and Kurten provided robes for the fliers. They folded into themselves and grew down to their human heights, settling into their usual shapes.
