Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [107]
The flames grew until they were all she could see. The fever was in her brain. In the flames, she saw a man and a woman embracing. He was fully clothed in evening dress but she was naked and bloody. The faces were Charles’s and Pamela’s. Then her cousin’s face became her own and Charles turned to Art. They were clothed in flame. The image lasted a moment, then flowed again until the faces were unrecognisable. They meshed and burned together, forming one four-eyed, two-mouthed, hair-swathed face. The conglomerate face of fire grew and engulfed her completely.
‘Penelope for ever after,’ she had shouted as a child. ‘Long live Penny.’
The flame burned all around...
... with a single shiver, she was instantly awake. She tingled all over, clothing scraping her sensitive skin.
She sat up and arranged herself on the divan. The memory of her turn was fading fast. She felt her neck and breast and could not find a trace of the wounds Art had made.
The room was brighter and she saw into the shadowed corners. She saw things differently. There were subtler gradations of colour. And she could smell more scents. The odours of her own bodily discharges were distinguishable, and not offensive. She thought all her senses were sharpened. Her tongue longed for new tastes. She wished to experiment.
She stood up and padded in her stockinged feet to the bathroom. There was, of course, no mirror. She divested herself of her soiled clothes, and wiped herself off with a balled petticoat. She washed herself all over. In her former life, she had rarely been as completely naked. Her old self seemed a dream. She was new-born. When satisfied that she was clean as any cat, she left the bathroom. She needed clothes. The garments of her warmth were useless now, sodden with useless blood.
Someone moved in one of the rooms off the corridor and she was instantly alert. She ran her tongue over sharp teeth. A door opened, and a thin face poked out. Shocked by her nudity, Art’s manservant gulped and withdrew, locking his door behind him. She laughed. Flexing her hands, she wondered if she could wrench open the door and get to the man. She could smell his warm blood. ‘Fi fifo fum,’ she whispered, her voice loud in her head.
Opening one of the doors, she found Art’s dressing room. A suit of his morning clothes was laid out ready for him. Formerly, being tall had been an embarrassment. Her mother had trained her to sit down as often as possible and, without stooping, to arrange herself so she would not tower over a man. Now her height suited her well.
She pulled on Art’s shirt and buttoned it up. She mastered the intricacy of the collar and the cuffs. Her fingers were abler now and solved all the problems presented to them. She threw aside Art’s underclothes and pulled on his trousers, fiddling with the unfamiliar braces until the contraptions set on her shoulders. The garment settled on her hips, and she pulled it up tight, crotch snug, then shortened the braces to suit her. She found a cravat and tied it around the too-large collar. A waistcoat and a coat completed the ensemble. Barefoot, she returned to the room where she had turned. Her shoes were under the divan, and still fitted her. She imagined she cut quite a dash, and wondered what her fiancé would think.
Running her hands through her hair, she considered whether she should do anything to make herself look less of a fright. But she did not really care any more how she looked. The dead Penelope would have been shocked senseless. But the dead Penelope had been so different.
She felt a twinge of thirst. The taste of Art’s blood lingered in her mouth. She had found it bitter and salty last night. But now it was sweet and delicious. And necessary. What to do? What to do?
She did not know if she was managing this terribly well. But if Kate Reed, who could barely pour tea from a pot without consulting Mrs