Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [116]
‘... be here. This is...’
She wet his old scars with her tongue, then opened them with a gentle bite.
‘... another part of...’
Intently, she sucked. Her throat burned. She shut her eyes and saw red in the darkness.
‘... my life.’
Taking her mouth from his neck for a moment, she chewed her glove, biting away the tiny shell buttons at her wrist. She freed her right hand and spat out the cloth skin. Her fingers had extended, nails splitting the seams. She reached into his clothes, displacing buttons. She stroked his warm flesh, careful not to cut. John moaned to himself slightly, lost.
‘Lucy.’
The name spurred her, put anger in her appetite. She tugged at his clothes, and bit again, deeper.
‘Lucy.’
No, she thought, gripping, Mary Jane.
Her chin and front were wet with his blood. She heard a choke in the back of his throat and felt him swallowing his own scream. He tried to say Lucy’s name again but she worried him harder, silencing him. For the moment, in this heat, he was her John. When it was over, she would dab her lips and be his dream Lucy again. And he would rearrange his clothes and be Dr Seward. But now they were their true selves; Mary Jane and John, joined by blood and flesh.
42
THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME
Geneviève Dieudonné,’ Beauregard introduced her, ‘Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the First Bangalore Pioneers, author of Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas, and one of the greatest scoundrels unhanged...’
The new-born in the coach was an angry-looking brute, uncomfortable in evening dress, moustache bristling fiercely. When warm, he must have had the ruddy tan of an ‘Injah hand’, but now he looked like a viper, poison sacs bulging under his chin.
Moran grunted something that might count as an acknowledgement, and ordered them to get into the coach. Beauregard hesitated, then stepped back to allow her to go first. He was being clever, she realised. If the Colonel meant harm, he would keep an eye on the man he considered a threat. The new-born would not believe her four and a half centuries stronger than he. If it came to it, she could tear him apart.
Geneviève sat opposite Moran and Beauregard took the seat next to her. Moran tapped the roof and the cab moved off. With the motion, the black-hooded bundle next to the Colonel nodded forwards, and had to be straightened up and leaned back.
‘A friend?’ Beauregard asked.
Moran snorted. Inside the bundle was a man, either dead or insensible. ‘What would you say if I told you this was the veritable Jack the Ripper?’
‘I suppose I’d have to take you seriously. I understand you only hunt the most dangerous game.’
Moran grinned, tiger-fangs under his whiskers. ‘Huntin’ hunters. It’s the only sport worth talkin’ about.’
‘They say Quatermain and Roxton are better than you with a rifle, and the Russian who uses the Tartar warbow is the best of all.’
The Colonel brushed away the comparisons. ‘They’re all warm.’
Moran had a stiff arm out, holding back the clumsy bundle. ‘We’re on our own in this huntin’ trip,’ he said. ‘The rest of the Ring aren’t in it.’
Beauregard considered.
‘It’s been nearly a month since the last matter,’ the Colonel said. ‘Saucy Jack’s finished. Probably cut his throat on one of his own knives. But that’s not enough for us, is it? If business is to get back to the usual, Jack has to be seen to be finished.’
They were near the river. The Thames was a sharp, foul undertaste. All the filth of the city wound up in the river, and was disseminated into the seven seas. Garbage from Rotherhithe and Stepney drifted to Shanghai and Madagascar.
Moran got a grip on the black winding sheet and wrenched it away from a pale, bloodied face.
‘Druitt,’ Geneviève said.
‘Montague John Druitt, I believe,’ the Colonel said. ‘A colleague of yours, with very singular nocturnal habits.’
This was not right. Druitt’s left eye opened in a rind of blood. He had been badly beaten.
‘The police considered him early in the investigation,’ Beauregard said – a surprise to Genevi