Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [137]
‘I beckoned her from the path,’ she said, leaning over from the pile of pillows on the bed, her face close to his. ‘I sang under my breath, and I waved to her. I wished her to me, and she came...’
She stroked his cheek and laid her head against his chest. The tune came to her, and the words. ‘It Was Only a Violet I Plucked from My Mother’s Grave’. John held his breath, sweating a little. His every fibre was held tense. Her thirst for him rose as she retold the story.
‘There were red eyes before me, and a voice calling. I left the path, and she was waiting. It was a cold, cold night but she wore only a white shift. Her skin was white in the moonlight. Her...’
She caught herself. She was speaking as Mary Jane, not Lucy. Mary Jane, she said inside, be careful...
John stood up, gently pushing her away, and walked across the room. He took a grip on her washstand and looked in the mirror, trying to find something in his reflection.
Mary Jane was confused. All her life, she’d been giving men what they wanted. Now she was dead and things were the same. She went to John and hugged him from behind. He jumped at her touch, surprised. Of course, he hadn’t seen her coming.
‘John,’ she cooed at him, ‘come to bed, John. Make me warm.’
He pushed her away again, roughly this time. She was unused to her vampire’s strength. Imagining herself still a feeble girl, she was one.
‘Lucy,’ he said, emptily, not to her...
Anger sparked in her mind. The last of Mary Jane, trying to keep mouth and nose above the surface of the dark sea, exploded. ‘I’m not your bloody Lucy Westenra,’ she shouted. ‘I’m Mary Jane Kelly, and I don’t care who knows it.’
‘No,’ he said, reaching into his jacket, gripping something hard, ‘you’re not Lucy...’
Even before the silver knife was out, she realised how foolish she’d been. Not to have seen earlier. Her throat stung lightly. Where it had been cut.
53
JACK IN THE MACHINE
A warm matron sat at the desk in the foyer, devouring the latest Marie Corelli, Thelma. Beauregard understood that since her turning, the celebrated authoress’s prose had further deteriorated. Vampires were rarely creative, all energies diverted into the simple prolonging of life.
‘Where is Mademoiselle Dieudonné?’
‘She is filling in for the director, sir. She should be in Dr Seward’s office. Shall you be wanting to be announced?’
‘No need to bother, thank you.’
The matron frowned and mentally added another complaint to a list she was keeping of Things Wrong With That Vampire Girl. He was briefly surprised to be party to her clear and vinegary thoughts, but swept the passing distraction aside as he made his way to the director’s first floor office. The door was open. Geneviève was not surprised to see him. His heart skipped as he remembered her, close to him, body white, mouth red.
‘Charles,’ she said.
She stood by Seward’s desk, papers strewn about her. He found himself embarrassed. After what had passed between them, he did not quite know how to act in her presence. Should he kiss her? She was behind the desk, and the embrace would be awkward unless she made room for it. Looking about for a distraction, his attention was drawn to a device in a glass dust-case, an affair of brass boxes with a large trumpet-like attachment.
‘This is an Edison-Bell phonograph, is it not?’
‘Jack uses it for medical notes. He has a passion for tricks and toys.’
He turned. ‘Geneviève...’
She was near now. He had not heard her come out from behind the desk. She kissed him lightly on the lips and he felt her inside him again, a presence in his mind. He was weak in the legs. Loss of blood, he supposed.
‘It’s all right, Charles,’ she said, smiling. ‘I didn’t mean to bewitch you. The symptoms will recede in a week or two. Believe me, I have experience with your condition.’
‘Nunc scio quid sit Amor,’ he quoted from Virgil.