Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [145]
After some negotiations, and not a little shouted abuse from a black-faced matron, Netley was allowed to take the carriage through Admiralty Arch. The coachman must wish he was able to paint out the crest on his conveyance.
A vampire but not of the bloodline of Vlad Tepes, Geneviève was left, as ever, on the side-lines. It had been refreshing at first, after centuries of dissembling, not to have to pretend to be warm; but eventually the Prince Consort had made things as uncomfortable for most of the un-dead as for the living he called cattle. For every noble murgatroyd in his town house with his harem of willing blood-slaves, there were twenty of Mary Jane Kelly, Lily Mylett, or Cathy Eddowes, as miserable as they had ever been, vampire attributes, addictions and handicaps rather than powers and potentials...
... with Geneviève, he called upon the Churchwards. Penelope was out of bed now. They found her in a Bath chair in the heavily-curtained parlour, a tartan rug over her legs. A new-purchased coffin, lined in a white satin, stood on trestles in place of the occasional table.
Penelope was getting stronger. Her eyes were clear. She had little to say.
On the mantel, Beauregard noticed a photograph of Godalming, posed stiffly by a potted plant with a studio background, ringed with black crepe.
‘He was, in a manner of speaking, my father,’ Penelope explained.
Geneviève understood in a way Beauregard could never hope to.
‘Was he really such a monster?’ Penelope asked.
Beauregard told the truth. ‘Yes, I’m afraid he was.’
Penelope almost smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad. I shall be a monster too.’
They sat together, untouched cups on the low table, darkness gathering...
* * *
... the carriage sped smoothly down Bird Cage Walk towards Buckingham Palace. Insurrectionists hung in chains from cruciform cages lining the road, some still alive. Within the last three nights, open battle had raged between the warm and the un-dead in St James’s Park.
‘Look,’ Charles said, sadly, ‘there’s Van Helsing’s head.’
Geneviève craned and saw the pathetic lump on the end of its pike. Some said Abraham Van Helsing was still alive, in the Prince Consort’s thrall, raised high so that his eyes might see the reign of Dracula over London. That was a lie; what was left was a fly-blown skull.
The main gates loomed before them, new-fangled barbed wire wrapped around the upright bars. Carpathians, midnight black uniforms slashed with crimson, hauled the huge ironwork frames aside as if they were silk curtains, and the coach slid through. Geneviève imagined Netley sweating like a frightened pig at an Indian Officers’ Ball. The Palace, illuminated by watch-fires and incandescent lamps, poured black smoke into the sky, its face an image of Moloch the Devourer.
Charles’s face was a blank, but he was focused in his mind. ‘You can stay in the carriage,’ he said, urgent, persuasive. ‘Safe. I shall be all right. This will not take long.’
Geneviève shook her head. She supposed she had been avoiding Vlad Tepes for centuries, but she would face whatever was inside the Palace.
‘Gené, I beg you,’ his voice almost broke.
Two nights ago, she had been with Charles, delicately lapping blood from cuts on his chest. She knew and understood his body now. Together, they made love. She knew and understood him.
‘Charles, why are you so worried? We’re heroes, we have nothing to fear from the Prince. I am his elder.’
The carriage halted by the maw-like porch, and a periwigged footman opened the door. Geneviève stepped down first, relishing the soft crunch of the clean gravel under her shoes. Charles followed, taut as a drawn bowstring, gathering his cloak about him. She took his arm and nuzzled