Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [150]
Dracula’s hand was about Victoria’s neck, thumb stroking her throat. The Queen’s eyes were downcast.
‘Were you not alone, Geneviève Dieudonné? And are you not among friends now? Among equals?’
She had been un-dead a half-century longer than Vlad Tepes. When she turned, this prince was a babe in arms, shortly to be delivered into a life in captivity.
‘Impaler,’ she declared, ‘I have no equal.’
... as the Prince glowered at Geneviève, Beauregard stepped forward.
‘I have a gift,’ he said, his hand inside the breast of his tailcoat, ‘a souvenir of our exploit in the East End.’
Dracula’s eyes showed the philistine avarice of a true barbarian. Despite lofty titles, he was barely a generation away from his mountain bully-boy ancestors. This prince liked nothing more than pretty things. Bright, shining toys. Beauregard took a cloth bundle from his inside pocket, and unwrapped it.
Silver light exploded.
Vampires had been feeding in the shadows, noisily suckling the flesh of youths and girls. Now everyone was quiet. It must be an illusion, but the tiny blade gleamed, a miniature excalibur illuminating the whole room. Fury twisted Dracula’s brow, then contempt and mirth turned his face into a wide-mouthed mask. Beauregard held up Jack Seward’s silver scalpel.
‘You think to defy me with this little needle, Englishman?’
‘It is a gift,’ he replied. ‘But not for you.’
Geneviève edged away, uncertain. Merrick and Mina Harker were too far off to affect this action. Carpathians detached themselves from their amusements and formed a half-circle to one side. Several of the harem stood, red mouths wet and eager. No one was between Beauregard and the dais, but if he made a move towards Dracula, a wall of solid bone and vampire-flesh would form.
‘For my Queen,’ Charles said, tossing the knife.
Tumbling silver reflected in Dracula’s eyes, as anger exploded dark in the pupils. Victoria snatched the scalpel from the air...
... it had all been for this moment, to get Charles into the Royal Presence, to serve this one duty. Geneviève, the taste of him in her mouth, understood...
... the Queen slipped the blade under her breast, stapling her shift to her ribs, puncturing her heart. For her, it was over swiftly. With a moan of joy, she fell from the dais, blood gouting from her fatal wound, and rolled down the steps, chain rattling with her as it unravelled. Sic transit Victoria Regina.
The Prime Minister beat his way through the harem, pushing the harpies aside, and clutched the Queen’s body. Her head flopped as he extracted the scalpel with a single pull. Ruthven pressed his hand over her wound as if willing her back to life. It was no use. He stood, still gripping the silver knife. His fingers began to smoke and he threw away the scalpel, admitting with a yelp to his own pain. Surrounded by Dracula’s wives, their faces transforming with hunger and rage, the Prime Minister shook inside his murgatroyd’s finery.
Beauregard waited for the deluge.
The Prince – Consort no more – was on his feet, cloak rippling around him like a thundercloud. Tusks exploded from his mouth, his hands became spear-tipped clusters. His power was dealt a blow from which it could never recover. Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, was King now; and the stepfather who had dispatched him to pleasurable but purposeless exile in Paris was scarcely likely to exert any great influence over him. The Empire Dracula