Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [46]
They lined up either side of the wagon: Mackenzie’s men, mostly new-borns, and a detachment of the Carpathian Guard. Tonight they would demonstrate that the posted edicts of Prince Dracula were not just time-wasting whims on parchment.
As Mackenzie shook hands with him, Kostaki refrained from exerting the iron nosferatu grip.
‘We have plainclothes men blocking the escape routes,’ the Inspector explained, ‘so the house is completely bottled up. We go in through the front door and search from top to bottom, assembling the prisoners in the street. I have the warrants with me.’
Kostaki nodded agreement. ‘It is a good plan, Scotsman.’
Mackenzie, like so many in this dreary land, was without humour. Unsmiling, he continued, ‘I doubt if we’ll meet much resistance. These invert fellows don’t have the stomach for a scrap. Your English nancy-boy isn’t best known for his backbone.’
Von Klatka spat blood into the gutter and snorted, ‘Degenerate filth.’ His wolves, Berserker and Albert, were eager to get their jaws around meat.
‘Indeed,’ agreed the policeman. ‘Let’s get it over with, shall we?’
They advanced on foot, the wagon following. What other traffic there was made way for them. As they passed, people tried to clear the street. Kostaki was proud of such a reaction. The reputation of the Carpathian Guard went before them.
Only a few years ago, he was no more than an un-dead gypsy, wandering Europe in hundred-year cycles, battening on to prey where he could find it, returning every generation to his castle to find it more neglected, forever posing as an increasingly remote descendant. Now he could walk unmolested down a London thoroughfare and not have to conceal what he was. Thanks to Prince Dracula, his red thirst was regularly slaked.
They marched into Cleveland Street and Mackenzie checked the house numbers. They were looking for Number 19. It was not much distinguished from its neighbours, respectable town-houses and the offices of ancient firms of solicitors. This was a well-lit, clean district, not like the East End. Kostaki mused briefly about the twisted wire contraptions fitted to chimneys in the fringes of his field of vision, but instantly dismissed the matter.
With a rasp, Von Klatka slid his sword from its scabbard. Kostaki’s comrade was a tireless warrior, ever eager for battle. It was a wonder he had lasted through the centuries since his warmth. Mackenzie stood aside and let Kostaki march up to the front door. He raised a gauntleted hand and took hold of the knocker, which came off in his grip. That fool corporal, Gorcha, sniggered under his moustaches and Kostaki tossed the fragile bauble into the gutter. Mackenzie held his breath, the steam around him dissipating. Kostaki looked to him for approval: the policeman knew these people, this city, and deserved thus to be treated with respect. On the inspector’s nod, Kostaki made a mighty fist, the blood-strength growing. His hand strained the seams of his reinforced glove.
He delivered a blow to the unpainted spot where the knocker had been, smashing in the door. He pushed through the splintered fragments that remained and shouldered his way into the foyer. Glancing about, he instantly took in everything. The dwarfish young man in footman’s livery was no threat, but the shave-pated new-born in shirt-sleeves would fight. Constables and Guardsmen charged in after him and he was swept forwards toward the staircase.
The new-born put up his fists, but von Klatka set Berserker and Albert on him. The wolves latched on to his shins, and, as he yelled, von Klatka swiped with his sword. The vampire’s head came free, blinking furiously, and landed upside-down at the feet of the footman. Mackenzie opened his mouth to rebuke von Klatka, who had grasped the stumbling headless body and shoved his face into the geyser