Read Online Anno Dracula 1918 - The Bloody Red Baron by Kim Newman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kim Newman
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had not fired a killing shot.
The sword wavered and fell. Shots clustered in the prisoner's torso. A stray pocked the ground a dozen yards behind the pole. Gertrud Zelle's head hung and the veil slipped from her like a scarf, wisping away on the wind. Early-morning sun fell on her face, browning it quickly. Smoke seeped from her mouth and eyes.
'That's that, then,' Kate said. 'Beastly business.'
Beauregard knew it was not finished. The sergeant walked across the parade ground and stood by the truly dead woman, sword like a scythe.
'Good Lord,' Kate said.
With a stroke, the sergeant sank his sword into Gertrud Zelle's neck. The blade bit bone. He had to press gauntleted hands against hilt and point, forcing the silver-steel edge clear through into the post. The head fell to the ground and the sergeant picked it up by the hair, holding it for all to see. The face burned black, cat eyes shrunk like peas.
7
Kate
The whisper Kate had heard in Paris was true: Mata Hari had refused the offer of a priest to hear a last confession, but was willing to pass the night before her execution in conversation with Mr Charles Beauregard of the Diogenes Club.
Early in her career as a journalist, she had learned that following Charles at a discreet distance was an infallible way of hooking a story. Wherever found, he was the calm centre of a maelstrom of intrigue. If he told all he knew, history books would be rewritten. Probably, governments would fall, colonies revolt, duels be fought, marriages end. Charles was the linchpin of Britain; Kate was often sorely tempted to take hold of him and give a good pull.
What a vampire he would have made.
She was careful not to quiz Charles too much. He was too canny a customer to be duped like a subaltern by a girly simper and a casual question. Also, he knew her of old. The scatterbrained twit act, her primary tool in the trade of deceit, would not wash with him.
The sergeant in charge of the execution found a sack for the cinder that had been the spy's head. He made a solemn business of posing for photographs, holding the sack. The firing squad stood to order, presenting arms. At each explosive puff of flash- powder, young veterans cringed, remembering.
Kate watched Charles watching the photographers. His high collar was not the sign of old-fashioned temperament but a cover for the unfading purple on his throat. A line of wine-coloured bruising fringed his collar. He was more handsome in age than youth, his hair was white but his chin was firm. He stood straight and years had smoothed rather than crinkled his face.
The elder Genevieve Dieudonne had been Charles's lover during the Terror. Some of her blood must have got into him. He had resisted the Dark Kiss, but it was impossible to be with a vampire for any time without tasting her blood, even if just a smidgen. Some warm men paid for tiny transfusions to keep their hair or tighten their tummies. It was a sounder rejuvenation treatment than monkey glands. Patent medicines hinted vampire blood was a secret ingredient.
The firing squad were dismissed. Reporters tried to interview them. Sydney Horler, a tub-thumper for the Mail, was in the melee.
'They love the war,' she said. 'Gives them something tastier to write up than provincial murderers and municipal adulterers.'
'You have a low opinion of your profession.'
'I like to think I'm not in the same line as the scratching vultures.'
'How does it feel?' shouted Horler, 'shooting a woman?'
If any of the squad understood the question, none was inclined to answer.
'A pretty, wanton woman?' the Englishman emphasised. 'Would you say she was a fiend in human shape who deserved no more mercy than a deadly cobra?'
The sergeant shrugged. A singularly French gesture.
'You would say she was a fiend in human shape who deserved no more mercy than a deadly cobra, then?'
The soldiers started to walk away.
'I'll write that down then. Fiend in human shape. No more mercy. Deadly cobra.'
The
The sword wavered and fell. Shots clustered in the prisoner's torso. A stray pocked the ground a dozen yards behind the pole. Gertrud Zelle's head hung and the veil slipped from her like a scarf, wisping away on the wind. Early-morning sun fell on her face, browning it quickly. Smoke seeped from her mouth and eyes.
'That's that, then,' Kate said. 'Beastly business.'
Beauregard knew it was not finished. The sergeant walked across the parade ground and stood by the truly dead woman, sword like a scythe.
'Good Lord,' Kate said.
With a stroke, the sergeant sank his sword into Gertrud Zelle's neck. The blade bit bone. He had to press gauntleted hands against hilt and point, forcing the silver-steel edge clear through into the post. The head fell to the ground and the sergeant picked it up by the hair, holding it for all to see. The face burned black, cat eyes shrunk like peas.
7
Kate
The whisper Kate had heard in Paris was true: Mata Hari had refused the offer of a priest to hear a last confession, but was willing to pass the night before her execution in conversation with Mr Charles Beauregard of the Diogenes Club.
Early in her career as a journalist, she had learned that following Charles at a discreet distance was an infallible way of hooking a story. Wherever found, he was the calm centre of a maelstrom of intrigue. If he told all he knew, history books would be rewritten. Probably, governments would fall, colonies revolt, duels be fought, marriages end. Charles was the linchpin of Britain; Kate was often sorely tempted to take hold of him and give a good pull.
What a vampire he would have made.
She was careful not to quiz Charles too much. He was too canny a customer to be duped like a subaltern by a girly simper and a casual question. Also, he knew her of old. The scatterbrained twit act, her primary tool in the trade of deceit, would not wash with him.
The sergeant in charge of the execution found a sack for the cinder that had been the spy's head. He made a solemn business of posing for photographs, holding the sack. The firing squad stood to order, presenting arms. At each explosive puff of flash- powder, young veterans cringed, remembering.
Kate watched Charles watching the photographers. His high collar was not the sign of old-fashioned temperament but a cover for the unfading purple on his throat. A line of wine-coloured bruising fringed his collar. He was more handsome in age than youth, his hair was white but his chin was firm. He stood straight and years had smoothed rather than crinkled his face.
The elder Genevieve Dieudonne had been Charles's lover during the Terror. Some of her blood must have got into him. He had resisted the Dark Kiss, but it was impossible to be with a vampire for any time without tasting her blood, even if just a smidgen. Some warm men paid for tiny transfusions to keep their hair or tighten their tummies. It was a sounder rejuvenation treatment than monkey glands. Patent medicines hinted vampire blood was a secret ingredient.
The firing squad were dismissed. Reporters tried to interview them. Sydney Horler, a tub-thumper for the Mail, was in the melee.
'They love the war,' she said. 'Gives them something tastier to write up than provincial murderers and municipal adulterers.'
'You have a low opinion of your profession.'
'I like to think I'm not in the same line as the scratching vultures.'
'How does it feel?' shouted Horler, 'shooting a woman?'
If any of the squad understood the question, none was inclined to answer.
'A pretty, wanton woman?' the Englishman emphasised. 'Would you say she was a fiend in human shape who deserved no more mercy than a deadly cobra?'
The sergeant shrugged. A singularly French gesture.
'You would say she was a fiend in human shape who deserved no more mercy than a deadly cobra, then?'
The soldiers started to walk away.
'I'll write that down then. Fiend in human shape. No more mercy. Deadly cobra.'
The
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