Read Online Anno Dracula 1918 - The Bloody Red Baron by Kim Newman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kim Newman
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excitable Horler began scribbling.
'I believe we have witnessed the birth of an evening edition headline,' she said.
Charles was too weary to respond. He consulted his pocket- watch and touched his hat, preparing to leave.
'Strange. A warm man who hustles to his bed at cock-crow. Are you sure you haven't turned?'
Charles summoned a smile. 'Kate, I've kept vampire hours for most of my life.'
His was a night-time profession, even in this topsy-turvy century where wars were fought and peace pursued after dark.
'With Mata Hari gone, you can rest now, surely. Your war is won.'
'Very amusing, Kate.'
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. His face was very cold. She held back in her hugging, so as not to crack his ribs.
'Goodbye, Charles.'
'Good day, Kate.'
He walked to a car and was driven away. She licked her lips and could taste him. His blood was strong. A mere brush of his skin was enough to give her an impression of his mood. She was excited, because she knew Charles was excited. Something had passed between him and Mata Hari that was important. She could read nothing more, nothing concrete. A shame. If she were an elder like Genevieve, she could suck his mind like an orange and know everything there was to be known.
If the trick were within her capabilities, the temptation would be too great to resist. As vampires lived through centuries, they gained strength and power. Many elders became monsters. They could do as they wished without fear of the consequences. The taste of Charles evaporated and her heart throbbed with red thirst.
In the early years of her afterlife, she had constantly tested her limits. Now she took them, along with her undead needs, as simply a part of night-to-night existence. Strangely, she still needed spectacles to correct the fearful myopia that had been the plague of her warm days. Most vampires overcame their infirmities upon turning, but she was a freak.
Her vision blurred as she tried to conquer her thirst. This was her own fault. If she had not tasted Charles, she would not now be suffering these pangs.
She did not care to consider herself dead but knew that was self-deception. Some, like Genevieve, turned without suffering true death. But Kate had certainly died. Mr Frank Harris, her father-in-darkness, liked to suck his get dry before dripping life-giving blood into them. She recalled the stopping of her heart, the queer silence inside her head. That had been death.
Her heart eased and she could see again. The day was overcast, so there was little direct sunlight to trouble her. She was not the species of vampire which shrivels and frizzles at dawn. She was of the bloodline of Marya Zaleska, an aristocratic parasite who claimed to be a by-blow of Count Dracula. In Kate, the fading Zaleska line was spiced by the powerful spirit of Frank Harris. In 1888, the famous editor had told her physical love was the gateway to womanhood and, on a divan in a private room at Kettner's restaurant, enthusiastically escorted her through the gateway. Having made a woman of her, he was obliged to make a vampire of her too.
Many young women succumbed to Harris's persuasion, but she was his only surviving get. Others had proved too fragile for such a strong line. Harris was gone too, murdered by Carpathians during the Terror. She was sorry; though a profligate who took little responsibility for his children-in- darkness, Harris was a good newspaperman. She was not ashamed to have him as her sponsor in the world of night.
Charles's car drove away, nestling secrets in a well- upholstered interior. The firing squad evaporated and the other journalists drifted off, filling in blanks in already-written stories. Jed Leland of the New York Inquirer, a rare competent American, touched a pencil to the brim of his straw hat. She returned the wave, worried he would delay her in unwanted conversation. Leland ambled along with the rest of the crowd, in search of an estaminet where they could scrawl out copy
'I believe we have witnessed the birth of an evening edition headline,' she said.
Charles was too weary to respond. He consulted his pocket- watch and touched his hat, preparing to leave.
'Strange. A warm man who hustles to his bed at cock-crow. Are you sure you haven't turned?'
Charles summoned a smile. 'Kate, I've kept vampire hours for most of my life.'
His was a night-time profession, even in this topsy-turvy century where wars were fought and peace pursued after dark.
'With Mata Hari gone, you can rest now, surely. Your war is won.'
'Very amusing, Kate.'
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. His face was very cold. She held back in her hugging, so as not to crack his ribs.
'Goodbye, Charles.'
'Good day, Kate.'
He walked to a car and was driven away. She licked her lips and could taste him. His blood was strong. A mere brush of his skin was enough to give her an impression of his mood. She was excited, because she knew Charles was excited. Something had passed between him and Mata Hari that was important. She could read nothing more, nothing concrete. A shame. If she were an elder like Genevieve, she could suck his mind like an orange and know everything there was to be known.
If the trick were within her capabilities, the temptation would be too great to resist. As vampires lived through centuries, they gained strength and power. Many elders became monsters. They could do as they wished without fear of the consequences. The taste of Charles evaporated and her heart throbbed with red thirst.
In the early years of her afterlife, she had constantly tested her limits. Now she took them, along with her undead needs, as simply a part of night-to-night existence. Strangely, she still needed spectacles to correct the fearful myopia that had been the plague of her warm days. Most vampires overcame their infirmities upon turning, but she was a freak.
Her vision blurred as she tried to conquer her thirst. This was her own fault. If she had not tasted Charles, she would not now be suffering these pangs.
She did not care to consider herself dead but knew that was self-deception. Some, like Genevieve, turned without suffering true death. But Kate had certainly died. Mr Frank Harris, her father-in-darkness, liked to suck his get dry before dripping life-giving blood into them. She recalled the stopping of her heart, the queer silence inside her head. That had been death.
Her heart eased and she could see again. The day was overcast, so there was little direct sunlight to trouble her. She was not the species of vampire which shrivels and frizzles at dawn. She was of the bloodline of Marya Zaleska, an aristocratic parasite who claimed to be a by-blow of Count Dracula. In Kate, the fading Zaleska line was spiced by the powerful spirit of Frank Harris. In 1888, the famous editor had told her physical love was the gateway to womanhood and, on a divan in a private room at Kettner's restaurant, enthusiastically escorted her through the gateway. Having made a woman of her, he was obliged to make a vampire of her too.
Many young women succumbed to Harris's persuasion, but she was his only surviving get. Others had proved too fragile for such a strong line. Harris was gone too, murdered by Carpathians during the Terror. She was sorry; though a profligate who took little responsibility for his children-in- darkness, Harris was a good newspaperman. She was not ashamed to have him as her sponsor in the world of night.
Charles's car drove away, nestling secrets in a well- upholstered interior. The firing squad evaporated and the other journalists drifted off, filling in blanks in already-written stories. Jed Leland of the New York Inquirer, a rare competent American, touched a pencil to the brim of his straw hat. She returned the wave, worried he would delay her in unwanted conversation. Leland ambled along with the rest of the crowd, in search of an estaminet where they could scrawl out copy
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