Anno Dracula 1918 - The Bloody Red Baron (12 page)

'Dracula ...'

The repetition of the name was almost a cry, almost a prayer. An adjutant was dragged in behind a pair of wolves which snapped and snarled on leashes. Ewers jumped at the approach of the beasts. Poe had heard these were Dracula's lieutenants from his warm days, transformed by his powers into faithful familiars.

A tall vampire came through the doors at a striding pace. He wore a grey cloak over a simple uniform. Poe noted the leather holster at his belt, the shiny-peaked black cap, the pointed ends of his moustache. While other elders clung to their own times, Dracula changed eternally with each war. While his generals advised the tactics of Waterloo and Borodino, the Graf deployed machine-guns against cavalry charges and ordered the digging of trenches across the whole of Europe. He was the great adapter, the supreme pragmatist.

A dowager knelt before the Graf and kissed his hand, pressing lips to spade-like nails. He tolerated her attentions but was eager to move on.

Though not given to fawning on the great, Poe stood to present himself. A word from Dracula would free him from the abominable Ewers and find him a suitable position. General David Poe, his grandfather, had been a warlord also, in the Revolutionary war. There were too many in the way. The Graf could not venture among the generality without being surrounded by the grateful, the solicitous, the opportunist.

Poe dashed forwards, running through his accomplishments in his mind. The conversation of Poe and Dracula. This was to be a moment in the history of imagination. As he neared the Graf s party, the air seemed richer, thick and liquid. Close to the warlord, Poe's step slowed as in a dream. Background noise was blotted out and Poe heard the beating of a huge heart, a drumbeat of life drowning all else.

The Graf's great head turned as he strode. His eyes passed over Poe without recognition. Poe skidded to a halt, gaping at the elder. Dracula hurried on. A pair of plumed Carpathians, one a warrior woman with a tattooed face, covered his back. Their hostile gaze drove Poe back. The elder swept through the room unquestioned, leaving supplicants in his wake. The weeping dowager had to be comforted by an aghast junior officer.

Poe felt the passing of the unusual conditions that obtained in the immediate vicinity of the Graf. Normal sounds and smells poured back in, setting his senses a-jangle.

The
presence
of the warlord was overpowering and did not fade fast. Ewers was electrified, unable to contain his nervous energies. Newspapers riddled with bad news from the front were abandoned. Officers hung together to propose new paths to victory. Everyone knew a big push was in the offing, striking at Paris before the Americans arrived in force.

Poe could not forget Dracula's eyes.

The eagle doors were held open for the Graf's party. They moved into the hallway and mounted a wide set of stairs. The doors closed but Poe still heard boots on the marble steps. The heartbeat pulsed in his brain, setting a pace for the progress of empires.

Over three-quarters of the vampires in the room were of Dracula's bloodline. Poe felt excluded: Virginia never knew the name of her father-in-darkness, though she thought he might be a Spaniard. He called himself Sebastian Newcastle. The vampire had sought out the poet of the uncanny and found only Mrs Poe at home, then begun the process of her turning on a motiveless whim. That neither Poe nor Virginia demonstrated an aptitude for shape-shifting proved Newcastle was not of the Dracula line. At odd times, Poe was obsessed with tracking the vampire who had turned Virginia, but his enquiries always petered out.

The waiting hall settled again. Even the Graf's heartbeat, which had chimed with the throbbing of Poe's own blood, was gone.

He looked at the front-line soldier, alone on his couch. Unlike the general and the diplomat, he had not stood in the mighty presence. His lap was stained scarlet. Blood dribbled down his breeches and into his boots. A recent wound had opened. The man might die in this waiting hall.

His hollow eyes had followed the Carpathians and were fixed on the eagle doors. Sourly, the soldier turned away and spat on the floor. As he hunched forwards to hawk, his upper body shook badly. Having emptied his throat and nose, he sank back slowly into the couch.

'This is absurd,' Ewers said. 'Such foolishness will not go unrewarded, Herr Poe. Of that you can be ...'

The clerk emerged again and looked at them.

'Ach,' Ewers was delighted, 'at last.'

'Baumer
,' the clerk said, voice ringing. 'Feldwebel Paul Baumer.'

Ewers was enraged at being passed over again. He looked about for the unfortunate sergeant, ready to breathe fire in his face.

'Paul
Baumer,
' the clerk said again.

No one came forwards. Poe looked at the soldier and saw the last flutter of his closing eyes.

'I think this man is Baumer,' he said, looking.

The clerk tutted disapproval as his attention was called to the messenger from the front.

'Feldwebel Baumer,' he said, 'you may go in now.'

Baumer's shoulders moved but he could not lift himself. His despatch slipped from under his arm and plumped on to the marble floor.

'This is absurd,' Ewers said, as if Baumer were personally blocking his path to Dr Mabuse's office.

Poe could tell, from the change in the smell of Baumer's blood, that the man had died. His grip on his stomach relaxed and his arms eased away from his wet midriff. An insect landed on his hand and opened its wings, showing itself to be a butterfly. The clerk brushed the butterfly away as he checked the man's stilled pulse. He summoned attendants to remove the corpse. Blood pooled in the indentations Baumer left in the couch. The diplomat, indifferent to the death, caught the butterfly in his hand, considered its markings, then popped it into his mouth.

The desk seemed to cover the breadth of a tennis court. Dr Mabuse's chair was elevated so he could peer over his expanse of polished wood and gaze down on the heads of those seated on the other side. The Director of the Press and Intelligence Division displayed an obvious need for others to look up to him. Poe noted him to be a man of small stature.

Dr Mabuse had white, flyaway hair and the red eyes of a newborn who drinks too much. He wore a surgical white tunic, the Imperial Order of the Iron Cross on a black ribbon around his neck. To the evident disgust of Ewers, the director exclaimed in delight at meeting Herr Edgar Allan Poe.

'I no longer use my stepfather's name, Doktor. Edgar Poe was I born, and am I again. The memory of John Allan need trouble us nevermore.'

Dr Mabuse's eyes gleamed. 'You were an inspiration to me, Herr Poe. Your tales, "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar" and "Mesmeric Revelations", excited my fascination with the hypnotic arts.'

Before the war, before turning, Mabuse had been an authority on the subject of mesmerism, lowering himself to public displays. Naturally, a man of his talents and influence was in charge of propaganda.

'All wars need heroes, Herr Poe. This war most of all. Since they tend by nature to be unforthcoming, all heroes need to be publicised.'

Dr Mabuse spoke as if delivering a speech. Lamps on his desk made a shadowed mask of his face, bringing out the glow in his eyes. Early in the war, Dr Mabuse had toured gymnasia, addressing students. It was not uncommon for an audience to enlist
en masse
following one of his lectures.

'You have heard, of course, of Manfred von Richthofen.'

'The flier?'

'The
flier. Our premier warrior of the air. Seventy-two victories.'

Poe had always been interested in the possibilities of man-powered flight. When warm, he had written The Balloon Hoax', and in
The Battle of St Petersburg
he had predicted the use in battle of airships and fighter aeroplanes.

'It is the crowing claim of the Allies that they are our masters in the air over the Western Front,' said Dr Mabuse, lips curving in a one-sided smile. 'Before spring, that will change.'

'Germany has better aeroplanes,' Ewers muttered.

'Germany has better
men.
This is the secret of our victory. No matter what mechanical devices are ranged against us, we Germans will prevail through the strength of our spirit.'

Dr Mabuse took a document from his desk drawer and slid it across his desk. Poe caught it and looked.

It was the mock-up of a book cover.
Der rote Kampfflieger,
by Manfred, Rittmeister Freiherr von Richthofen.
The Red Battle Flier.
The rough illustration showed a batwinged red shadow over a falling enemy aeroplane.

'Richthofen has written his autobiography?'

'The Freiherr is a fighter, not a man of letters. If his story is to be told, it will require a great spinner of tales. You, Herr Poe.'

He began to understand what was to be asked of him.

'You want me to ghost this book?'

'To "ghost"? Exactly. You shall be Richthofen's ghost.'

Ewers hovered in the shadows of the office. Poe wondered what his part in this was. If H.H. Ewers was so great a writer, why was he not clamouring for this honour?

'Herr Ewers will be on hand as a native German-speaker to serve as editor, should you need him.'

Ewers's brows contracted darkly. His pretended importance evaporated by the moment. It seemed he was less doppelgänger
than messenger boy.

'Transport has been arranged to the Château du Malinbois, where Richthofen is stationed with his
Jagdgeschwader 1.
Our modest hero has consented to be interviewed at length. Use his words if you can, but work them up into something more than a set of dry war stories. To be frank, my experience is that true heroes tend to the tedious. Capture the truth but put your own shine on it, Herr Poe. Let us have some of the spirit of your tales. Thrilling battles, extreme characters, hairsbreadth escapes. The book will be useless if nobody wishes to read it.'

Anonymity did not bother Poe. Considering his current doubts, it might be best if this were not generally known to be his composition. He was unsure if he could even manage low hack-work. But he had always been as much a journalist as a poet. If anything remained of his ragged muse, it could be stirred to this purpose.

'You must to work fast. Events are moving swiftly, as you will find when you reach the front ...'

The front! The Château du Malinbois was in the thick of the war. He would be in the glory of battle. Not as a soldier, but as a poet, he would take himself to war. This was a chance to right the wrong of
The Battle of St Petersburg.
If the world disappointed him, the world must be shaped to his liking.

'You must catch Richthofen's past but also tell of his present. As Germany retakes the air, you will be there to set the victories in stone for posterity.'

The director's voice was soothing and persuasive. Poe felt stirrings in his breast. A door opening in his mind: words would soon pour from him again. He stood to attention and saluted.

'Dr Mabuse, I shall endeavour to perform my duties, for the glory of the Kaiser and to the betterment of the cause of the Central Powers.'

'Herr Poe, that is all we can ask of you.'

She did not give the warm fellows cause to notice her, but her
nosferatu
senses were athrill. With the distraction of the air raid, Charles and his associate, Edwin Winthrop, should not catch her out. However, the tall, heavily moustached vampire watching over them was formidable. It was hard to stay on the track and not get mixed up with Dravot's boots. Of old, the sergeant was often found near Charles. Now his attentions were transferred to the younger officer. In itself, that was suggestive.

Kate had been Charles's shadow all evening. He was among the most perceptive of his ungentle profession but her night- skills grew more acute by the year. Paris offered crowds enough to be usefully lost in. Being titchy helped. Weaving between bigger people, she was a perfect mouse: scarf about her lower face, mittened hands muffed in her coat-sleeves, knitted cap over the tops of her ears.

Everyone else looked up but she regarded the pavement, hearing rather than seeing the way, fixing on Charles's voice. The racket of the air raid obscured most of what was said but Charles's timbre was easy to distinguish. Those of her bloodline had sharp ears, a useful trait in a reporter.

The Zeppelins were on the other side of the river. Hovering above the cloud, they could not be seen but the drone of engines was constant. Fairly distant bomb-bursts were overlaid by immediate shouts of defiance and abuse. Useless shots were fired into the sky. The ground shook with each explosion. Fires spread.

Someone on the run bumped into her, dislodging her spectacles, and apologised in rapid French. Snake-quick, she caught her glasses and put them back on, blinking. The running man, scarlet-lined cape flapping, was lost in the crowd. For a moment, she thought her quarry lost but she caught Charles's voice, stray words drifting through din.

Panic spread as the Zeppelins drifted towards the quarter. Bombs still fell, whistling and bursting. Tonight, the Germans dropped only incendiaries, damaging buildings. At other times, Dracula's airships poured flaming liquid that adhered to living flesh. The stuff, which water would not douse, burned to the bone. Vampires might be hardy but fire and silver were lethal to them. With Europe overstocked by the undead, the war had prompted the development of infernal devices that would have given the late Van Helsing unpleasant delight. Manufacturers .; with stock in silver mines became munitions millionaires '4 overnight. Lady Jennifer Buckingham of the Women's Volunteer Ambulance Brigade led a silver drive, persuading the wealthy to give up coffee pots and candlesticks for bullets and bayonets.

While Charles attended the Theatre Raoul Privache, Kate had loitered outside, noting the comings and goings of patrons. Spotting Edwin at once, she was reminded of Charles in Whitechapel during the Terror, secretive yet puzzled. With Edwin came Dravot, a sure sign. Being familiar with the speciality of the Raoul Privache, she was unsurprised when the Englishmen left before the end of what might be termed the first act. Even after thirty years as a supposed creature of Gothic dark, elders gave Kate the horrors. Isolde, among the oldest of the old, was hardly a healthy advertisement for eternal life.