by Kim Newman
‘Lucy,’ he said, again. It was a habit of his, just to say the name out loud. He looked at Mary Jane, and saw the twice-dead girl in Kingstead.
His hands touched her about the waist, then climbed her back, finally fixing at her neck. Taking a grip, he pulled her away from him. His thumbs pressed under her chin. If she were warm, this might hurt. Her teeth grew sharp. John Seward’s face was dark, his expression one with which she was familiar. Sometimes, this look would pass over him when they were together. It was his brute self, the savage she found inside every man. Then, something mild sparked in his eyes and he let her go. He was shaking. He turned away and steadied himself against his desk. She smoothed the strands of her hair that had come loose, and rearranged her collar. In his rough grip, her red thirst had been aroused.
‘Lucy, you mustn’t...’
He waved her away but she took a hold on him from behind, easing his collar away from his neck, undoing his stock.
‘... be here. This is...’
She wet his old scars with her tongue, then opened them with a gentle bite.
‘... another part of...’
Intently, she sucked. Her throat burned. She shut her eyes and saw red in the darkness.
‘... my life.’
Taking her mouth from his neck for a moment, she chewed her glove, biting away the tiny shell buttons at her wrist. She freed her right hand and spat out the cloth skin. Her fingers had extended, nails splitting the seams. She reached into his clothes, displacing buttons. She stroked his warm flesh, careful not to cut. John moaned to himself slightly, lost.
‘Lucy.’
The name spurred her, put anger in her appetite. She tugged at his clothes, and bit again, deeper.
‘Lucy.’
No, she thought, gripping, Mary Jane.
Her chin and front were wet with his blood. She heard a choke in the back of his throat and felt him swallowing his own scream. He tried to say Lucy’s name again but she worried him harder, silencing him. For the moment, in this heat, he was her John. When it was over, she would dab her lips and be his dream Lucy again. And he would rearrange his clothes and be Dr Seward. But now they were their true selves; Mary Jane and John, joined by blood and flesh.
42
THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME
Geneviève Dieudonné,’ Beauregard introduced her, ‘Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the First Bangalore Pioneers, author of Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas, and one of the greatest scoundrels unhanged...’
The new-born in the coach was an angry-looking brute, uncomfortable in evening dress, moustache bristling fiercely. When warm, he must have had the ruddy tan of an ‘Injah hand’, but now he looked like a viper, poison sacs bulging under his chin.
Moran grunted something that might count as an acknowledgement, and ordered them to get into the coach. Beauregard hesitated, then stepped back to allow her to go first. He was being clever, she realised. If the Colonel meant harm, he would keep an eye on the man he considered a threat. The new-born would not believe her four and a half centuries stronger than he. If it came to it, she could tear him apart.
Geneviève sat opposite Moran and Beauregard took the seat next to her. Moran tapped the roof and the cab moved off. With the motion, the black-hooded bundle next to the Colonel nodded forwards, and had to be straightened up and leaned back.
‘A friend?’ Beauregard asked.
Moran snorted. Inside the bundle was a man, either dead or insensible. ‘What would you say if I told you this was the veritable Jack the Ripper?’
‘I suppose I’d have to take you seriously. I understand you only hunt the most dangerous game.’
Moran grinned, tiger-fangs under his whiskers. ‘Huntin’ hunters. It’s the only sport worth talkin’ about.’
‘They say Quatermain and Roxton are better than you with a rifle, and the Russian who uses the Tartar warbow is the best of all.’
The Colonel brushed away the comparisons. ‘They’re all warm.’
Moran had a stiff arm out, holding back the clumsy bundle. ‘We’re on our own in this huntin’ trip,’ he said. ‘The rest of the Ring aren’t in it.’
Beauregard considered.
‘It’s been nearly a month since the last matter,’ the Colonel said. ‘Saucy Jack’s finished. Probably cut his throat on one of his own knives. But that’s not enough for us, is it? If business is to get back to the usual, Jack has to be seen to be finished.’
They were near the river. The Thames was a sharp, foul undertaste. All the filth of the city wound up in the river, and was disseminated into the seven seas. Garbage from Rotherhithe and Stepney drifted to Shanghai and Madagascar.
Moran got a grip on the black winding sheet and wrenched it away from a pale, bloodied face.
‘Druitt,’ Geneviève said.
‘Montague John Druitt, I believe,’ the Colonel said. ‘A colleague of yours, with very singular nocturnal habits.’
This was not right. Druitt’s left eye opened in a rind of blood. He had been badly beaten.
‘The police considered him early in the investigation,’ Beauregard said – a surprise to Geneviève – ‘but he was ruled out.’
‘He had easy access,’ Moran said. ‘Toynbee Hall is almost dead centre of the pattern made by the murder sites. He fits the popular picture, a crackpot toff with bizarre delusions. Nobody – beggin’ your pardon, ma’am – really believes an educated man works among tarts and beggars out of Christian kindness. And nobody is goin’ to object to Druitt takin’ the blame for the slaughter of a handful of harlots. He’s not exactly royalty, is he? He don’t even have an alibi for any of the killings.’
‘You evidently have close friends at the Yard?’
Moran flashed his feral grin again. ‘So, do I extend my congratulations to you and your ladyfriend?’ the Colonel asked. ‘Have you caught Jack the Ripper?’
Beauregard took a long pause and thought. Geneviève was confused, realising how much had been kept from her. Druitt was trying to talk, but his broken mouth couldn’t frame words. The coach was thick with the smell of slick blood and her own mouth was dry. She had not fed in too long.
‘No,’ Beauregard said. ‘Druitt will not fit. He plays cricket.’
‘So does another blackguard I could name. That don’t prevent him from bein’ a filthy murderer.’
‘In this case, it does. On the mornings after the second and fourth and fifth murders, Druitt was on the field. After the “double event”, he made a half-century and took two wickets. I hardly think he could have managed that if he’d been up all night chasing and killing women.’
Moran was not impressed. ‘You’re beginnin’ to sound like that rotten detective they sent to Devil’s Dyke. All clues and evidence and deductions. Druitt here is committin’ suicide tonight, fillin’ his pockets with stones and takin’ a swim in the Thames. I dare say the body’ll have been bashed about a bit before he’s found. But before he does the deed, he’ll leave behind a confession. And his handwritin’ is goin’ to look deuced like those bloody crank letters.’
Moran made Druitt’s head nod.
‘It won’t wash, Colonel. What if the real Ripper starts killing again?’
‘Harlots die, Beauregard. It happens often. We found one Ripper, we can always find another.’
‘Let me guess. Pedachenko, the Russian agent? The police considered him for a moment or two. Sir William Gull, the Queen’s physician? Dr Barnardo? Prince Albert Victor? Walter Sickert? A Portuguese seaman? It’s a simple matter to put a scalpel into someone’s hand and make him up for the part. But that won’t stop the killing...’
‘I didn’t take you for such a fastidious sort, Beauregard. You don’t mind servin’ vampires, or –’ a sharp nod at Geneviève ‘– consortin’ with them. You may be warm but you’re chillin’ by the hour. Your conscience lets you serve the Prince Consort.’
‘I serve the Queen, Moran.’
The Colonel started to laugh, but – after a flash of razor light
ning in the dark of the cab – found Beauregard’s sword-cane at his throat.
‘I know a silversmith, too,’ Beauregard said. ‘Just like Jack.’
Druitt tumbled off his seat and Geneviève caught him. His groan told her that he was broken inside.
Moran’s eyes glowed red in the gloom. The silvered length of steel held fast, point dimpling the Colonel’s adam’s apple.
‘I’m going to turn Druitt,’ Geneviève said. ‘He’s too badly hurt to be saved any other way.’
Beauregard nodded to her, his hand steady. With a nip, she bit into her wrist, and waited for the blood to well up. If Druitt could drink enough of her blood as she drained him, the turn would begin.
She never had any get. Her father-in-darkness had served her well, and she would not be a profligate fool like Lily’s murgatroyd or Lord Godalming.
‘Another new-born,’ Moran snorted. ‘We should’ve been more selective when it all started. Too many bloody vampires in this business.’
‘Drink,’ she cooed.
What did she really know about Montague John Druitt? Like her, he was a lay practitioner, not a doctor but with some medical knowledge. She did not even know why a man with some small income and position should want to work in Toynbee Hall. He was not an obsessive philanthropist like Seward. He was not a religious man like Booth. Geneviève had taken him for granted as a useful pair of hands; now, she would have to take responsibility for him, possibly for ever. If he became a monster, like Vlad Tepes or even Colonel Sebastian Moran, then it would be her fault. She would be killing all the people Druitt killed. He had been a suspect: even if innocent, there was something about Druitt that had made him seem a likely Ripper.
‘Drink,’ she said, forcing the word from her mouth. Her wrist was dripping red.
She held her hand to Druitt’s mouth. Her incisors slid from their gumsheaths and she dipped her head. The scent of Druitt’s blood was stinging in her nostrils. He had a convulsion and she realised his need was urgent. If he did not drink her blood now, he would die. She touched her wrist to his mashed lips. He flinched away, trembling.
‘No,’ he gargled, refusing her gift, ‘no...’
A shudder of disgust ran through him and he died.
‘Not everybody wants to live for ever,’ Moran observed. ‘What a waste.’
Geneviève reached across the space between them and backhanded the Colonel across the face, knocking away Beauregard’s cane. Moran’s red eyes shrank and she could tell he was afraid of her. She was still hungry, having allowed the red thirst to rise in her. She could not drink Druitt’s spoiled dead blood. She could not even drink Moran’s second- or third-hand blood. But she could relieve her frustration by ripping meat off his face.
‘Call her off,’ Moran spluttered.
One of her hands was at his throat, the other was drawn back, the fingers gathered into a point, sharp talons bunched like an arrowhead. It would be easy to put a hole in Moran’s face.
‘It’s not worth it,’ Beauregard said. Somehow, his words cut through her crimson rage and she held back. ‘He may be a worm, but he has friends, Geneviève. Friends you wouldn’t want to make enemies of. Friends who have already troubled you.’
Her teeth slipped back into her gums and her sharpened fingernails settled. She was still itchy for blood, but she was in control again.
Beauregard put up his sword and Moran ordered the cabby to stop the coach. The Colonel, his new-born’s confidence in shreds, was shaking as they stepped down. A trickle of blood leaked from one eye. Beauregard sheathed his cane and Moran wrapped a scarf around his pricked neck.
‘Quatermain wouldn’t have flinched, Colonel,’ Beauregard said. ‘Good night, and give my regards to the Professor.’
Moran turned his face away into the darkness and the cab wheeled away from the pavement, rushing into the fog. Geneviève’s head was spinning. They were back where they had started. Near the Ten Bells. The pub was no quieter now than when they left. Women loitered by the doors, strutting for passersby.
Geneviève’s mouth hurt and her heart hammered. She made fists and tried to shut her eyes.
Beauregard held his wrist to her mouth. ‘Here, take what you must.’
A rush of gratitude made her ankles weak. She almost swooned but at once dispelled the fog in her mind, concentrating on her need.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
She bit him gently and took as little as possible to slake the red thirst. His blood trickled down her throat, calming her, giving her strength. When it was over, she asked him if it were his first time and he nodded.
‘It’s not unpleasant,’ he commented, neutrally.
‘It can be less formal,’ she said. ‘Eventually.’
‘Good night, Geneviève,’ he said, turning away. He walked into the fog and left her, his blood still on her lips.
She knew as little about Charles Beauregard as she had about Druitt. He had never really told her why he was interested in the Ripper. Or why he continued to serve his vampire queen. For a moment, she was frightened. Everyone around her wore a mask and behind that mask might be...
Anything.
43
FOXHOLE
The surgeon had found it impossible to pick out all the silver shards from his knee. With each step, he felt again the hot explosion of pain. Some vampires could regenerate lost limbs as lizards grew new tails. Kostaki was not of that breed. Already, he had to live behind a dead face; soon, he might also have to stump along on a piratical peg-leg.
A couple of young bloods, sharp-eyed new-born toughs, lurched away from an ill-made and damp wall to bar the egress from the tiny courtyard. He showed his face and teeth, facing them down. Without a word, they slipped back to their shadows and allowed him to pass.
He was out of uniform, concealed by a large hat and cloak, limping through the night fog. The message had given an address in the Old Jago, a district which was to Whitechapel what Whitechapel was to Mayfair.
‘Moldavian,’ came a quiet voice. ‘Over here.’
In the dark of an alley-mouth, Kostaki saw Mackenzie. ‘Scotsman, well met.’
‘If you say so.’
The Inspector’s coat was holed and patched, and he wore a week’s whiskers. Kostaki understood he had not been seen for some time. His fellows were concerned for his safety. The general assumption was that he had been removed to Devil’s Dyke following an undiplomatic utterance.
‘A fine pair of beggars we make,’ Mackenzie said, shifting his shoulders inside his loose and dirty coat.
Kostaki grinned. He was pleased this warm man was not in a concentration camp. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Here, in the main,’ said Mackenzie. ‘And Whitechapel. This is where the trail goes to ground.’
‘The trail?’
‘Our masked fox with the dynamite. I’ve been tracking him since that night in the park.’
Kostaki remembered the flash of a pistol and dark eyes inside a concealing hood. The stick of dynamite fizzing in von Klatka’s chest an instant before the blast. Then, a lumpy red rainstorm. ‘You have found the murderer?’
Mackenzie nodded.
‘I see the reputation of Scotland Yard is well earned.’
Mackenzie looked bitter. ‘This is nothing to do with Scotland Yard. Not with Warren or Anderson or Lestrade. They were in the way, so I set out on my own.’
‘A lone hunter?’
‘Exactly. Warren insisted we look for a Christian Crusader, but I knew better. You were there, Kostaki. You must remember. The man in the hood. He was a vampire.’
The dark eyes. Maybe rimmed with red. Kostaki had not forgotten.
‘And that vampire is here in this rookery.’ Mackenzie looked up. In the lodging house opposite the alleyway there was a light. A third-storey room. Shadows moved on the thin muslin curtain. ‘I’ve been watching him for days and nights. They call him “Danny” or “Sergeant”. A v
ery interesting fellow, our fox. He has surprising associations.’
Mackenzie’s eyes shone. Kostaki recognised the pride of a predator.
‘Are you sure this is him?’
‘Sure as I can be. You will be too. When you see him, when you hear his voice.’
‘How did you track him?’
Mackenzie smiled again and laid a finger beside his nose. ‘I followed the trail. Dynamite and silver are hard to come by. There are only a few sources worth mentioning. I played the Irish card, asking around the mick pubs. It’s certain his bully-boys were recruited from the Fenians. When it comes to mopping up, I’ve most of their names. I had a description of the Sergeant within two days. Then I found a few hard facts, details scattered on the ground like crumbs.’
The light dimmed and Kostaki shrank back deeper into the alley, pulling Mackenzie with him.
‘You’ll see now,’ the Scotsman said. ‘You’ll see him.’
An ill-fitting door was pulled inwards and a vampire emerged from the building. It was the man Kostaki had seen in the park. There was no mistaking the upright bearing. And the eyes. He wore old clothes and a battered peaked cap, but his posture and flaring moustache suggested the British army. The vampire looked around him, staring for a long second into the alley. Then he consulted a pocket watch. Briskly, the Sergeant marched off.
Mackenzie breathed again.
When they could no longer hear the vampire’s bootfalls, Kostaki said. ‘It was him.’
‘I never had any doubt.’
‘Then why did you summon me?’
‘Because I can trust you as no other. We have an understanding, you and I.’
Kostaki knew what Mackenzie meant.
‘We must follow this Sergeant, find his confederates, root out and destroy his whole conspiracy.’
‘That is where our situation becomes complicated. Men like Sir Charles Warren or your General Iorga detest surprises. They prefer a culprit to be someone they suspected. Often, they’ll refuse to credit evidence simply because it contradicts a half-formed notion they’ve made the mistake of espousing. Sir Charles wants the dynamiter to be one of Jago’s crusaders, not a vampire.’