Genevieve 02 - Genevieve Undead

by Jack Yeovil

  But there was something about Eva.

  She was in his blood like snakepoison, and it couldn't be sucked out with a simple bite. Since the first night of Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida, the bane was creeping through him. He had known it at the party afterwards. One or the other of them was always going to make a move. It had been her, but it could as easily have been him.

  He felt physically sick when he was away from her, unable to think of anything, of anyone, else. And when he was with her, there was a different kind of pain, a gnawing guilt, a self-disgust, an awareness of his own foolishness.

  The more he loved Eva, the more certain he was the girl would leave him. He could do nothing more for her. He was a stepping stone, half-sunk in the stream. There were larger, sturdier stones ahead. Eva would go on to them.

  They had snatched a few hours together away from the theatre in the afternoon, rutting in the hot dark behind the drawn curtains of her upstairs room. She had already outpaced and outworn him, slipping into an easeful sleep while he, exhausted, lay awake next to her in her narrow bed, mind crowded and uncomfortable.

  This was not the first time, but it was the worst. Before, Illona had known but been able to bear it. The other girls had not lasted, could not last.

  He had half-thought Illona had encouraged him to be unfaithful, and they had been better together afterwards than before. Theatrical marriages were difficult and usually foundered. Little diversions gave them strength to carry on.

  Now, Illona was in tears all the time. At home, the twins were forever fighting and demanding. He spent as little time there as possible, preferring either to be with Eva or at the Temple Street gymnasium fencing and lifting weights.

  Eva shifted beside him, and the covers fell away from her sleeping face. Daylight dotted in through the rough weave of the curtains, and Reinhardt looked down at the girl.

  An ice-kiss touched him.

  As she slept, Eva looked strange, as if there were a layer of thin glass stretched over her face. Reinhardt caught strange almost-reflections in the surface.

  He touched her cheek, and found it hard, like a statue.

  As his fingertips pressed, the quality of her skin changed, becoming yielding, warm. Her eyes opened, and she took his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

  He was truly afraid of her now.

  Eva sat up, pushing him back against the plastered wall, her warm body against his, her face empty of expression.

  'Reinhardt,' she said, 'there are things you must do for me'

  XV

  The labyrinth was different here. While the passages behind the dressing rooms were cramped, these were almost spacious, the underground equivalents of thoroughfares. Odd items had drifted down from the world above. One corridor was lined with flats from various productions, laid end to end so mountain scenery gave way to Darklands jungle, then to the plasterboard flagstones and painted bloodstains of a dungeon, then to a storm-whipped seascape on springs so it would roll behind a stage ship, then to the corpse-littered Chaos Wastes. Genevieve tried to remember which plays went with each canvas.

  She sensed her quarry was close. The Box Seven smell lingered faintly, and she had better nostrils than true humans. Some of the painted scenes had dried-slime smudges on them, indicating that the Trapdoor Daemon used this path. She wondered if she should call out, or if that would drive Malvoisin further into hiding.

  Having spent so many of her years penned up in one way or another, she could imagine what kind of life the Trapdoor Daemon had down here. What she couldn't imagine was him finding any other kind of life. Humans barely tolerated her, and were invariably hostile to any of her kind who shapechanged. It wasn't an unfounded prejudice, but it was also not entirely just.

  The passageway angled down, and ended in a curtained chamber. She looked around for the trapdoor, and found it, disguised as the top of a large barrel.

  Originally the tunnel had had a ladder for human use, but that had mainly been scraped away replaced by a set of protuberances that gave Genevieve an idea of what Malvoisin must look like. The smell was very strong, a whiff of dead fish and saltwater rising from the depths.

  For now, she left the tunnel alone, replacing the barrel-top. Today she was going to search only the uppermost levels. She suspected Malvoisin might choose to loiter near the surface. She'd found many of his peepholes, and been amused by the private rooms into which they afforded a view.

  Obviously, the Trapdoor Daemon alleviated his solitude by taking an interest in the company of the Vargr Breughel Memorial Playhouse.

  She wondered how many of her own private moments had been overseen. From a peephole accessible if she stood on the barrel, she could see into a stockroom where, among the dusty wigstands and tins of facepowder, she had once bled Detlef intimately.

  The red thirst had come upon her during a reception, and she had dragged her lover to this forgotten corner of the theatre, taking mouthfuls of his flesh and gently puncturing his excited skin, gorging herself until he was dangerously weak, a half-dozen new wounds opened on his body. Had once-human eyes witnessed her lustful gluttony?

  Retracing her footsteps to the last horizontal junction, she explored a new fork. Nearby, there was a rapid slithering, and she darted in its direction, her nightsight enabling her not to slam into a wall. She didn't call out. Something large was moving fast.

  The slithering turned a corner and she followed it. There was no movement of air, so she guessed this was a closed space. She came to a wall, and stopped. She couldn't hear anything now. Looking back, she realized she'd been fooled. They didn't call Malvoisin the Trapdoor Daemon lightly. Somehow, he'd slipped into the walls, ceiling or floor, and escaped her.

  However, she was canny. And she had time.

  The Animus let Eva guide it to the theatre, with Reinhardt as thoroughly in tow as if he were a pig led by a brass ring through his nose. From Eva, it had learned that destroying Detlef and Genevieve wasn't enough for its purpose. Before they died, they must be broken apart, the bond forged at the fortress of Drachenfels sundered completely. That way, they'd die knowing nothing lasting had come of their triumph. The Animus was grateful for the new insight, realizing at last that it hadn't been prepared to do its master's bidding until it joined with its current host. The Great Enchanter must have foreseen this when he forged the Animus, realizing his creature wouldn't be whole until it was partially human.

  It was gathering about itself the tools it needed. Eva, of course, was the key, but others×Reinhardt, Illona, the Trapdoor Daemon, even Detlef and Genevieve themselves×must play their parts. For Eva, the Animus was very like Detlef, conceiving a drama and then guiding his company through their parts. The Animus was not above being flattered by the comparison. Created as a cold intellect, it bore the vampire and the play-actor no malice. It just knew that their destruction was its purpose. From Eva, it had learned a considerable respect for Detlef Sierck's prowess as a man of the theatre.

  Eva left Reinhardt at the Temple Street gymnasium for his afternoon exercises, knowing he would come when needed. The host had her own purpose, distinct from that of the Animus.

  For the moment, their ambitions meshed neatly. If a conflict ever arose, each was confident of victory over the other.

  The Animus let Eva go on thinking she was in control.

  Outside the theatre, there were three distinct crowds. The largest was an unruly queue at the box office, demanding seats for The Strange History of Dr. Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida. A few well-known touts were preying on these, charging unbelievable prices for genuine tickets, and slightly more credible coin for badly-forged imitations which would never pass Guglielmo Pentangeli's ushers. Competing with the eager would-be patrons was a line of placard-waving petitioners, mostly well-dressed matrons and thin young men in shabby clothes, protesting against the play.

  One placard was a vivid poster of Detlef as Mr. Chaida, showing him as a giant trampling over the murdered citizens of Altdorf. Since the last host's death, the pr
otests had increased fourfold.

  As Eva neared, the third crowd was aroused to activity. These, she was gradually becoming used to. There were liveried footmen with floral offerings and billets douces and formal invitations, and well-dressed young men keen to pursue their suits in person. Besides romantic overtures, Eva Savinien was daily pestered by professional offers, from all over the Empire and as far off as Bretonnia and Kislev. There could be no doubt that the young actress was the toast of Altdorf.

  Graciously accepting flowers, invitations and letters, Eva passed through the crowd, politely fending off the more persistent suitors. Slipping through the front door, she immediately dumped her crop of tributes into the arms of Poppa Fritz, who staggered under the burden. She would go through the letters later.

  'You should start sending your flowers to the Retreat of Shallya,' a voice said.

  It was Illona. Eva turned, squashing a mouse of irritation in her mind. She didn't want this distraction now.

  'That's what I did in the last century, when I was in your position. Flowers move you out of your dressing room and are no real use. The patients at the hospital will at least get something out of them.'

  'A good idea,' Eva agreed. 'Thank you, Illona.'

  'We should talk, Eva,' the older woman said.

  'Not now.'

  Illona looked sharply at Eva, eyes penetrating. It was as if she knew something, saw something. The Animus knew this was not possible. Not now.

  'Take care, Eva. You've charted a dangerous course. Lots of squalls and shallows, rocks and whirlpools.'

  Eva shrugged. This was most tiresome. Illona had fixed her with a look, making a strong-link chain between them.

  'I was your age once, you know.'

  'Naturally. Most people were.'

  'And one day, you'll be my age.'

  'The gods willing, yes.'

  'That's right. The gods willing.'

  The chain between them broke, and Eva bowed slightly.

  'This has been most enlightening,' Eva said. 'But if you'll excuse me'

  She left Illona in the foyer, and went in search of Detlef. The Animus could taste the nearness of its purpose.

  XVI

  The vampire had invaded his world. The Trapdoor Daemon didn't yet know how he felt about that. He'd been alone so long. Alone except for Eva. And she was now lost to him.

  From the ceiling, where he could cling to the holds he'd carved, he angled his eyes down, and watched Genevieve as she carefully made her way down the main passage.

  The Trapdoor Daemon understood Genevieve Dieudonne had been an actress. Once. He admired her courage, and her caution. The labyrinth had its dangers, but she evaded them with skill. She was used to prowling corridors in the dark. Eventually, the red glints of her eyes would find him.

  His heart pulsated inside his shroud of darkness.

  Once, Bruno Malvoisin had loved an actress, Salli Spaak. No, not an actress, but a courtesan who used the stage to give her respectability. She had rejoiced in her celebrity, as the crowds came to gawp at her rather than see the play. Salli had been the mistress of the then-emperor's youngest brother, Prince Nikol. The fortunes of the theatre had ebbed and flowed with her patron's feelings for his lady.

  Genevieve reminded the Trapdoor Daemon of the long-dead temptress. So did Eva, although Salli had never been as gifted on the stage as Malvoisin's recent protégée.

  When Salli and the Imperial Brother quarreled, laws were passed against the theatre and halberdiers came to bar the house's doors. And when she pleased Nikol, gifts and favours were showered upon the whole company.

  Salli had made a conquest of Bruno Malvoisin as she had made conquests of many others. She enjoyed the fear that spread whenever she bestowed her favours on another. It was not a good idea to sleep with the mistress of Nikol of the House of the Second Wilhelm. The prince had publicly duelled and dispatched several of Salli's admirers, and Malvoisin knew a man who won a duel with Prince Nikol wouldn't escape with his life.

  Genevieve looked up, and the Trapdoor Daemon retreated a little in his cloud of artificial shadow. She didn't seem to see him. He didn't know if he was disappointed, whether he wanted to be found or not.

  Behind Salli's beautiful face, there had been a terrible corruption. And Malvoisin had caught it. Like Genevieve×like Eva, even×she had not been entirely human. Prince Nikol had ultimately committed suicide after being lured into taking part in an unholy rite of the Proscribed Cult of Tzeentch, and Salli had been driven out of Altdorf by a mob. By then, Malvoisin was shambling through backstreets in a heavy cloak, trying in vain to disguise his increasingly obvious deformities. By night, he'd written reams, pouring out words as if he knew he had to discharge the entire rest of his life's worth of work within weeks. The day his swelling head shrugged off his nose, he'd gone underground.

  Shaking her head, Genevieve continued down the passage. Eventually, she'd solve all the puzzles of the labyrinth. Then the Trapdoor Daemon would have to consider her as a problem.

  Salli had believed in warpstone the way a weirdroot addict believes in dreamjuice. At great expense, she acquired the deadly material and added it to her food, to the food of her lovers. Malvoisin had not been the only one to change. The marks had been on the prince when he was found hanging from Three Toll Bridge.

  He was, however, the only one to survive.

  Salli had been a secret worshipper of Tzeentch, had enjoyed spreading corruption around her. She'd been the chosen instrument of the Chaos god, and had struck him down. In Seduced by Slaaneshi, he had dared to present on the stage things never intended for human audiences. His sins had been registered in the darkness, stirring into action powers from which there was no escape.

  When Genevieve had passed, the Trapdoor Daemon let himself down from the roof, and settled on the flagstones. He pushed tentacles against two tiltstones in the wall×spaced far enough apart that no one ordinary man could reach them both×and dropped soundlessly into the slide that appeared in the floor.

  He descended several levels, and slid into the comforting cold of the black waters beneath the theatre.

  * * * * *

  Detlef sat on the stage, in Dr. Zhiekhill's chair, alone with himself in the auditorium. There was a lantern on the set, amid the doctor's retorts and cauldrons, but otherwise the huge space was dark. He looked out into the empty black, knowing in his mind the precise dimensions of the hall. Dimly, he could see the velvet of the expensive seats. In his island of light, he might have been alone in the entire building, the entire universe.

  Still drained from last night, he wasn't sure whether he'd have the energy for tonight's performance. It always came at the last moment. At least, it always had so far. The bite on his neck was irritating him, and he wondered if it might have become infected. Perhaps, he and Gene should stay away from each other for a while.

  Their last time together, after the first night, had been bloodier than usual. The red thirst had been strong in her. Occasionally, through the years, he'd had cause to fear that he might not survive their love-making. In the heat, neither man nor vampire really had any self-control. That, he supposed, was the whole point of the heat. If she wounded him too deeply, he supposed she would feel obliged to let him suckle her blood, to become her son-in-darkness, to cheat death and become a vampire himself.

  The prospect, always between them but never discussed, excited and frightened him. Vampire couples had a bad reputation, even among other vampires.

  At this time in the afternoon, the theatre was asleep, the actors and the audience hours away. Like Genevieve, the Vargr Breughel was only really alive after nightfall.

  Genevieve had been made a vampire almost as a child, before she'd settled on her personality; if it came to it, Detlef would change while a fully-formed human being. 'Vampires can't have children,' his lover had once told him, 'not in the natural way. And we don't write plays.' It was true: Detlef could not think of a single great contribution to the arts×or to much else, besides
bloodshed×that had been made by one of the undead. To live possibly forever was an attractive, intriguing prospect, but the coldness that came with it frightened him.

  The coldness that could make a Kattarin.

  Vampire couples were the worst, becoming more dependent upon each other with the passing centuries, more contemptuous of the rest of the world, more callous, more murderous. Each became the only real thing in the other's world. Eventually, Genevieve told him, they became one creature in two bodies, a berserk feeding beast that had to be stopped with silver and hawthorn.

  A hand touched his neck and slipped around his throat with catlike ease. His heart stuttered, thinking the Trapdoor Daemon, angered by Gene's intrusion into his lair, had come to lay a death-squeezing tentacle on him.

  He turned and, in the light of the lantern, saw Eva's face, a masklike oval in repose, Worn and expressionless like the bas-relief on a much-used coin.

  Her touch was odd, neither warm nor chill.

  She smiled, and her face came alive. After all, she was on stage. Detlef wondered what scene Eva was playing.

  Lifting her hand and his head with it, she made him stand up. Eva was tall enough to look him in the eye. Tall enough×like Illona and very few others, and unlike Genevieve×to play love scenes with him that looked good from the most remote box in the house.

  He expected the kiss, but it was a long time coming.

  Genevieve had been working her way up a peculiar network of stairs and ladders which, she realized, must exist inside the thick walls of the Vargr Breughel. Complicated joists and beams provided support for the thinnest shell of stone. By her reckoning, she was heading for an egress somewhere on the roof of the theatre, between the huge comic and tragic masks carved in stone on the eaves.

  Perhaps the laughing or crying mouths and eyes were doorways.

  She came to a trapdoor that was thick with dried slime, suggesting repeated use. As she touched the latch, she had one of her rare flashes of precognition. With the dark kiss, Chandagnac had given her a touch of the scrying ability. Now, she knew opening this door would solve mysteries, but that she wouldn't like the solutions. Her hand stayed, fingers on the latch, and she knew that if she left the door closed, her life would continue as it was now. If she pushed, everything would change. Again.