Or, more accurately, towards the rocket battery.
‘Take to the trenches,’ Jeanne Dark yelled, and the Covenite soldiers did as they were told. But it did no good: even as she vaulted over the side of the trench, she heard the whoomph of the V1 crashing to earth, felt the air suddenly become ovenhot, felt her clothes and her SAE ignite …
Outside the Doge’s Palace, Venice
Semiazaz stood patiently in the shadows of the alleyway opposite the side entrance to the Palace, waiting for his Master’s crypto to open the door that would allow him entry. It was a perfect night for murder. The sky was cloudy and the moon obscured, and with the comings and goings of the dozens of steamers bringing guests to the Fleshtival de Walpurgisnacht the streets around the Palace were crowded and confused. No one would give a single man entering the Palace so much as a glance; not even a man as singular as Semiazaz. But it never did to be too confident. He adjusted the wide brim of his hat to ensure his face was well shadowed, then nervously touched the hilt of his sword.
He was right to be nervous. Entering the Palace would be the easy part of his mission, killing the day-hag would be much more difficult. Of course, when he had been questioned by the Master, he had pronounced himself wholly confident of his ability to assassinate the girl, but the nagging doubt remained that she was a more formidable opponent than he cared to admit. She had bested him once and then he had had Baraqel to help him deal with her.
So although honour demanded that he kill her with his blade, he had decided that should matters go awry he would have a second, less chivalrous, means of disposing of her. And that was why he had a holster on his hip holding a beautifully weighted Colt revolver loaded with silver bullets: even the Lilithi, for all their powers, were vulnerable to silver. There would be no mistakes tonight.
Across the street, the door to the servants’ entrance eased open, leaking a sliver of light out onto the pavement. For an instant the man opening the door was illuminated and Semiazaz saw the crypto gesture towards him.
It was time.
The bedchamber of the Lady IMmanual, the Doge’s Palace, Venice
Sister Florence made her preparations for the seduction of the Lady IMmanual carefully. She spent almost thirty minutes instructing Sister Bella, who would be attending the Lady IMmanual during Walpurgisnacht, on what she was to do and how she was to do it. She had personally supervised the preparation of the zelie, checking that the correct amount of the hallucinogenic plant ayahuasca was included in the recipe, and that the apothecary had not forgotten to add the Dizzi, the drug the NoirVillians were so enamoured of and which was reputed to stimulate the libido. She had also seen to it that the incense burners in the Lady IMmanual’s chamber were charged with freshly cut horny goat weed, the most powerful aphrodisiac known to the Visual Virgins.
But most importantly of all, she had ensured that Casanova realised the seriousness of the mission he was undertaking, and that the successful seduction of the Lady IMmanual was a matter of Sector security. Even Casanova – dilettante though he was – had grasped the seriousness of what he was about, and the consequences if he were to fail.
The final piece of mood-setting involved the turning of the chamber’s gas lamps down low. Now, with only the fire blazing in the grate providing any real illumination, the room had a strange sinuous substance about it, shadows shimmering and swaying around the walls and the ceiling.
Perfect.
Seven o’clock chimed announcing the Lady’s imminent arrival, so with a final ‘May ABBA be with thee, good Sister Bella,’ Sister Florence took her position behind the false panel set in the side wall of the room and pressed her eye to the spyhole hidden in one of the covings. Standing there in the darkness, she mouthed a silent prayer to ABBA, asking HisHer blessing that all would go as planned and that tonight they would come to know if the Lady IMmanual was friend or foe … if she was the Messiah or, as Sister Florence was coming increasingly to fear, the Beast.
Checkya safe house, Paris
Beria might be dead, but Zolotov’s mission lived on, and to ensure there were no more mistakes he had taken inordinate care in the planning of the assassination of Aaliz Heydrich. So much so that studying the image reflected in the dressing mirror, Zolotov had difficulty recognising himself. He had abandoned the pearlpink silk suit he had been wearing and instead adopted a decidedly more workaday outfit comprising a careworn tweed jacket and a pair of frayed corduroy trousers. Over these he’d shrugged an old but still serviceable coat, parked a moth-eaten fur shapka on his head, and pulled on a pair of beaten-up boots.
It might have been the elegant and urbane Andrei Zolotov who had walked into the room, but it was the ardent Normalist revolutionary and disorganisationalist Pavel Pavlovich Dazarev who was to leave it.
Easing the door open, Zolotov peeked out, then, satisfied he was unseen by any servants, he slipped through the back door of the safe house and into the black, bleakly cold Spring night. Hunching against the chill, he crunched across the frost-crisped snow – snow in Spring! – covering the courtyard. It was so cold that Zolotov’s breath curled around him like steam, his cheeks stiffened in the frost and the wound in his shoulder throbbed. He pulled the ear flaps of his shapka down, buried his face deeper in the turned-up collar of his coat and, with hands thrust deep into his pockets, he trudged along the deserted Avenue d’Eylau towards the bar where he was to have his rendezvous with Aaliz Heydrich.
The Bar Papillon was small and seedy and he hated it. But it was a popular meeting place for Normalists and that made it perfect for his assignation with the girl. Perfect but smelly. Stepping through the door of the bar, he had to flinch back: the place stank of sweat and stale Solution. He knew the smell well, it was the stench of revolution.
When he had first planned to adopt the alternative persona of Pavel Pavlovich Dazarev, he had known that one of his key tasks would be to get Pavel smelling right. The revolutionaries he’d met as he’d wheedled his way into the confidence of the Normalists didn’t wash regularly or use cologne, and so he’d been obliged to ape them … ape being a very apposite description. To achieve this, he had hung Pavel’s clothes up for a week in the smoke room used to cure meat, in order to endow them with such a malignant odour that any residual fragrance of Andrei Zolotov was obliterated.
But now, edging further into the crowded bar, he realised he needn’t have been so fastidious in his preparations. Enduring the olfactory nightmare that was the Bar Papillon surely meant that any sense of smell possessed by the Normalists would have been eradicated long ago.
Pension des Amis, Paris
Odette had never seen Norma looking so tired, so used up – but Odette supposed this was hardly surprising. Everyone wanted something from the girl, forever demanding her blessing and her benediction. Odette had tried to protect Norma, to shield her, but there were just too many supplicants waiting to touch the hem of the wonderful Aaliz Heydrich. They had drained her with their never-ending claims on her genius and her charisma.
Yes, she was a genius, Odette had no doubts on that score: the way she had organised the Normalists was proof of that. And she certainly had charisma; every time she walked into a room she illuminated it, exuding an energy and a certainty that was simply awe-inspiring.
And that was the problem: everyone forgot that she was just a girl … a very tired girl, who had to be protected, especially when she was intent on doing something dangerous.
‘My dearest Norma, I beg you, do not do this foolish thing. Please, allow me and Burlesque and Rivets to escort you.’
The shake Norma gave of her head showed what she thought of that idea. ‘Enough, Odette. We’ve discussed this already. It was agreed by Giuseppe Garibaldi, leader of the Roman Legion of the Peace Corps, that I should go to the rendezvous with Dazarev alone. The man’s very skittish.’
Odette sighed. This was the trouble with Yanks, they would never take advice. She edged closer to Norma to try to prevent Burlesque hearing what they were saying.
Not that Burlesque would be able to understand the French they were speaking even if he could hear them, but that wouldn’t stop him wanting his share of the discussion.
‘Norma, we do not know this man Dazarev. He could be a crypto … an agent of the ForthRight.’
Norma held up a hand to forestall any further objections from her friend. “No, I don’t think so: Garibaldi’s given him a great reference. Seems Dazarev’s got a crypto buried deep inside the Medi office of the Checkya: he gave the Normalists in Rome a heads up that they were going to be raided and saved ten of them from being strung up by piano wire. Garibaldi thinks he’s gold.’
‘I hear what you say, Norma, but the guy’s come out of nowhere …’
‘Don’t worry about me, Odette. Garibaldi will be there at the meeting. He’s a reliable man and, as always, Dazarev comes on his personal recommendation.’
But Odette did worry about Norma. The problem was that Norma didn’t seem to realise how important she had become. This slim, pale girl had changed the Demi-Monde, had changed how people thought, teaching them that violence and war were immoral. And, of course, those in power hated her for it. The last thing they wanted was a change in the status quo and the way these bastards usually dealt with revolutionaries like Norma was by killing them. And that was something Odette was determined would not happen: Norma was too important for her life to be snuffed out by a bullet.
Odette tried again. ‘Please, Norma, why not let us escort you to the bar and then you can go in to meet with Dazarev alone?’
‘No, you might frighten Dazarev off and that would be a disaster. From what I’ve heard he’s got a plan which will finally topple Heydrich and the ForthRight.’ She gave Odette a smile. ‘Anyway, I need you to organise our crossing into the Rookeries.’
And that was the other thing that Odette was worried about. Norma’s plan to preach about Normalism in the ForthRight seemed to her to be so foolhardy that it bordered on the suicidal.
‘I am worried that going there will be very dangerous, Norma. Perhaps it would be better to remain here, in Paris.’
Norma frowned, indicating that she was beginning to lose patience. ‘Look, Odette, we’ve discussed this: my work is done here. The Normalist movement in the Medi is firmly established and Garibaldi is going to make a first-class leader of the Peace Corps. Now it’s important that I take Normalism into the heartland of UnFunDaMentalism. To defeat Heydrich, we must destroy the ForthRight, and who better to do that than Aaliz Heydrich, preaching on her father’s home turf?’
‘I do understand, Norma,’ persisted Odette, ‘but I don’t think you realise how dangerous it will be for you in the Rookeries. Once there, it will be impossible for you to avoid the Checkya. Your face – the face of Aaliz Heydrich, that is – is just too well known there.’
Norma laughed and glanced over at Burlesque. ‘If anyone can keep me out of the Checkya’s clutches, it’s Burlesque Bandstand.’
It was Odette’s turn to shake her head, indicating just what she thought of that assumption. She loved Burlesque with a passion but even she had to concede that her man went through life evincing all the subtlety of an angry auroch. That was the other reason why she’d insisted on going with him to the Rookeries: she had to be there to make sure he didn’t do anything too silly. Protecting Norma was one thing, but she also had to protect Burlesque from himself.
With a disconsolate shrug she conceded defeat. ‘Very well, Norma, I will do as you ask, but please, I beg you, be careful of this man Dazarev.’
The Doge’s Palace, Venice
After getting the message from Kondratieff that the Doge had granted him amnesty and permission to enter the Palace, Vanka had wasted no time. He’d arrived at the Palace early, and he was early because he was nervous, though he didn’t know whether his trepidation was caused by the prospect of meeting with Ella and trying to persuade her to join with Norma in a campaign of non-violence, or by the prospect of her going to the Fleshtival de Walpurgisnacht without him. The thought of other men – and a great many of the women – ogling her … and other things … was very upsetting.
Vanka hated being in love. Love seemed to stoke up a man’s feelings of possessiveness towards his lady, or, in Vanka’s case, towards his Lady. Jealousy, he knew, was a silly, juvenile emotion but, try as he might, he couldn’t shake it off.
He loved the girl.
‘Monsieur Maykov,’ came a voice from behind him.
Turning around, he saw he was being addressed by one of the Doge’s personal attendants, who, like all of them, was young, tall and had a very well-stocked codpiece.
‘You are asked to attend Her Most Reverend Excellency the Doge Catherine-Sophia.’
‘What, now? But I’m here to meet the Lady IMmanual.’
‘Her Most Reverend Excellency was most insistent, sir. If you would come this way … the Doge becomes rather perturbed if she is kept waiting unnecessarily.’
The bedchamber of the Lady IMmanual, the Doge’s Palace, Venice
‘That’s epimedium you’re burning, isn’t it?’ asked the Lady IMmanual, as she entered the room.
‘Yes, my Lady,’ answered Sister Bella. ‘It’s a herb traditionally burnt on Walpurgisnacht. It is supposed to drive away harmful humors and to turn the thoughts of lovers to affaires d’amour.’
Sister Bella was rather proud that her voice didn’t quaver when she’d answered the Lady. The girl scared the wits out of her and it wasn’t just her peculiar aura that upset her either: there was something wrong about her.
‘I’ve used it myself and I wasn’t a great fan of the smell then,’ grumbled the Lady, but Sister Bella was pleased to see that she let the herb burn. Probably she was reluctant to interfere with ImPuritan tradition, and the smell of the epimedium wasn’t that bad. It was a little tart, certainly, but the way it made the senses swim was really quite stimulating.
‘There is also a traditional Walpurgisnacht drink, my Lady. This is zelie – a herbal drink that makes spirits soar and inhibitions vanish.’
‘Sounds like E,’ observed the Lady, taking the glass the Sister offered. Sister Bella had no idea what ‘E’ was but she was pleased to see the Lady sipping the zelie, testing it.
‘Not bad,’ was the Lady’s conclusion.
‘I added a little port wine, my Lady. I find the sweetness of the wine lessens the bitter flavour of the zelie, and makes it a little more palatable.’ It also disguised the presence of Dizzi, but Sister Bella left this observation unvoiced.
‘Good thinking,’ said the Lady, draining the glass. ‘And now, Sister Bella, let’s decide which gown I’m going to wear to this Walpurgisnacht Fleshtival of yours.’
‘I have brought a selection, my Lady. All of them are beautiful, but some are more daring than others.’
‘And your preference?’
‘This, my Lady.’ Sister Bella nodded towards the black gown hanging from the wardrobe door.
The gown was a miracle of craftsmanship, cut to flow from neck to ankle and made from a crystal-speckled lace. It was a cobweb of a dress, and almost reverently the Lady extended a hand and gently stroked its ephemeral fabric, delighting in the way it glided over her fingers. She gave a smile, a nod, and then undid her robe, letting it slide to the ground to stand naked in the middle of the room.
The bedchamber of the Lady IMmanual, the Doge’s Palace, Venice
The lady’s robe fluttered to the floor and Sister Florence gave an involuntary gasp. Haloed by the dancing firelight, every curve of the Lady’s naked body was emphasised. Without a doubt, she was the most beautiful woman Sister Florence had ever seen, her wonderful form moulded from shadows and the flickering firelight into some chiaroscuran sculpture. More, the light emphasised the beautiful bone structure of her face – all high cheekbones, slanted eyes and full half-open lips – this in turn accentuated by the stark severity of her shaven pate. She was the image of uncompromising, unabashed sexuality, of unashamed carnality.
But there was more to S
ister Florence’s agitation than the Lady’s beauty. There seemed to be something otherworldly about her, so much so that Florence felt almost intoxicated to be in the presence of such loveliness.
It was then that a strange thing happened. The Lady turned towards the place where Florence was hiding, smiled and then raised her arms high in the air above her, stretching, arching, straining up from her toes to her fingertips, displaying her body to its best advantage, advertising her nakedness and her beauty. Florence had the disturbing feeling the Lady was performing for her.
Shocked by the thought that she might have been discovered, Sister Florence jerked back but then, chiding herself that it was impossible for the Lady to know she was hiding there, she resumed her position at the spyhole, watching, mesmerised, as the Lady prepared herself for the Fleshtival. She watched the Lady darken her eyes with mascara, use a deep red lipstick to colour her mouth and then rouge her cheeks. She watched her attach two twists of silver to her ears and a thick steel collar around her neck, and apply black varnish to her nails and her nipples. She watched the Lady transform herself into something… pagan.
And while she watched, all of the erotic passions she had been taught to control and contain welled up inside her. Sister Florence found her head swimming with thoughts of strange lusts and denied hungers. She felt … uncaged. This fabulous woman – fabulously beautiful, fabulously tall and fabulously erotic – had unlocked the door to the cell where her most secret desires lay captive.
Gazing into those limpid, unfathomable black eyes, Florence found herself enslaved by the Lady’s beauty.
The Doge’s private chamber, the Doge’s Palace, Venice
The room that Vanka was ushered into was dark: so dark that for a moment it was difficult to see if there was anyone else there. But as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw the black-robed figure of Doge Catherine-Sophia sitting on a couch near the fireplace.
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