Anno Dracula

18

MR VAMPIRE

‘You’re to come quick, Miss Dee,’ Rebecca Kosminski said. ‘It’s Lily. She’s took poorly.’

The self-possessed little girl vampire led Geneviève through the streets away from the Hall. She was discharging her errand with meticulous attention. As they walked, Geneviève asked Rebecca about herself and her family. The child was reluctant to give answers that suggested she was in a position to be pitied. The new-born already had an independent spirit. She dressed like a miniature adult and gave no answer when asked about favourite dolls. She had evolved away from the childhood of her body. The cruellest question anyone could ever ask Rebecca was: ‘What would you want to be if you could grow up?’

In the Minories, Geneviève became aware again that she was being followed at a distance. Over the last few nights, she had almost always been half-conscious of something just out of mind’s reach. Something in yellow that hopped.

‘Are you very old, Miss Dee?’ Rebecca asked.

‘Yes. Sixteen years warm, and four hundred and fifty-six dark.’

‘Are you an elder?’

‘I suppose so. My first ball was in 1429.’

‘Will I be an elder?’

It was unlikely. Few vampires lived as long as they would have unturned. If Rebecca lasted her first century, then she would most likely live several more. Most likely.

‘If I become an elder, I hope to be just like you.’

‘Be careful what you hope for, Rebecca.’

They came to the railway bridge, and Geneviève saw a huddle of women and men under the arches. The thing out of range stopped too, she thought. She had an impression of something truly old, but not truly dead.

‘Here, Miss Dee.’

Rebecca took her hand and led her to the group. At the centre of attention was Cathy Eddowes, sitting on the cobbles with Lily’s head in her lap. Neither new-born looked well. Cathy was thinner than she had been a few nights ago. Her rash had crept to cover her cheeks and forehead. The scarf wrapped about her head did not conceal the extent of her blemishes. The onlookers let Geneviève through and Cathy smiled up at her. Lily was in a kind of fit, with only the whites of her eyes showing.

‘She nearly swallowed ’er tongue, poor mite,’ Cathy said. ‘I ’ad to stick me thumb in there.’

‘What’s wrong with Lily?’ Rebecca asked.

Geneviève laid a hand on the child, and felt her shaking. Bones moved under her skin, as if her skeleton were trying to assume new form, misshaping her flesh.

‘I don’t really know,’ Geneviève admitted. ‘She’s trying to shape-shift and she’s not very good at it.’

‘I’d like to shift my shape, Miss Dee. I could be a bird or a big cat...’

Geneviève looked at Rebecca and let the new-born look at Lily. Rebecca understood.

‘I suppose I should wait until I’m older.’

‘Keep that thought, Rebecca.’

A murgatroyd from the West End had turned Lily, for a lark. Geneviève resolved to find that new-born and inculcate in him an awareness of his responsibility to his abandoned child-in-darkness. If he would not listen, she might hurt him enough to convince him never again to be profligate with his Dark Kiss. Then she thought to herself, ‘Careful.’ She sounded too much like the Old Testament.

Lily’s arm was still most sorely affected. It was a complete batwing now, withered and dead, membrane stretched between bony spines. A tiny useless hand sprouted from a node of the ribs.

‘She’ll never fly,’ Geneviève said.

‘What’s to be done?’ Cathy asked.

‘I’ll take her to the Hall. Maybe Dr Seward has some treatment.’

‘There’s no ’ope, is there?’

‘There’s always hope, Cathy. No matter how much you suffer. You must see the doctor too. I’ve told you before.’

Cathy cringed. She was afraid of doctors and hospitals, more afraid than of policemen and jails.

‘Strewth,’ someone swore. ‘What in God’s blood is that?’

Geneviève turned to look. Most of the crowd faded away into the fog. She was left with Cathy, Lily and Rebecca. Something was coming near, emerging from the murk.

She would at last face the thing that had been dogging her. Standing, she looked about her. The railway arch was about twenty feet tall; a heavily-loaded wagon could get through. The thing was coming the way she had come, down from Aldgate. She heard it first, like a slow beat of a drum. The thing bounced like a rubber ball, but with an unnatural slowness as if fog were as thick as water. Its silhouette became apparent. It was tall and wore a tasselled cap. Its yellow garment was a long robe, huge sleeves dangling from extended arms. It had been a Chinaman a long time ago. It still wore slippers on its small feet.

Rebecca stared at the vampire thing.

‘That,’ Geneviève said, ‘is an elder.’

It kept leaping forwards like Spring-Heel’d Jack. Geneviève made out a face like an Egyptian mummy, with the addition of tusklike fangs and long moustaches. It set down a few yards away and let its arms fall, knife-taloned hands snickersnacking. The oldest vampire Geneviève had ever seen, the Chinese must have earned its wrinkles through countless centuries.

‘What do you want with me?’ she asked, first in Mandarin Chinese, then repeating herself in Cantonese. She had spent a dozen years travelling in China, but that had been a hundred-and-fifty years ago. She had lost most of her languages.

‘Cathy,’ she said, ‘take Rebecca and Lily to the Hall. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes’m,’ the new-born said. She was terrified.

‘Do it now, if you please.’

Cathy stood, cradling Lily against her shoulder, and took Rebecca by the hand. The three of them vanished at a trot through the arch, making to double around Fenchurch Street Station and back up towards Aldgate and Spitalfields.

Geneviève looked at the old vampire. She fell back on English. Elders went beyond the need for speech at some point, reading what they needed directly from others’ minds.

‘Well... we’re alone now.’

It hopped and landed immediately in front of her, face to hers, arms on her shoulders. Muscles wriggled like worms under the thin leather of its face. Its eyes were closed but it could see.

She made a fist and punched at its heart. Her blow should have staved through the ribs; instead, she felt she had taken a swing at a granite gargoyle. There were strange bloodlines in China. Ignoring the pain, she half-turned in the vampire’s near-embrace and brought up her leg, jamming her heel into its stomach and pushing, using its solidity to launch herself away. Her hands were out like springs when she landed on the cobbles on the other side of the bridge. She cowered in a street-lamp’s circle of light as if it offered protection. Her ankle hurt too, now. She jumped to her feet and looked back. The Chinese vampire was gone. Either no real harm was meant her or it played with its prey. She knew which she felt the most likely.