Anno Dracula (34 page)

For once, Ruthven did not seem silly and trifling. Godalming saw cold steel claws inside the murgatroyd’s velvet glove.

‘Vampires are as capable of treason as the warm,’ Ruthven explained. ‘Every man and woman on that list has won their place in Devil’s Dyke fair and square.’

Sir Charles was concerned. ‘Devil’s Dyke was not constructed with vampires in mind.’

‘Then let us be thankful that we maintain the Tower of London. It shall be converted into a prison for vampires. General Iorga, have you under your command some officer whom you have had cause to reprimand for the severity of his treatment of underlings?’

Iorga grinned, a row of jagged beast-teeth flashing. ‘I can think of several. Graf Orlok is well-known for excess.’

‘Excellent. Orlok shall be made Governor of the Tower of London.’

‘But the man’s a maniacal brute,’ Matthews protested. ‘He is no longer welcome at half the houses in London. He looks barely human.’

‘Just the vampire for the job,’ Ruthven commented. ‘This is statesmanship, Matthews. There are positions for all. It is simply a matter of matching personality to the task.’

Mr Croft took a note, either of the Graf ’s appointment or of the Home Secretary’s protest. Godalming would not care to be listed in Mr Croft’s notebook.

‘Now, to other business. Warren, here is a draft of your new promotion policy.’

Sir Charles gasped as the paper was given him.

‘Only vampires are to be advanced,’ Ruthven said. ‘This is to be a general rule in all branches of civil and military service. The warm may turn or stay where they are. It is of no consequence. And remember, Warren, only the
right sort
of vampires are to be promoted. I shall expect you to clean your house.’

Ruthven turned his attention to the Home Secretary and gave him another document. ‘Matthews, this is a draft of the Emergency Powers Act which will pass in the house tomorrow evening. I consider it vital that we order the affairs of the daytime world rather more than under the haphazard system we have tolerated until the present. There will be restrictions on travel, assembly and commerce. Public
houses will only open during the hours of darkness. It is time we rearranged the clock and calendar for our convenience, rather than bowed in everything to the wishes of the warm.’

Matthews swallowed the medicine. Sir Danvers Carew growled with something approaching pleasure. He was in line to replace Matthews when Ruthven made him resign.

‘We are being forced to act swiftly,’ Ruthven declared to the room in general. ‘But this is no bad thing. We must keep to our decided course, whatever resistance we might meet. These are exciting nights, and we have a chance to lead the world. We are the wind from the East. We are the fury of the storm. In our wake, we will leave this country changed and tempered. Those who hesitate or stay their hands will be whisked away in the torrent. Like the Prince Consort, I intend to stand fast. Many will be destroyed utterly as the moon rises on our Empire. Mr Darwin was quite correct: only the fit shall survive. We must ensure that we are among the fittest of the fit.’

A
rt had left Penelope to see herself out. She was in a species of a swoon as he told her why he was dashing off. Something to do with the Prime Minister. Affairs of great import and urgency. Masculine matters, she assumed, and none of her concern. It seemed as if Art talked to her from the end of a long tunnel, a great wind blowing against him and carrying off his voice. Then he was gone and she was alone with herself...

... she was turning. It was not what she expected. She had been told it was quick: a brief pain like a tooth being pulled, then a period of dozing, comparable to the pupal stage of an insect, followed by a reawakening into the vampire state.

The pain, raging red throughout her body, was terrible. Suddenly, in a hot gush, her monthly was upon her. Her underthings were clogged. Kate had warned her, but she had forgotten. At the moment, there was little consolation in the prospect that this was the last time such feminine inconvenience would bother her. Vampire females, she understood, do not menstruate. That curse was lifted forever. As a woman, she was dead...

*     *     *

... on the divan where Art had taken her, where she had bled him, she gripped a bolster to her stomach. She had expelled every scrap of food on to Art’s Persian carpet. Then, in a more convenient moment, she had voided her bowels and bladder. She understood why, even as he was making a hasty escape, Art took the trouble to tell her where his privy was. During the turn, her body expelled all its wastes.

She felt feverish and empty, as if her insides had been scooped out. Her jaws ached as the buds of her teeth opened, sharp enamels scraping together. She had the enlarged, pointed teeth of the typical vampire. This was not a permanent condition, she knew. Her teeth would change in the moment of passion or anger. Or, as now, pain. Adapting to her new mode of feeding, her incisors became fangs.

Why had she chosen this? She could hardly remember.

Her hand was close to her face. She saw veins and tendons under the skin, undulating like worms. Her trimmed nails were daggerish diamond-shapes. There were even a few coarse black hairs. Her fingers had thickened and her engagement ring cut into her skin.

She tried to concentrate.

Her hand stopped writhing and dwindled into its familiar shape. With her tongue, she tested her teeth. They were small again, and she no longer felt that her mouth was full of pointed palings.

She was on her back, head lolling off the edge of the divan. She saw the room upside-down. Art’s father stood on his head in a full-length portrait. A blue standing vase hung from the carpeted ceiling, dangling sharp fronds of white pampas grass. A frieze of delicately upturned flowers ringed the room. Inverted gaslights stuck out of the skirting board, blue flames jetting down towards the painted floor.

The flames grew until they were all she could see. The fever was in
her brain. In the flames, she saw a man and a woman embracing. He was fully clothed in evening dress but she was naked and bloody. The faces were Charles’s and Pamela’s. Then her cousin’s face became her own and Charles turned to Art. They were clothed in flame. The image lasted a moment, then flowed again until the faces were unrecognisable. They meshed and burned together, forming one four-eyed, two-mouthed, hair-swathed face. The conglomerate face of fire grew and engulfed her completely.

‘Penelope for ever after,’ she had shouted as a child. ‘Long live Penny.’

The flame burned all around...

... with a single shiver, she was instantly awake. She tingled all over, clothing scraping her sensitive skin.

She sat up and arranged herself on the divan. The memory of her turn was fading fast. She felt her neck and breast and could not find a trace of the wounds Art had made.

The room was brighter and she saw into the shadowed corners. She saw things differently. There were subtler gradations of colour. And she could smell more scents. The odours of her own bodily discharges were distinguishable, and not offensive. She thought all her senses were sharpened. Her tongue longed for new tastes. She wished to experiment.

She stood up and padded in her stockinged feet to the bathroom. There was, of course, no mirror. She divested herself of her soiled clothes, and wiped herself off with a balled petticoat. She washed herself all over. In her former life, she had rarely been as completely naked. Her old self seemed a dream. She was new-born. When satisfied that she was clean as any cat, she left the bathroom. She
needed clothes. The garments of her warmth were useless now, sodden with useless blood.

Someone moved in one of the rooms off the corridor and she was instantly alert. She ran her tongue over sharp teeth. A door opened, and a thin face poked out. Shocked by her nudity, Art’s manservant gulped and withdrew, locking his door behind him. She laughed. Flexing her hands, she wondered if she could wrench open the door and get to the man. She could smell his warm blood. ‘Fi fifo fum,’ she whispered, her voice loud in her head.

Opening one of the doors, she found Art’s dressing room. A suit of his morning clothes was laid out ready for him. Formerly, being tall had been an embarrassment. Her mother had trained her to sit down as often as possible and, without stooping, to arrange herself so she would not tower over a man. Now her height suited her well.

She pulled on Art’s shirt and buttoned it up. She mastered the intricacy of the collar and the cuffs. Her fingers were abler now and solved all the problems presented to them. She threw aside Art’s underclothes and pulled on his trousers, fiddling with the unfamiliar braces until the contraptions set on her shoulders. The garment settled on her hips, and she pulled it up tight, crotch snug, then shortened the braces to suit her. She found a cravat and tied it around the too-large collar. A waistcoat and a coat completed the ensemble. Barefoot, she returned to the room where she had turned. Her shoes were under the divan, and still fitted her. She imagined she cut quite a dash, and wondered what her fiancé would think.

Running her hands through her hair, she considered whether she should do anything to make herself look less of a fright. But she did not really care any more how she looked. The dead Penelope would have been shocked senseless. But the dead Penelope had been so different.

She felt a twinge of thirst. The taste of Art’s blood lingered in her mouth. She had found it bitter and salty last night. But now it was sweet and delicious. And necessary. What to do? What to do?

She did not know if she was managing this terribly well. But if Kate Reed, who could barely pour tea from a pot without consulting Mrs Beeton, could become a successful vampire, then Penelope the Conqueror would not be daunted by the complications.

In the hall, she found an opera cloak, lined with red silk. It did not feel heavy. She tried to set one of Art’s top hats on her head, but it slipped down around her ears and visored her eyes. The only headgear on Art’s rack that could be made to suit her was a soft check cap with ear-flaps. It hardly fit with the rest of the get-up she had appropriated but it would have to do. She was at least able to bundle up her hair under the cap and get it out of the way. Some vampire girls cut their hair short, like a man’s. She might consider that...

... outside, the sun was rising. She thought she should get home and stay indoors. Maybe she should rest during the hours of daylight. Kate told her the sun could harm new-borns. She supposed she would have to put herself in the invidious and humiliating position of seeking Kate out and soliciting her advice on any number of unforseeable points.

She left the house and found the early morning fog thick. Yesterday, she would not have been able to see the other side of Cadogan Square. Now she could distinguish things a little better, although her vision was better with shadows than fog. If she looked up at the foggy clouds that blocked the sun, her eyes stung. She pulled her cap down, so the peak would shade her face.

‘Missy, missy,’ a voice said. A woman was coming at her out of
the fog, dragging two small children.

The thirst was upon her again – the red thirst, they called it – and her mouth was parched, her teeth pricking. It was not to be compared with the needs she had known as a warm woman. It was an overpowering desire, a natural instinct on a level with the need to breathe.

‘Missy...’

An old woman, her hand out, was before her. She wore a tatty poke bonnet and a ragged shawl. ‘Do you thirst, missy?’ The woman grinned. Most of her teeth were missing and her breath stank. Penelope could smell twenty layers of differing dirts. If Fagin had a widow, this was she.

‘For sixpence, you could drink your fill. From one of my pretties.’

The woman picked up a bundle. It was a girl child, one of a pair. The face and hair were dirty but the girl was pale, mummy-wrapped in a long scarf. The woman disentangled the scarf from a thin, many-times-scabbed neck. ‘Just sixpence, missy.’

The woman clawed at the little girl’s neck, scraping scabs. Tiny drops of blood welled. The child made no sound. The blood-smell caught in Penelope’s nostrils. It was a hot, spiced, penetrating scent. She
thirsted
.

The girl was handed to her. For a moment, she hesitated at the intimacy. When warm, she had not cared to be touched, had especially not cared to be touched by children. She had vowed after Pamela’s death never to submit to a man’s lusts, never to bear children. That eventually came to seem childish, but she had not relished the thought of her wedding night. That side of things had very little to do with her engagement. What she had done with Art had been more than a feeding, more than an agent of the turn.
There had been a carnal element, repellent and exciting. Now, it was acceptable, even desirable.

‘Sixpence,’ the woman reminded, her voice dwindling as Penelope concentrated on the child’s neck.

With Art, the drinking of blood had been an unpleasant necessity. She had felt a strange thrill, not quite indistinguishable from pain, when he bit her. Taking his blood had been a repugnant chore; this desire was different. The turn had awakened something in Penelope. As she touched her tongue to the open wound, her old self truly died. As the blood trickled into her mouth, the new-born she had become awoke.