She kept her mouth shut tight and shook her head violently. She wiped at her face with her wrists. Every time she loosed a swath, the butterflies would gather again. She reached out for the fallen lamp, and pinched out the flame. After yanking free the still-hissing wick, she emptied the lamp over her head. The butterflies were washed away, and the smell of paraffin-oil stung her nostrils. One spark, and her head would be a candleflame. She scraped dead butterflies out of her hair, and threw them away by the mucky handful.
The elder stood over her. He bent down and picked her up by her shoulders. She hung from his hold like a length of cloth. She let herself relax. Her toes scraped cobbles. Maybe there was amusement in the dusty emerald of his ancient eyes. His needle-rimmed maw came close to her face, and she smelled his perfumed breath. From the teeth-circled red cleft emerged a pointed, tubular tongue like the proboscis of a mosquito. He could drain her dry, leave her a husk. She might live, but that would be the worst outcome.
Her feet flat on the ground now, she was looking up at the creature. She let her head flop back, and exposed her throat in submission. The tongue snaked towards her, its worm-toothed aperture pulsing. She gave him a few seconds to relish victory and grabbed him just under his armpits, nails stabbing through his robe and scrabbling against his ribs. Mouth agape, she lunged up at his face and bit. She caught his tongue and clamped her jaw tight around the wriggling meat. A peppery taste flooded her mouth, choking her. The tongue, stronger than a snake, fought her jaw-grip. She felt the filthy thing throb. Around his tongue, the vampire screeched in fury. She was hurting him. Her teeth sawed through gristle and muscle and, with a click, met. The tongue-end in her mouth writhed, and she spat it out.
The vampire spun away from her, a gush of oily black exploding from his mouth-hole and splashing down the front of his robe. He still cried, screams emerging in bubbles of blood. The creature would not be feeding on her. She wiped her mouth on her ruined sleeve, coughing and spitting, trying to purge the taste. Her whole mouth was numbed, her throat burned. The elder, spinning, flailed at her again. His blows buffeted her against a wall and he began to work on her like a boxer, hammering her belly and neck. He was angry now, and not so precise. All he had was force, no skill. Pain spread through her body. He took her head as he must have taken the horse’s and wrenched it to one side. Her neckbones parted and she howled in her hurt. The vampire threw her down and kicked her in the side. Then he jumped on her ribs. She heard her own bones breaking.
She opened her eyes. The vampire was sneering down, keening like a wounded seal. His lower face was a steaming mass of flesh and teeth, trying to mend itself. Saliva and blood dripped on her. Then he was gone and other faces were crowding around.
‘Let me through,’ someone said. ‘Move aside, for the Lord’s sake...’
She hurt. Her ribs were fixing as she breathed, stabbing pains receding with each wave. But her neck was out. And she was bone-weary, her vision clouded red. She was aware of the filth in which she lay, the crusted blood on her face. She no longer had even one good dress.
‘Geneviève,’ a voice said, ‘look at me...’
A face was close. Charles.
‘Geneviève...’
30
THE PENNY DROPS
Deeming it best not to move her, he sent Clayton to Toynbee Hall for Dr Seward. In the meantime, he did what he could to make her comfortable. A pail of clean-ish water had been filled from a standpipe; he took a cloth to her face, wiping off her mask of blood and dirt.
Whatever it had been, it had left, bounding with a peculiar hopping gait. Beauregard wished his sword-cane had skewered the thing. He was revising his opinions on vampires in general, but that monster should not be alive.
He dabbed her face and she held his hand tight. She groaned as broken bones moved. He was reminded of Liz Stride at the last. And of Pamela. Both of those were lost, death coming as a mercy. He determined to fight for Geneviève Dieudonné. If he could not preserve one life, what use was he? She tried to speak, but he soothed her to silence. He picked a crushed butterfly out of her hair and flicked it away. Her head sat unnaturally, neck kinked at an angle, a bone jutting under the skin. A warm woman would be dead.
The crowds who had enjoyed the fight were still there, putting the market back together. A few loafers hung about, hoping to see more blood. Beauregard would have liked to floor one or two of them with kung-fu kicks, just to give the public a show.
Clayton returned with a dumpy woman. It was Mrs Amworth, the vampire nurse. Another man from the Hall, Morrison, was with them, carrying a doctor’s bag.
‘Dr Seward is off somewhere,’ Mrs Amworth explained. ‘You’ll have to make do with me.’
The nurse gently pushed him aside, and knelt by Geneviève. He still held her hand, but she winced as her arm shifted.
‘You’ll have to let go,’ said Mrs Amworth.
He put Geneviève’s hand down, arranging her arm by her side.
‘Good, good, good,’ Mrs Amworth said to herself as she felt Geneviève’s ribs. ‘The bones are setting properly.’
Geneviève half-sat, coughing, and then slumped.
‘Yes, that hurts,’ Mrs Amworth cooed, ‘but only to make you better.’
Morrison opened the bag and set it within Mrs Amworth’s reach. She took out a scalpel.
‘You’re going to cut?’ he asked.
‘Only her dress.’
The nurse slipped the blade under Geneviève’s neckline at the shoulder and slit down the arm, peeling away what was left of the sleeve. There were purplish patches on her upper arm, which Mrs Amworth squeezed with both hands. There was a pop and the shoulder socketed properly. The livid blotches began to fade.
‘Now, the trick,’ Mrs Amworth said. ‘Her neck is broken. We must set it quickly, or her bones will repair themselves wrongly and we’d have to break the spine again to fix her.’
‘Can I help?’
‘You and Morrison take her by the shoulders, and hold on for your lives. You, cabby, sit on her legs.’
Clayton was appalled.
‘Don’t be bashful. She’ll thank you for it. Probably give you a kiss.’
The cabby anchored himself over Geneviève’s knees. Beauregard and Morrison pinioned her shoulders. Only her head was free. Beauregard fancied Geneviève was trying to smile. She bared her fearful teeth.
‘This will hurt, dear,’ Mrs Amworth cautioned.
The vampire nurse took Geneviève’s head, slipping her hands under her ears and getting a solid hold. Experimenting, she moved the head slightly from side to side, pulling the neck. Geneviève’s eyes screwed shut, and she hissed, teeth meshing like the halves of a portcullis.
‘Try screaming, dear.’
The patient took the advice, and gave vent to an elongated screech as Mrs Amworth pulled hard and popped Geneviève’s skull back on to her spinal column. Then, straddling the patient, she took a strangler’s grip on the throat and wrestled the vertebrae into place. Beauregard saw the nurse straining as she accomplished her cure. Her placid face was reddened, fangs burst from her mouth. He was, even after all his experiences, shocked at the transformation.
The four of them stood, leaving Geneviève to wriggle on the floor. Her screech was a series of yelps now. She shook her head, hair whipping about her face. He thought she was swearing in medieval French. She rubbed her neck and sat up.