The Bloody Red Baron: 1918

'You are a warm man?'

Had she expected him to be a vampire like her? Some nosferatu believed only their own kind could match them for brain-power.

'How old are you, Mr Beauregard?'

That was an unusual question. 'I am sixty-four.'

'I would have thought younger. By five or ten years. Some vampire taint has crept into you, retarding the processes of aging. It does not matter. It is not too late for you to turn. You might live forever, grow young again.'

'Is that such a pleasant prospect?'

She smiled genuinely, not for effect. A tiny, shining fang peeped between her red lips.

'Not, I confess, at this immediate moment. I am immortal and you are not, but you shall see tomorrow's sunset.'

He tried to look at his wrist-watch without being too obvious. The dawn was two hours away.

'There may yet be a reprieve.'

'Thank you for considering that possibility, Englishman. I am given to understand you personally pleaded for my life. You could only do that at risk to your own reputation.'

Unless she really could suck secrets from a mind with a single glance, she could not possibly know he had recommended lenience.

Her fang became more prominent as her smile broadened. 'I still have sources of information. Secrets are not hard to come by.'

'As you have proved.'

'And so have you. My poor secrets have been yours as many men's were mine. Simply by sitting in a room and thinking, you saw through my veils and schemes. I admire that.'

He tried not to feel flattered. It was one of her greatest weapons. Elderly officers had been her favoured prey.

'I have had fine tutors in the whole art of detection,' Beauregard admitted.

'You are a senior member of the Ruling Cabal of the Diogenes Club, the second or third most important man in the British Secret Service.'

She knew even more than was determined at her trial.

'Do not worry, Charles. I shall take to my poor grave those few of your secrets to which I am a party.'

Suddenly, she was using his Christian name.

I am sincerely sorry, Gertrud,' he replied in kind.

'Gertrud?' she said, rolling the unfamiliar name around her pointed tongue. 'Gertrud,' she confessed, at last. Her slim shoulders slumped with disappointment. 'So ugly, so sad, so dumpy. Almost German. But it is the name I was born with, the name I shall die under.'

'But not the name of your immortality,' he said.

She dramatically framed her pretty face with long fingers, fluttering her nails in moonlight. 'No, I shall eternally be Mata Hari:

She was parodying the American, Theda Bara. If they made a film about Mata Hari (certainly, they would make many) then Theda Bara, a professional vampire whose name was an anagram of 'Arab Death', was the only actress for the role. She was of a bloodline which took to photography. Many vampires showed up on film as a species of blurry smudge.

'They will remember me, won't they?' she asked, suddenly vulnerable. 'My reputation will not melt like snow in the sun, surpassed by some new temptress.'

It was possible this woman had acted all her life; underneath the veils, there was perhaps no reality. Or maybe there was a secret self she would take with her into true death.

'There will be no pardon, Charles. No mercy at the last moment. This is true? They will kill me?'

'I'm afraid a certain person has insisted,' he admitted, sadly.

'General Mireau,' she spat. 'His blood was thin, you know. Like English soup. I mean no offence. Do you know how many men died through his actions? He was more lethal to his troops on his own than under my influence.'

There had been a mutiny in the general's command. Mireau was one of the worst of the uniformed fools who thought the war a firepit that could be extinguished by pouring in living men. The general believed this woman's death would cleanse the blood from his record.

'The other side are no better,' she said. 'It was as easy to gull Germans.'

Early in the war, Gertrud Zelle had been in the employ of the French secret service. It had not been proved, but he knew she had worked for the Russians, the Hungarians, the Turks and the Italians. Even the British.

'At court, I was presented to the Kaiser. I was turned by the Graf von Dracula.'

In this cold new century, the Graf was careful with his bloodline. More than any other vampire elder, he was responsible for the spread of the condition through Europe. Now he controlled rigidly the selection of those he turned. Even warm, Gertrud Zelle had been a remarkable woman.

'I see I do not surprise you.'

She held up her hand. It was pale in the moonlight, blue veins distinct. In an instant, it was a webbed gargoyle's claw, thorny barbs tipping thumb and fingers. Then it was human again.

'Formidable,' he said. 'Only someone close to the bloodline could manage that trick.'

'Maybe not,' she said, mysterious but teasing. 'But in my case, it is so. As I have played the generals of Europe as puppets, so have I been played.'

It occurred to Beauregard that she could transform herself entirely. She could find the strength to tear through the walls. Something kept her here.

'At the last, I shall be free of him.'

So that was it. He felt a certain disappointment.

'I did not give myself up deliberately, Charles. Your victory stands as an achievement of note. It is just that I'm not necessarily despondent. It is a commonplace that many things are worse than death.'

From experience, Beauregard knew those of the Dracula bloodline often came to believe that.

'He is a monster. Dracula.'

Beauregard nodded. 'We have met.'

'You British,' she continued, 'you were right to throw him out.'

'It was not so simple.'

'Maybe not. Yet Britain would not long tolerate Dracula and Germany has become his paradise.'

'The Graf has the knack of gaining influence at courts. He's been at the business for five hundred years.'

Gertrud Zelle leaned forward and reached out. The turnkey rumbled. The pistol in his belt was loaded with silver. The prisoner's hand halted, inches away from Beauregard's arm. She fixed his eye.

'He will make of this century a killing ground,' she said, seriously. 'In his warm days, he murdered one-third of his own subjects. Imagine what he would do to those he considers his enemies.'

'Germany is nearly broken,' he said, echoing the official position, wishing he did not know better.

'It's hard to deceive a deceiver, Charles.'

She sat back, straightening. A fringe of pre-dawn light haloed her cropped head. She looked more like Joan of Arc than a vampire spy.

'Your war is over,' he said, trying to be kind.

'You know much about us, Charles. Vampires. You must have had a remarkable teacher.'

He adjusted his collar, sure he was flushing.

'Who was she?'

'You would not know the lady's name.'

'She was old? An elder?'

Beauregard nodded. Genevieve Dieudonne was older even than the Graf. A fifteenth-century girl.

'She is still alive?'

'The last I heard, she was very well. In America, I believe.'

'Do not be vague, Charles. You know precisely where she is. You would make it your business to keep track of things.'

Gertrud Zelle had caught him out. Genevieve was in California, growing blood oranges.

'She was a fool to let you grow old and die, Charles. No, I take that back. That was your decision, not hers. If I had been her, I would have made you want to turn. I would have used my powers.'

'Your "powers"? Madame Zelle, it would seem you have been reading too many of your notices.'

'We do have powers, you know. It's not all conjuring.'

Dawn pinked the sky. Her face was paler than ever. They had been starving her in captivity. She must be in considerable discomfort. Many new-borns would by now have been maddened by red thirst.