The Boche hovered over the crash, underside reddened by firelight. A hugely distended white belly bobbed from the bat's midriff, blue and red veins swarming through the membranous canopies of the wings. He had never seen a vampire so completely shifted from human shape. Not even Isolde was so far gone. Richthofen's flying freaks had fed on Dracula's blood. He understood Mata Hari's confession. The Germans were scientifically cross-breeding to create these monsters.
The Boche rose from his kill on warm air and slipped into the dark of the sky. Slowly, with great straining flaps of his wings, the vampire circled away, returning to the German lines.
Winthrop cursed the murderer's tail. Something in him had died in the crash. Panic burned away, freeing a lizard-like cool from within his brain. This was what it was like to be reborn as a predator. His priorities changed. Immediately, it was important he survive the night and get back to the Allied lines. Beauregard must be told about JG1.
A painful step reminded him of his wounded knee. He needed a crutch. Stuck into the ground was the snapped-off blade of the Harry Tate's prop. It would do. At a pinch, it was sharp enough to pierce a vampire's heart. He wrapped his ruined helmet around the jagged end to pad it, and propped it under his arm.
The Snipe had been heading home. Now its fire was a beacon, signalling the direction he must take. He doubted the pilot would appreciate the use Winthrop was making of his flaming death but could afford no guilt.
There was no point in looking for the RE8's cameras. They must be smashed. If it came to it, Winthrop could draw pictures. Every detail was burned into his memory.
He set out, stumping towards the fire.
Alder, where he had grown up, was on the Somerset levels. In the wetlands, fields were divided by ditches rather than hedges. Outsiders often stood on the village green and assumed it a short walk across the moor to the church where Catriona's father was vicar. But if they took the 'short cut' rather than the winding lane, they would find themselves in a damp maze, forced to walk entirely around fields to find plank bridges laid over the ditches. It could take over an hour to cover the distance a crow could fly in a minute. No Man's Land by night was a similar matter of traps and blinds and dead ends.
Winthrop made his way methodically towards the Snipe's dwindling fire. After dawn he'd be a crawling target for any Boche sniper who cared to draw a bead. Actually, his baggy Sidcot was so muddy it might easily be taken for German grey and earn him a bullet from some enthusiastic but misguided Tommy.
He did not fret and swear when unbreachable tangles of wire or water-filled shell-holes barred his way. Patiently, he retraced his steps and found alternative routes.
His new-mended watch was broken again, stopped at quarter to nine. Possibly, it was not yet ten o'clock. Dog-fights rarely lasted more than a few minutes, though survivors often swore they had fought for upwards of an hour. There were hours before tomorrow's dawn.
Ground crunched and gave under his boots. He was walking on a horse that had been flattened like rolled-out dough. Birds had picked out the eye-sockets. The dead animal was alive with scavenging vermin. Squeaking rats writhed under their horsehide carpet and escaped in all directions. He didn't waste any effort on killing or hating rats. They were no worse than the human feeders-on-the-dead infesting this country.
His knee hurt more. The rest of his pains lessened, if only by comparison. The top of his jury-rigged crutch tore his armpit. His toes were numbed and he hoped the chill would set in around his knee soon.
Shells fell, but not too close. It was Allied policy to pour fire on No Man's Land by night, to discourage German excursions. As things stood, Winthrop considered the logic of the stratagem dubious, though he supposed it a mercy that he was unlikely to run into a lost scout out here in the mud. Even the most impoverished Boche would be equipped with a rifle and a bayonet and all he had to meet aggression was his trusty prop. This was such an impromptu jaunt he'd not even thought to bring a revolver.
The Snipe was directly ahead, its fabric completely burned away. Red-hot metal parts glowed in the last of the fire. It was impossible to tell which of Cundall's Condors this had been.
The daredevil Courtney was dead. Plucked and sucked by the Bloody Red Baron. Almost certainly, Cundall himself had gone west. Not to mention all the Bs: Ball, Bigglesworth, Brown. And, for alphabetical variety, Bill Williamson. Condor Squadron would be crippled.
A shell whistled and burst within a hundred yards. A scattering of dirt pelted his face. It was horribly possible an artilleryman was sighting on the Snipe's blaze, just to have a bright target in the dark.
When he returned, Winthrop would have suggestions to make which would, he felt, greatly improve the conduct of the war. After this picnic, he was entitled to bend Sir Douglas Haig's ear. He'd look up the journalist Kate Reed. As a matter of fact, he'd have looked her up anyway. An idea was forming, and Kate Reed was its budding heart.
With her red hair and sharp tongue, Kate was the vampire Catriona might become. Dainty little fangs in an appealing overbite. Behind her specs, she was smart and resilient. She was the nearest thing to a vampire elder in his circle of acquaintance. He would need an elder. There was no doubt of that. A newborn would not do. The strength was in the bloodline. The Red Baron and his murderous crew were proof of that.
A trap closed on his ankle, barbs sinking into his boot. He wheeled around, lifting his propeller-crutch. He aimed to strike at the thing which held him.
In the dark, there was a human croak. Winthrop saw large eyes in a black, charred face. And shining white teeth, extended vampire incisors exposed by the burning away of the lips.
It would be a mercy to stab with the prop.
The teeth parted with a hiss of breath. Another grip came, at his knee. The creature tried to climb up his leg, to haul itself upright.
It was the pilot. Winthrop couldn't tell which face this had been. The hiss died and the pilot let go of his leg, with an almost apologetic patting motion. The tatterdemalion stood, crookedly. From his twisted shape, he realised the vampire was Albert Ball. The pilot had survived another brush with Richthofen's Flying Freak Show, if barely. His Sidcot was fused with flesh, moulded black over his living bones.
'Good Lord,' Winthrop said.
The ruined leather of Ball's face made a smile. The pilot extended a contorted claw. Winthrop took the fragile hand and shook it, afraid fingers would snap off. He was grateful for the gauntlet that prevented him from touching the crackling greasiness of Ball's skin, but felt the cooked-through warmth of the pilot's grip.
'We'll have to get you home,' he said.
Ball nodded his bald skull. His flying helmet was burned on to him. Cloud drifted across the moon. The darkness deepened.
By himself, the chances had been slim enough. Now, Winthrop would have to get to the lines with the sorely wounded Ball.
These things were sent to try him.
'Come on, old son,' he said to Ball. 'It's this way, I believe.'
They walked towards the sound of the British guns.
21
The Castle
With Prussian insouciance, Oberst Kretschmar-Schuldorff dangled a Turkish cigarette from his lower lip. Smoke filled the car, wavering as they took the uphill road to the château. The officer sat opposite Poe and Ewers, sharp eyes glittering beneath his peaked cap, suggesting obscure amusement. None of the three cast a reflection in the dark windows. The driver knew his way by night, but the road was not of the best. Poe feared for Ewers's luggage, which was roped to the roof.
'We're not much used to visitors at Malinbois,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff admitted. 'So our facilities are primitive.'