'There's grey in your hair, Katie,' he said, harmlessly gloating. 'You look as you would if you'd not turned. A shame you can never see the effect.'
Kate had no reflection. She did not show up in photographs. Sketches made of her could have been of a stranger. In warmth, she was hardly remembered for her looks.
'If you'd lived, you'd have been a fine woman,' Charles said kindly.
'I look like a mole, Charles. With untidy hair and freckles.'
He laughed, surprised she could manage a sentence.
'You underestimate yourself. Girls thought prettier than you grew fat and bad-tempered. You'd have become beautiful in your thirties. Character would have shown in your face.'
'Nonsense.'
'How would you know, Kate?'
'When we were all alive, you proposed to pretty Penelope and hardly noticed mole-face Kate.'
Old hurt wrinkled his brow. 'Young men make mistakes.'
'I'd such a crush on you, Charles. When you announced your engagement to Penny, I cried for days. I was driven to the arms of Frank Harris. And look what he made of me.'
She put fingers through her stringy hair, combing away settled dust.
'I wish I could stay angry with you for any length of time, Kate.'
He pushed his knees as he stood, and sat on the stool. She squirrelled back, hugging her sheet to her chest, propping herself against the wall.
'What happened here?' he asked.
'What has happened to Edwin?'
Ever the harbourer of secrets, he didn't want to give anything away.
'You first.'
'He took blood from me.'
He nodded.
'But I took none from him.'
He shook his head.
'He seemed to have some idea of assuming vampire strength without actually turning.'
'Is that possible?'
'I don't know. Ask an elder or a scientist. Or look in your heart.'
He did not pretend not to understand her. In his time with Genevieve, Charles had gained some of her strengths. Through love, Kate thought, or osmosis.
'What has ... become of him?'
Charles was concerned for his protege. That was why he sat in vigil, waiting for her to wake.
'He seems in good health. He has graduated from flying school. He will be the Diogenes Club's man in Condor Squadron. He has created a unique position and trained himself to fill it.'
'But you're worried?'
'As I said, he's changed. I do not say this lightly, but he frightens me. He reminds me of Caleb Croft.'
Another pain-burst racked her chest. Ribs constricted her heart like a bone fist. Hugging herself, she fought to control her twitching limbs.
Charles took out his right cuff-link, skinned his coat sleeve up to his elbow and rolled back his shirt sleeve. She shook her head, lips tight over jutting, aching fangs. Her heart yearned.
'Am I too old a vintage, Miss Connoisseur? Gone to vinegar, perhaps?'
Since Genevieve, Charles had not allowed himself to be bled. Kate knew this with certainty.
He sat on the floor and pulled her on to his lap. She was shocked by the warmth of him, realising how cold she was, how close to truly dead.
'You must, Kate.'
He presented his inner wrist to her. There were tiny, long- healed marks where Genevieve had suckled.
This came too late in their lives to be what she had once wished for, but it would mean survival. And with survival came unexpected second and third chances.
'I'll take vanilla,' she said. He smiled.
She took his hand and licked his wrist with her rough, long tongue. A healing agent in her saliva would smooth his wound within the hour. Charles smiled. He was familiar with this.
'Go ahead, pretty creature,' he said, gently. 'Drink.'
She sucked a fold of skin between her upper and lower incisors. Her fang-teeth gnashed. Blood filled her mouth.
The red taste exploded. Jolts ran throughout her body, more intense than a conventional act of love. Time concertinaed: Charles's blood sparkled on her tongue and against the roof of her mouth, trickled down her dry gullet and soothed her burning heart.
Suppressing shudders of pleasure, Kate was distanced enough to measure her feeding. If she drank from Charles's neck, there would be more to it. The wrist was far enough from heart and soul and head. Only sensations came through. His mind, with its secrets, was curtained.
She detached her mouth from his fresh wound and looked up at his face. His smile was tight. A pulse throbbed below his jaw, a blue finger beckoning. Her hands hooked into his coat. She might climb up him, drink from the source.
Her nose stung with the scent of blood. The trickle from his wrist called her. She drank, losing herself...
... she was in a reverie, blood warming her throat, stickily smeared around her mouth.
'Thank you, Charles,' she breathed, lapping again.
He stroked her hair gently. Her glasses skewed as she pressed her face to his wrist. He set them straight.
She did not take much from him. But he shared the strength of his spirit. She was no longer a stranger in her body. Her aches eased. She took command of her limbs. Her muscles were supple, comfortable.
She snuggled against Charles as he rolled down his shirt sleeve and retrieved a cuff-link from his waistcoat pocket.
He held up the lamp again and looked at her hair.
'The grey is gone. Red as rust.'
She stood, steady on her feet, holding up her dress to preserve some measure of modesty.
'A pity,' Charles said. 'I liked you older.'
She flicked him in the face with her sleeve.
'We'll have no more of your cheek, Mr Beauregard.'
'You're much more Irish when you're cross.'
She was blushing. After feeding, she was ruddy as a labourer.
Charles tried to stand, but could not. She had forgotten he'd be the weaker, temporarily, for their communion. She helped him up.
'There now, grandfather,' she teased. 'You should not tire yourself so. Not at your age.'
She kissed his cheek and, modesty abandoned, wriggled into her gamey dress, settling it on her hips. There were catches up the back.
'Could you do me up, Charles?'
'I doubt if anyone could, Kate.'
33
The Killer
'My father discriminates between a sportsman and a shooter. A shooter hunts for fun. My brother is, at heart, a shooter. Lothar loves to fly, to take risks. A sportsman hunts for the kill. I find my prey and I kill him, quickly. Each makes me stronger.'
Baron von Richthofen, going against instinct, made a genuine attempt to explain. Theo lagged behind them, saying nothing. Poe knew he remembered the instance when the Baron had chosen to play with his prey rather than kill, quickly. Albert Ball's observer still rankled with Theo.
'When I have killed an Englishman,' Richthofen continued, 'my hunting passion is satisfied for a quarter of an hour. Then, the urge returns ...'
They walked by the lake shore. The day was overcast. All three vampires wore heavily peaked caps and dark glasses. Replete from a night's stalking, the Baron was more expansive than in earlier interviews. Theo had suggested Poe might find Richthofen more forthcoming outside the castle. To a huntsman, being within walls is like premature burial.
An animal was following. Poe heard its quiet rustle in the long grass. It was some sort of small dog. The Baron had also noticed their hanger-on and darted the occasional hungry glance at its position.
Last night, Richthofen had stalked and killed four times during a three hour flight. His bag was an RE8 spotter, a French Spad, a Sopwith Camel and a British observation balloon. Six men were truly dead, four of them vampires. The Baron's score was increased by three victories. Balloons were reckoned separately. The Frenchman, Nungesser, had had a high score. This victory, which the Baron gave equal weight in his official report, would be remembered as one of his greatest.