'Have any of the others ...'
'... been in his actual presence? I hope we are strong enough to survive him long enough to do his will.'
A warm woman, Marianne, was presented to him in the evening. A train brought a company of such to the Schloss Adler, to feed those vampires not on active combat duty and reward those who were. The woman's neck was not too scabby, though she was rouged to conceal, advancing years and so docile as to suggest she had been used by vampires for quite some time.
Her blood carried traces of the others who had tapped her. Poe sensed little of her own life. Her mind was almost drained, used up. Still, she took the edge off his red thirst.
She was lulled into sleep and he drank again from the dribbling wounds on her neck and breast. Her blood cleared the fog from his mind, the jitteriness that he had, like the rest of the castle's inhabitants, been feeling since the changes began.
The door was rudely opened. Poe raised a sheet over Marianne's face.
'West tower,'Theo said. 'Full dress uniform. A quarter of an hour.'
Pre-dawn haze and thick cloud made the landscape seem like the bottom of the sea. Poe and Theo stood with General Karnstein. The fliers were out killing Englishmen, but the rest of the castle's staff were assembled in ranks as if for a parade. Everyone was in uniform: Ten Brincken, Caligari, Rotwang and the other scientists had reactivated reserve ranks, even the Graf von Orlok wore a pickelhaube and braided tailcoat.
The fliers of JG1, a flock of giant bats, appeared from the west, in perfect formation. Richthofen was the arrowhead, wings spread wide. The sight of the creatures still awed Poe.
Through thin cloud which ripped as barbed wings sliced, the fliers approached Schloss Adler. The Baron landed on a stone platform, crouching slightly then standing erect. His men fell in smartly behind him.
Engineers fussed by the sky-hook set into the tower. A shadow fell on the castle and everyone looked up. A vast black whale-shape was descending through the clouds. A smartly assembled band struck up Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' from The Ring.
Hardt gave orders as cables tumbled from the sky. Engineers scrambled to catch the whiplike things. A dirigible loomed lower. The cable was fixed to the hook and an electric winch whirred. It was rare to see a Zeppelin so close to the lines. This was a magnificent specimen, painted black as night. On the nose of the gasbag, just in front of the gondola, the crest of Dracula was picked out in scarlet.
All necks locked at an angle. All eyes fixed on the wondrous craft, the dreadnought of the clouds. It was the Attila, flagship of the German aerial fleet.
A trap opened in the underside. A batwing-cloaked figure stepped into empty air and floated down. He wore a face- covering helmet crowned with horns. His body was encased in burnished armour. As Dracula alighted on the tower, everyone saluted.
Part Four: Journey's End
38
Offensive Patrol
Winthrop awoke before two in the morning. He hauled out the bucket stowed under his cot and was sick into it. With his changes, keeping down food and drink was difficult. His alarm clock was set to sound in five minutes. In the dark, outlines of objects were almost clear. Things seemed to glow with a deeper black. In the air, he was gifted with apprehensions and insights. Like a bat's, his inner ears sensed other creatures in the sky.
Sitting on the cot, he pulled on his Sidcot and boots. He didn't allow himself funk. This would be his first night patrol since ... Since the first time.
Not quite a night bird, he needed a few hours' sleep. The vampires were downstairs, carousing. The other vampires? He was stricken with a shivering spasm. The queasiness in his stomach told him he was still warm. The sharpness in his mouth told him how close he was to living death. He couldn't afford to worry about such things. He must focus on duty and retribution.
Suiting up was automatic. He buttoned and strapped himself together, then stumped downstairs, joints thickened by protective gear. On the ground, he felt swaddled and stuffy. In the air, he was agile as his Camel. The cold cut through a dozen layers.
'Hullo,' said Bertie. War was a continuous rag to him. Those who went west had just popped out for a smoke and would be back in a minute. 'Wrapped up warm?'
'You've fixed up your Sidcot like Ball,' Ginger commented.
Winthrop had instinctively come into the mess through the low doorway and steadied himself by gripping Ball's hand-holds.
The boots made him clumsy. Suited-up pilots often fell over like clots. People were always saying he did things like Albert Balclass="underline" flying, shooting, crawling, fighting.
The pilots for tonight's jaunt were already in flying kit. Allard had a few veterans of the old Condor Squadron, but most, like Winthrop, were from the new intake. Mainly, they were American vampires, purposeful as blades, solitary as cats.
'Cheerio, old thing,' Bertie said as Winthrop left the mess. 'See you at dawn.'
Winthrop nodded ambiguous reply. He had no time to pretend each patrol didn't potentially end in true death. He made no arrangements beyond each flight.
Allard liked to have the patrol line up as if for inspection, and go over the particulars once more. Winthrop fell in by Dandridge, a Yank new to the war but skilled in predation. The elder had passed among the warm for centuries, stalking in the cities of the living. Others of the intake - the cowboy Severin, the insatiable Brandberg, the idealist Knight - were old, turned before the 1880s. Mr Croft reasoned that those who lived through ages of persecution must have the instinct to kill and survive. There was friction between these elder aces and Cundall's contemporaries. No arguments, just mutual distaste.
Winthrop, not a vampire, was apart from both factions. From Allard, he understood Croft approved of him. He had flown patrols with elders. They were better suited to daylight excursions than sensitive-skinned new-borns.
Allard appeared in front of his men, emerging swiftly from shadow.
'The objective of this patrol has been changed,' Allard said. Behind him stood Caleb Croft, greyness a gloomy gleam in velvet black. 'Tonight, we visit the Château du Malinbois.'
Icy calm radiated from Winthrop's heart. He must not let himself be excited or afraid. He had known this would come.
'Or, as it is now known to the German High Command, Schloss Adler.'
The intake had been briefed on Malinbois. Winthrop's report on his flight with Courtney was the only authoritative intelligence on the shape-shifters of JG1. While Winthrop was in hospital, Richthofen's bat-staffel had been glimpsed frequently from the ground, hunting spotters and scouts, killing balloonists, buzzing the lines. Only Winthrop had encountered the creatures in the air and lived to make a report.
Allard continued: 'Richthofen's brood have made it impossible to gather intelligence on the nocturnal movements of the German army. Vast numbers of men and much materiel are reinforcing their lines, to prepare for their push. This activity is being conducted by night. In this sector, no single aircraft has managed to return with information. We have no more balloons to put up or trained observers to put in them. It is vital the reign of JG1 be broken. To this end, we shall set out to engage the German fliers and prove they are not invincible.'
Suddenly, out of nowhere, observing the stricken expressions of even the oldest of the old, Allard laughed. It was not a reassuring laugh, but a sinister chuckle that grew to a maddened and maddening howl. Again, Winthrop noted that, for a comparative new-born, Allard was among the strangest of the strange.
The pilots dashed for their waiting aircraft. Winthrop was in his seat before the echoes of Allard's laughter died.