The Bloody Red Baron: 1918

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.

'I suppose it makes her better than me, that she would not change a man's mind through underhand means, even if it were for the best.'

'Believe me, Genevieve would not claim to be better than anyone.'

'Genevieve? A pretty name. I hate her already.'

Beauregard remembered pain. And more pleasant things. There was a fan of red in the sky.

'We don't have much time left,' Gertrud Zelle said, businesslike.

'It is regrettable,' he agreed.

'Very well. For the sake of your vampire lady, I shall pass on to you my surviving secret. You have been kind when you need not have been, and this is my gift to you. Use it as you will. Win the war, if it can be won.'

Was this some trick?

'No, Charles,' she said, either reading the surface of his mind or following his obvious thought process, 'I am not the Scheherezade of the age. I shall not delay my final appointment.'

He tried to think around this development.

'Convince me, Gertrud. Convince me I am not to be your last victim.'

'That is not unfair, Charles. I shall mention a place and a name. If you are interested, I shall continue.'

Beauregard nodded. Gertrud Zelle smiled again, as if laying down face cards.

'Chateau du Malinbois,' she said. 'Professor Ten Brincken.'

This was what he had hoped for. Another strand of the spiderweb.

I’m convinced,' he said, trying not to let his eagerness show.

'See,' she said, fang glistening, 'a vampire always knows. I'll make it brief and simple. You can take notes, if you wish. The world has made of me what it would, and I make no excuses for myself. I have followed the dictates of my heart, even when such courses were patently unwise ...'

A small crowd of journalists and interested parties huddled around a brazier on the parade ground. The last