Balfour and Meriwether in The Vampire of Kabul

“You knew,” Balfour said. “This isn’t coincidence. You knew the queen was going to be attacked.”

The Czarina’s mouth formed a distressed moue.

“Of course I did. And when. But if I had warned you before it happened, you’d have had no reason to help me with my problem,” she said, peevishly. “I came as soon as I could, practically speaking.”

Balfour and Meriwether met each other’s eyes for a moment, a silent communication passing between them.

“Malaise, eh?” Balfour said, and Meriwether’s laughter surprised and confused all the others in the room.

The carriage ride through the icy streets was as swift as could be managed. Lord Carmichael’s driver knew all the fastest streets and alleys, and the team of horses was among the best in the empire, but the hand of nature could not be kept back. The falling snow thickened until at the last they seemed to be driving through a dim faerie landscape, only distantly related to the solid, coal-smudged London they knew. Lord Carmichael stared out the window as if his focused will alone could clear their path. By contrast, the Czarina seemed politely amused.

The guards who greeted the carriage were unfamiliar to Balfour and Meriwether, but it was clear from the alacrity with which they led the unlikely party within that the presence of Lord Carmichael was evidence enough of their status. The Czarina’s outlandish appearance provoked no comment.

The queen’s private physician was a serious man at the beginning of his third decade. His muttonchop whiskers gave him an air of age and authority undermined by the trembling of his hands and the thinness of his lips. The private sitting room seemed gloomier and colder even than the weather outside, the gold and vermillion of the wallpaper dimmed by soot from the smoking fireplace. Sofas, divans, and small tables covered the floor like travelers huddled together on a train platform. The glowing gas sconces pressed ineffectually at the shadows. No one removed their coats, nor did the servants inquire.

“She certainly can’t be moved,” the physician said, fumbling with a porcelain pipe. “Not yet. Not for some time, I should think. No, indeed.”

“Has she regained consciousness then?” Lord Carmichael demanded.

“Yes, in a sense.”

“What sense?” Balfour asked.

The physician blinked, at a loss for word. Meriwether took the man’s pipe from his hand, packing the bowl with fresh tobacco as he spoke.

“You say she has regained consciousness in a sense. It follows, my good man, that there is also a sense in which she has not. Such comments are certainly evocative, but not in the strictest sense useful. Would you please elaborate as to Her Majesty’s condition?”

He handed back the pipe. The young physician accepted it.

“When I was called to her, the queen was quite pale,” he said. “Her pulse rapid, and she complained of dizziness. When she attempted to stand, she fell into a faint. Smelling salts did not revive her. She has since woken, but she seems confused. Keeps talking about someone named Arthur Dodgy.”

“Artyadaji,” the Czarina said. For the first time, her voice held no mischief.

“You know the name?” the physician asked.

“Afghan bogeyman,” Balfour said. “Scares children.”

“It seems it may do a great deal more than that,” the Czarina said.

Lord Carmichael hoisted an eyebrow and then, seeing that none of the others shared his amusement at the Czarina’s superstitions, grew somber. Balfour stepped away from the fire, glowering at the walls, his broad nose twitching like a hound’s. Meriwether, noting his companion’s behavior, narrowed his eyes.

“Was this the room in which the incident occurred?” he asked.

“It is,” Lord Carmichael said. “Her Majesty had taken a private audience with a member of the diplomatic service about whom, no offense to the Czarina, I cannot speak. She asked to be left alone. A few minutes later, her private guard heard her cry out. He entered the sitting room to find Her Majesty in distress. He described the shadows reaching out from the corners of the room. There was a man as well. Pale-faced and dressed in dark robes.

“The queen cried out a second time, and the man turned toward the guard. His eyes were bright red, and he spoke in a strange language. A terrible weakness come over the man, but he managed to interpose himself between the attacker and Her Majesty.”

Meriwether crouched down beside the fireplace. Grey smoke puffed out above him—evidence of a poorly drawing flue—as he ran a long, dainty finger through the fallen ash. Behind him, Balfour pressed a palm to the wallpaper four times in succession, pulling it away slowly.

“And what became of the dark-robed, red-eyed gentleman?” Meriwether asked without looking up from the flames.

Lord Carmichael glanced at the Czarina, clearly discomfited by the prospect of speaking candidly in her presence. And then, with a sigh: “Vanished. There one moment, gone the next.”

“This is the beast that attacked my husband,” the Czarina said. “It is associated with a Mohammadan wizard who travels under the name Abdul Hassan. I have been following him.”

Meriwether rose from the fire, wiped his hands, and exchanged a meaningful glance with his companion. As if in answer, Balfour raised his palms. Behind him, the door swung open and an eerie figure lurched into the room. Thin white hair rose from the pale scalp like steam. Gnarled hands gripped a rough firewood cudgel. The pale blue eyes starting from the broad, doughy face were empty of all thought. The diaphanous gown gave glimpses of a time-ravaged body, rolls of pale fat draping and shifting with every movement. The voice was low and bestial and filled with a terrible conviction.

“It cannot be won!” the queen growled, stepping further into the room. “It cannot be won! We will be destroyed!”

“My queen!” the physician cried. “You ought not be out of bed. You must—”

“It cannot be won!”

The firewood cudgel swung through the air with a hiss. The physician fell back, his pipe shattered and blood pouring from his abused lip. Balfour leapt forward, his broad hands clasping the queen’s improvised weapon. A royal ankle took him in the groin, and he fell back as Victoria, Queen of England and Empress of India, waved her club in the air with the conviction and ill intent of a Whitechapel brawler. Meriwether and Lord Carmichael only found time to exchange a helpless glance before she turned against them.

Meriwether blocked the first blow with the blade of his hand, leaping back before the second could do damage to his ribs. Lord Carmichael tried to circle behind her, only to have her whirl upon him, teeth bared and spittle dripping from her lips. She lurched toward him, coming near the open flame as she did. All the men present shared the terrible fear that the Queen’s nightgown might drift into the fire and set the sovereign alight.

“Stop this childishness at once!”

The Czarina’s voice was sharp as a slap. Victoria turned toward her, watery blue eyes narrowed and cunning. With a visible effort, the queen found words.

“Who are you?”

“An Empress, cousin,” the Czarina said. “Much like yourself.”

“An Empress,” the queen said as if struggling to recall what the syllables meant. “Like myself.”

For a moment the fear and violence dimmed in the pale blue eyes. The gaping mouth narrowed to a prim and disapproving scowl. Her spine straightened and she considered the Czarina with a haughty lift of the brow.

“We do not feel entirely ourself,” Victoria announced and turned her back to the assembled company, pausing only to hand her firewood weapon to Balfour, still red-faced and bent double. The door closed behind her, and for a moment, no one spoke.

“I should be certain that she…” the physician began, limping after his patient with blood smearing his lip.

“Is he like this as well?” Meriwether asked, his voice gentle as warm flannel.

The Czarina sat upon an embroidered chair, her fingers laced together on one leather-clad knee. Her face was a blank. A single tear escaped her left eye, tracking down her cheek.

“Only sometimes,” she said. “There are whole days when he seems nearly himself. And then it comes again,