She never had any get. Her father-in-darkness had served her well, and she would not be a profligate fool like Lily’s murgatroyd or Lord Godalming.
‘Another new-born,’ Moran snorted. ‘We should’ve been more selective when it all started. Too many bloody vampires in this business.’
‘Drink,’ she cooed.
What did she really know about Montague John Druitt? Like her, he was a lay practitioner, not a doctor but with some medical knowledge. She did not even know why a man with some small income and position should want to work in Toynbee Hall. He was not an obsessive philanthropist like Seward. He was not a religious man like Booth. Genevieve had taken him for granted as a useful pair of hands; now, she would have to take responsibility for him, possibly for ever. If he became a monster, like Vlad Tepes or even Colonel Sebastian Moran, then it would be her fault. She would be killing all the people Druitt killed. He had been a suspect: even if innocent, there was something about Druitt that had made him seem a likely Ripper.
‘Drink,’ she said, forcing the word from her mouth. Her wrist was dripping red.
She held her hand to Druitt’s mouth. Her incisors slid from their gumsheaths and she dipped her head. The scent of Druitt’s blood was stinging in her nostrils. He had a convulsion and she realised his need was urgent. If he did not drink her blood now, he would die. She touched her wrist to his mashed lips. He flinched away, trembling.
‘No,’ he gargled, refusing her gift, ‘no...’
A shudder of disgust ran through him and he died.
‘Not everybody wants to live for ever,’ Moran observed. ‘What a waste.’
Genevieve reached across the space between them and backhanded the Colonel across the face, knocking away Beauregard’s cane. Moran’s red eyes shrank and she could tell he was afraid of her. She was still hungry, having allowed the red thirst to rise in her. She could not drink Druitt’s spoiled dead blood. She could not even drink Moran’s second- or third-hand blood. But she could relieve her frustration by ripping meat off his face.
‘Call her off,’ Moran spluttered.
One of her hands was at his throat, the other was drawn back, the fingers gathered into a point, sharp talons bunched like an arrowhead. It would be easy to put a hole in Moran’s face.
‘It’s not worth it,’ Beauregard said. Somehow, his words cut through her crimson rage and she held back. ‘He may be a worm, but he has friends, Genevieve. Friends you wouldn’t want to make enemies of. Friends who have already troubled you.’
Her teeth slipped back into her gums and her sharpened fingernails settled. She was still itchy for blood, but she was in control again.
Beauregard put up his sword and Moran ordered the cabby to stop the coach. The Colonel, his new-born’s confidence in shreds, was shaking as they stepped down. A trickle of blood leaked from one eye. Beauregard sheathed his cane and Moran wrapped a scarf around his pricked neck.
‘Quatermain wouldn’t have flinched, Colonel,’ Beauregard said. ‘Good night, and give my regards to the Professor.’
Moran turned his face away into the darkness and the cab wheeled away from the pavement, rushing into the fog. Genevieve’s head was spinning. They were back where they had started. Near the Ten Bells. The pub was no quieter now than when they left. Women loitered by the doors, strutting for passersby.
Genevieve’s mouth hurt and her heart hammered. She made fists and tried to shut her eyes.
Beauregard held his wrist to her mouth. ‘Here, take what you must.’
A rush of gratitude made her ankles weak. She almost swooned but at once dispelled the fog in her mind, concentrating on her need.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
She bit him gently and took as little as possible to slake the red thirst. His blood trickled down her throat, calming her, giving her strength. When it was over, she asked him if it were his first time and he nodded.
‘It’s not unpleasant,’ he commented, neutrally.
‘It can be less formal,’ she said. ‘Eventually.’
‘Good night, Genevieve,’ he said, turning away. He walked into the fog and left her, his blood still on her lips.
She knew as little about Charles Beauregard as she had about Druitt. He had never really told her why he was interested in the Ripper. Or why he continued to serve his vampire queen. For a moment, she was frightened. Everyone around her wore a mask and behind that mask might be...
Anything.
43
FOXHOLE
The surgeon had found it impossible to pick out all the silver shards from his knee. With each step, he felt again the hot explosion of pain. Some vampires could regenerate lost limbs as lizards grew new tails. Kostaki was not of that breed. Already, he had to live behind a dead face; soon, he might also have to stump along on a piratical peg-leg.
A couple of young bloods, sharp-eyed new-born toughs, lurched away from an ill-made and damp wall to bar the egress from the tiny courtyard. He showed his face and teeth, facing them down. Without a word, they slipped back to their shadows and allowed him to pass.
He was out of uniform, concealed by a large hat and cloak, limping through the night fog. The message had given an address in the Old Jago, a district which was to Whitechapel what Whitechapel was to Mayfair.
‘Moldavian,’ came a quiet voice. ‘Over here.’
In the dark of an alley-mouth, Kostaki saw Mackenzie. ‘Scotsman, well met.’
‘If you say so.’
The Inspector’s coat was holed and patched, and he wore a week’s whiskers. Kostaki understood he had not been seen for some time. His fellows were concerned for his safety. The general assumption was that he had been removed to Devil’s Dyke following an undiplomatic utterance.
‘A fine pair of beggars we make,’ Mackenzie said, shifting his shoulders inside his loose and dirty coat.
Kostaki grinned. He was pleased this warm man was not in a concentration camp. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Here, in the main,’ said Mackenzie. ‘And Whitechapel. This is where the trail goes to ground.’
‘The trail?’
‘Our masked fox with the dynamite. I’ve been tracking him since that night in the park.’
Kostaki remembered the flash of a pistol and dark eyes inside a concealing hood. The stick of dynamite fizzing in von Klatka’s chest an instant before the blast. Then, a lumpy red rainstorm. ‘You have found the murderer?’
Mackenzie nodded.
‘I see the reputation of Scotland Yard is well earned.’
Mackenzie looked bitter. ‘This is nothing to do with Scotland Yard. Not with Warren or Anderson or Lestrade. They were in the way, so I set out on my own.’
‘A lone hunter?’
‘Exactly. Warren insisted we look for a Christian Crusader, but I knew better. You were there, Kostaki. You must remember. The man in the hood. He was a vampire.’
The dark eyes. Maybe rimmed with red. Kostaki had not forgotten.
‘And that vampire is here in this rookery.’ Mackenzie looked up. In the lodging house opposite the alleyway there was a light. A third-storey room. Shadows moved on the thin muslin curtain. ‘I’ve been watching him for days and nights. They call him “Danny” or “Sergeant”. A very interesting fellow, our fox. He has surprising associations.’
Mackenzie’s eyes shone. Kostaki recognised the pride of a predator.
