The Bloody Red Baron: 1918

of the spirit of your tales. Thrilling battles, extreme characters, hairsbreadth escapes. The book will be useless if nobody wishes to read it.'

Anonymity did not bother Poe. Considering his current doubts, it might be best if this were not generally known to be his composition. He was unsure if he could even manage low hack-work. But he had always been as much a journalist as a poet. If anything remained of his ragged muse, it could be stirred to this purpose.

'You must to work fast. Events are moving swiftly, as you will find when you reach the front ...'

The front! The Chateau du Malinbois was in the thick of the war. He would be in the glory of battle. Not as a soldier, but as a poet, he would take himself to war. This was a chance to right the wrong of The Battle of St Petersburg. If the world disappointed him, the world must be shaped to his liking.

'You must catch Richthofen's past but also tell of his present. As Germany retakes the air, you will be there to set the victories in stone for posterity.'

The director's voice was soothing and persuasive. Poe felt stirrings in his breast. A door opening in his mind: words would soon pour from him again. He stood to attention and saluted.

'Dr Mabuse, I shall endeavour to perform my duties, for the glory of the Kaiser and to the betterment of the cause of the Central Powers.'

'Herr Poe, that is all we can ask of you.'

11

What Kate Did Next

She did not give the warm fellows cause to notice her, but her nosferatu senses were athrill. With the distraction of the air raid, Charles and his associate, Edwin Winthrop, should not catch her out. However, the tall, heavily moustached vampire watching over them was formidable. It was hard to stay on the track and not get mixed up with Dravot's boots. Of old, the sergeant was often found near Charles. Now his attentions were transferred to the younger officer. In itself, that was suggestive.

Kate had been Charles's shadow all evening. He was among the most perceptive of his ungentle profession but her night- skills grew more acute by the year. Paris offered crowds enough to be usefully lost in. Being titchy helped. Weaving between bigger people, she was a perfect mouse: scarf about her lower face, mittened hands muffed in her coat-sleeves, knitted cap over the tops of her ears.

Everyone else looked up but she regarded the pavement, hearing rather than seeing the way, fixing on Charles's voice. The racket of the air raid obscured most of what was said but Charles's timbre was easy to distinguish. Those of her bloodline had sharp ears, a useful trait in a reporter.

The Zeppelins were on the other side of the river. Hovering above the cloud, they could not be seen but the drone of engines was constant. Fairly distant bomb-bursts were overlaid by immediate shouts of defiance and abuse. Useless shots were fired into the sky. The ground shook with each explosion. Fires spread.

Someone on the run bumped into her, dislodging her spectacles, and apologised in rapid French. Snake-quick, she caught her glasses and put them back on, blinking. The running man, scarlet-lined cape flapping, was lost in the crowd. For a moment, she thought her quarry lost but she caught Charles's voice, stray words drifting through din.

Panic spread as the Zeppelins drifted towards the quarter. Bombs still fell, whistling and bursting. Tonight, the Germans dropped only incendiaries, damaging buildings. At other times, Dracula's airships poured flaming liquid that adhered to living flesh. The stuff, which water would not douse, burned to the bone. Vampires might be hardy but fire and silver were lethal to them. With Europe overstocked by the undead, the war had prompted the development of infernal devices that would have given the late Van Helsing unpleasant delight. Manufacturers .; with stock in silver mines became munitions millionaires '4 overnight. Lady Jennifer Buckingham of the Women's Volunteer Ambulance Brigade led a silver drive, persuading the wealthy to give up coffee pots and candlesticks for bullets and bayonets.

While Charles attended the Theatre Raoul Privache, Kate had loitered outside, noting the comings and goings of patrons. Spotting Edwin at once, she was reminded of Charles in Whitechapel during the Terror, secretive yet puzzled. With Edwin came Dravot, a sure sign. Being familiar with the speciality of the Raoul Privache, she was unsurprised when the Englishmen left before the end of what might be termed the first act. Even after thirty years as a supposed creature of Gothic dark, elders gave Kate the horrors. Isolde, among the oldest of the old, was hardly a healthy advertisement for eternal life.

A party of Americans blundered between her and the quarry. One was wounded, losing his footing through excess of champagne or in some incident related to the raid. Fresh blood . poured profusely from a gash in his head, streaming down his young face, spotting his uniform. The blood was an endlessly ! fascinating mingle of gold and scarlet. She was twisted by desire.: With sweet pain, her fangs slid from their sheaths. She had not fed in several nights. She would have to deal with the inconvenient business soon. Sharpened nails crowded inside her mittens.

The soldiers stared. She must look a fright. Her scarf fell away from her mouth. She could taste blood on the air. The wounded doughboy was terrified. There were plenty like him: farm lads who had never seen a real vampire, heads full of scary stories. With difficulty, she closed her lips over still-sharp fangs. She tried to smile but it hurt her face. Perhaps, after all, she was becoming a monster.

After a final huddled chat, Charles and Edwin parted. Charles, she realised, was returning to his suite at the Hotel Transylvania. Dravot, on the other side of the street, ambled after Lieutenant Winthrop as if taking a nightly constitutional. Plainly, he was the latest catspaw of the Ruling Cabal. Kate was not sure the sergeant had not noticed her.

On impulse, she let Charles return to his deserved rest and took off after Dravot. As the sergeant shadowed Edwin, she shadowed him. It was another test of her abilities. With proverbial cat-like tread, she darted from dark to dark. Distinguishing the sergeant's heavy, distinctive bootfalls among the numberless sounds of the night, she fixed on them.

Emerging from the theatre, Edwin looked rattled by what he had seen. It was said Isolde had once regenerated her entire body like a lizard growing a fresh tail. There were similar stories about the resilience of the Dracula line. Considering the wretchedness of Isolde's situation, it seemed to Kate that absolute bodily indissolubility was not a path to perpetual happiness. Charles had shown him Isolde to make a point. What had the self- dissecting freak to do with Mata Hari? And, pace Corporal Lander's account of Mata Hari's confession, the Chateau du Malinbois?

Having seen failed shape-shifters, Kate did not exert herself in that direction. Teeth and claws came when needed but she had no ambitions to extend her repertoire. When she was a warm child, Mama warned her not to pull faces because 'if the wind changes, you'll get stuck that way'; now, there were too many would-be werewolves loping about, 'stuck that way'.

Edwin and Dravot walked towards an area damaged in the raid. A market building burned, surrounded by bucket-passing firemen and unhelpful crowds. The wrought-iron skeleton was black against harsh flames, buckling and screeching in the heat. The steam of overcooked vegetables stung her sensitive nostrils. Somewhere near, a horse whinnied in pained panic. Kate saw the animal struggling between the shafts of a fire engine. A shiny- caped man tried to pat out a persistent patch of flame on its flanks.

Dravot stopped and looked up. Kate did the same. Zeppelins were up there, arrogant crews calmly dropping fiery death. She heard engines buzz. French aeroplanes flew to defend the city. An airship could outclimb anything the Allies could put in the sky. Winged shapes passed overhead. The Allies prized their much-trumpeted 'air superiority' over the Central Powers, but Dracula and the Kaiser would not be content to let it lie. That madman Robur was still championing the cause of the aerial dreadnought.

The nails of her right hand became claws again, puncturing her wool mitten. Sometimes her body was alert to danger before her mind. Dravot was not where he had stopped. It was time to withdraw from the engagement. She had other ways of pursuing the story. Staunchly loyal to his masters, the sergeant was as much a killer as the men in the Zeppelins.

Frank Harris had taught her a journalist's first loyalty ought to be to the truth, not to patriotism or propaganda. The position did not find many supporters during the war.

A wall collapsed, scattering hot bricks across the street, pushing crowds back into side roads. A waft of hot air swept past.