The Bloody Red Baron: 1918

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 Ball: 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 Chateau 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.

Condor Squadron had been equipped with new Camels. Tricky birds to tame, but on a par with any machine the Boche could put in the air.

Allard favoured a barbed arrow formation: taking the tip position himself, ranks falling back above and below and to both sides. Winthrop kept steady immediately above and behind the flight commander, with the high man, Dandridge, immediately above and behind him.

Without fuel, the shape-shifted Boche were not vulnerable to the most common killing shot of aerial combat. They could not go down in flames. But they were still vampires: silver in the head or the heart should do the trick. Every other bullet in the drums of the Camel's twin Vickers guns was silver. A twenty- second burst of fire cost a hundred guineas. Both sides were reduced to recovering silver from the amputated limbs or smashed corpses of casualties.

Winthrop carved crosses into the tips of all his bullets, silver or lead. Nothing to do with the supposed allergy of vampires to crucifixes, it ensured the bullets fragmented on impact, bursting inside a wound. In the course of a dozen daytime patrols over the last week, he had qualified as an ace, shooting down six of the enemy. He was happiest with the ones who had gone down in flames. He had a taste for the fray and Albert Ball's instinct for it. Now, he wanted to fight by night. He wanted to add a Richthofen to his bag. Then, perhaps. Ball would be assuaged.

His stomach spasmed again. He'd learned to live with the stitches of pain, not to let them show. Kate had tried to tell him his course was dangerous. He would make things right with Kate when it was all over. No, he would make things right with Kate if it was all over. No, he could not think of Kate, or Catriona, or Beauregard. Only the moment, only now.

He gripped the stick and kept level. The pain-burst faded. The night sky was alive. Without turning in his cockpit, he knew where the other Camels were. A picture of the arrowhead stayed in his mind.

Down below, a column of vehicles advanced along a road, feeding men and materiel to the Boche lines. He ignored it. This was not an observation flight. This was an offensive patrol, a hunting party.

A tiny noise. A lone Hun on the ground fired a futile shot upwards, at the Camels. Winthrop's thumbs almost depressed firing buttons. Albert Ball told him to be a cool hand. Ball sat on one shoulder, Kate on the other. Not a comfortable arrangement.

The patrol flew the course Winthrop had flown with Courtney. Up ahead was the newly named Schloss Adler. This was where the Bloody Red Baron lived.

Reports were in from the lines. JG1 were out of their nest tonight, towards Amiens, attacking a row of patched-up balloons suitable only for hauling aloft Guy Fawkes dummies. They'd return frustrated to find a fight waiting for them. No one had ever attacked the shape-shifters before. That was a tiny advantage, a surprise.

Before he saw them, he sensed them. His ears thrilled. A silent formation returning to the castle. They flew like bats, gliding between wing-flaps, riding unmapped currents.

Allard saw the Boche too. He raised his hand. The arrowhead expanded. The Camels let distance grow between them, but kept in formation.

Remember, short bursts. Accurate fire, not hosepipe spray.

His mind stripped down, surplus thought and feeling done away with. He was a new person, unencumbered. A purpose behind Vickers guns.

They saw the Camels.

Allard was close to the flank of the enemy formation. He fired first. Silver flashes appeared in the wings of one of the creatures. The horribly human scream was louder than an elephant's bellowing. The injured monster fell out of formation. His wings were torn but bullets passed through. He'd have to be hit in the torso or head to be seriously damaged.

Winthrop watched the flier tumble, wings like an umbrella reversed by a sudden wind. He recovered and cruised downwards. Severin was on the wounded vampire's tail, whooping and firing like Broncho Billy. The elder had a killing thirst and was ignoring tactics. When his guns were empty, his enemy would recover and come for him.

The formations passed through each other. Winthrop smelled the shape-shifters' musk and felt the cold rush of their wings. Wheeling in the air, he tried to draw a bead on a black shape darting past. He nearly fired, but managed not to waste precious bullets.

The Boche weren't firing either. They would have used up most of their firepower on the dummy balloons. It was often the habit of fliers to get rid of the extra weight of ammunition by emptying guns into enemy trenches on the way home.

A wing filled his whole field of vision and he squeezed the firing-buttons. White flashes seared his eyes as his