Anno Dracula (59 page)

Wheeling around, non-functional wings spreading like a black swan’s, she fell upon the Baroness, knocking her onto the sandy concrete. Holly’s mouth projected, lips and teeth fusing together into a razor-billed beak. With a
snip
, she scissored Patricia’s throat to the bone.

Penny held Banshee back, whispering to him. Orlok laid a sharp hand on Iorga’s shoulder.

Holly beaked into Patricia Rice’s heart and drank her dry.

When she stood up, she was Baroness Meinster.

For a moment, she wasn’t even Holly. She felt the rage of betrayal.

‘My husband will have you tortured for this,’ she spat, meaning it. ‘This outrage will be the end of you all!’

Orlok’s mouth fell open, displaying scarred gums and rows of crusty teeth. He was laughing, silently.

Holly shifted, swallowing the Baroness.

‘I take it back,’ said Banshee. ‘She can fly.’

Holly spread her wings and rose towards the bright stars.

Alucard let the minions mill around the conference room before the meeting. He moved among them, lightly tapping their thoughts in passing, getting a sense of their moods. They were relaxed, even Penny. He pressed flesh and offloaded conventional greetings, brushing off questions with assurances.

The Rock
was proceeding as smoothly as a sixty-million-dollar picture with an action star who liked to remind people of his writer/director credits ever could. Alucard had been right about Sharon Stone. Her dailies were dynamite, especially in the soon-to-be-notorious shower scene. She’d definitely make it onto the poster, her body at a contractual seventy-five per cent the size of Stallone’s face. Stallone and Connery, working from different scripts with different directors, were each convinced the other only had a cameo in the picture. It would cut together. Once the gross points came in, no one would complain.

With the Hallowe’en and Thanksgiving weekends gone, the industry had a clear run ’til Christmas - with only the Longest Night in the way. It was up to Alucard to make this year’s solstice bigger than Christmas. The Concert for Transylvania, which
Variety
called ‘Bloodstock’, was coming together, an initial trickle of sign-ups turning to a cataract. Already, some early committals - comeback kids, wannabes, the overly charitable - had got bumped in favour of harder-to-hook names. Reluctantly, he had abandoned his plans for Charles Manson, who insisted on performing only his own material and an unacceptable slice of the merchandising.

Visser, the only warm man in the room, loitered by the awards cabinet with Penny and Holly. Alucard joined them.

‘Lot of trinkets, Mr A,’ said Visser. ‘But I don’t see the baldie with the sword. Why ain’t there no Oscars?’

Alucard took out the golden bust. It represented a long-faced young man. ‘This is an Academy Award,’ he said. ‘The Irving G. Thalberg Memorial Award. It goes to “the producer with the most consistent high quality of production”. It was presented to me in 1986.’

‘That’s no Oscar,’ said Visser. He took a pull from a flask. Jack Daniel’s. ‘It is an accredited Academy Award. Alfred Hitchcock won one, and Steven Spielberg.’

‘Is that right?’

‘The Thalberg began as a backslap for moguls and toadies,’ explained Penny. ‘In the 1920s, Irving Thalberg invented the job of producer by firing Erich von Stroheim and locking him out of the cutting room on
Greed
. He was responsible for clawing control of any given film away from the director and towards the producer, and ultimately the studio. He died young in 1936 and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, then as now essentially a company union, named their award for best-behaved company man after him. Lately, it’s become an apology, chucked at producer-directors like Hitchcock and Spielberg who’ve not been given Best Picture or Best Director Oscars they deserved. John is a rare actual producer to have won the award in the last decade.’

‘That’s more than I wanted to know,’ said Visser.

Alucard looked sideways at Penny. He hadn’t thought her that well up on Hollywood lore, then remembered she’d turned before the Lumière Brothers showed their first motion picture. She’d lived through the entire history of the movies, and had simply been paying attention. Still, he wasn’t sure about her tone.

Sometimes, Penelope Churchward presumed. Alone in this room, she wasn’t remotely afraid of John Alucard. She didn’t underestimate how dangerous he was, but had grown out of really caring what happened to her. She accepted that she deserved any punishment or fate that came her way. It was hard to frighten someone like that. If Penny had been like this even with Dracula, Alucard understood why the Father came to rely on her.

‘We should get started,’ said Alucard. ‘My friends, if you would all take your places.’

They settled into the chairs at the long table. Before withdrawing to guard the outer sanctum, Beverly had laid out neat folders as place mats. Glass jugs of iced
sanguinello
- a mixture of red orange juice and virgin blood smuggled up from Mexico, where it was mixed in convent schools Alucard endowed - were placed at intervals. Plastic cups, early designs for the McDonald’s tie-in with
The Rock,
were within reach of every chair but Visser’s. Finger-bowls of beef cubes, red blocks like blood-oozing dice, were provided for anyone with the munchies. Alucard didn’t choose to partake, but indicated that everyone else should.

Holly poured out a measure of
sanguinello
and wet her cupid lips, taking the curse off for everybody else. Alucard was pleased with the way she was turning out. Already, she’d shown talents he hadn’t expected when he took her out of the video rental store. Others reached for jugs and cups or popped meat-cubes into their mouths. Discreet spittoons were provided for chewed-dry lumps of muscle and fat.

From his elevated position at the head of the table, Alucard considered this inner circle: Holly, Penny, Visser, Crainic, Dirk Frost (a degree or two too wasted, as if he were high on his own supply), General Iorga (with a titload of unearned medals and a carpet remnant toupee), Sebastian Newcastle (representing L. Keith Winton) and Mr Kurt Barlow (from the Shop).

Newcastle, survivor of centuries, had worked out six ways to escape from this room. He had dozens of fall-back positions and underground routes prepared in the event he was required to flee the city, the state or the country. If South America ever got too hot for him, the artist formerly known as Don Sebastian de Villanueva had probably bribed techs at Cape Canaveral for a berth on the space shuttle.

The grim-faced Barlow, a low-profile elder indentured to the Shop as a way of wriggling free of atrocity charges after misconduct in New England, was deputed to speak for Jedburgh, though he seldom said anything. Barlow had ambitions to be a Cat King in his own right. Alucard assumed it would only be a matter of decades before he found himself killing the old man.

Graf von Orlok stood in the corner, leaning into a shadow, so straight-backed Alucard wondered if he could sit down without breaking vital bones. At a nod, Holly took the discomforting ancient a cupful of
sanguinello
, which he lapped with a long tongue that poked out of a leer of gratitude. Even the Father had been cautious of Orlok, the creature Dracula would have been if appetite overruled ambition.

There was another new face at the table.

‘Before we start,’ said Alucard, ‘I’d like to introduce you to a valued associate. Ernest Gorse. He has been, ah, underground for a while. At the disposal of the United States government. I used a little of our pull in Sacramento to have him turned over to us, ostensibly as a technical advisor on
The Rock
. He’s up to speed on the Transylvania project and will be overseeing - though not
overlooking
- our security. We need to control the flow of information, to maintain several levels of understanding. Mr Gorse is an expert.’

‘Evening, everyone,’ said Gorse. He still affected librarian glasses and wore English tweeds. ‘I can’t say how delighted I am to be back in dear old Los Angeles. I’d like to thank Mr Alucard for arranging my liberty to work with you all. I don’t care for getting so peremptorily down to business, but I’m afraid I’ll have to schedule individual chin-wags with each of you, to go over what you’ve been doing so far, fixing it so all of our systems are in harmony. No need to worry. That’s all.’

Gorse fitted in as Alucard had known he would. None of the others took him seriously yet, except Penny. She’d heard of Ernest Ralph Gorse before. The pair made wonderful British book-ends. Alucard expected them to hate each other at first, but form a working liaison.

‘On a personal matter,’ said Alucard, ‘before we discuss the Transylvania situation, our warm comrade Mr Visser has news of an old friend. This will interest you, Ernest. And the General, and you too Penny.’

Visser smiled, enjoying his moment, and opened his file. His fear-sweat stung in Alucard’s nostrils - the warm man could put on a show of confidence in a roomful of vampires, but body chemistry gave him away.

‘The frog viper,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Mr A, I still can’t pronounce her name. Jenny-vev?’

‘Geneviève Dieudonné,’ said Alucard.

Gorse hissed hatred, resentment on his face like a jail tattoo. Penny was surprised, edging round a black pit in her mind, touching on the secret she kept wrapped up. So Geneviève was part of that story too.

‘Yes, her,’ said Visser. ‘The pest.’

‘For those of you unfamiliar with the story so far, this vampire has never been a friend to our cause. Often, she has thwarted the will of the King of the Cats. I think it’s best if we keep an eye on her.’

Frost glanced sideways at Alucard. The new-born, youngest viper in the room, had run through his meat-cubes and
sanguinello
like a junkie through methadone and was jonesing for stronger stuff. His jug was empty but for rinds of red slush.

‘The
Mademoiselle
From Hell was up in Canuckland for a couple of years,’ said Visser. ‘Working with the Toronto cops, taking on-the-job training as a, whatchumacallit, “forensic technician”. Well, our gal’s all trained and qualified. She’s “Doctor Dee” and she’s taken a job in the States, as a medical examiner in Baltimore.

‘Your favourite viper chick is on call for bizarro cases. I went out there myself on Mr A’s dime and spied her at work. I was tempted to go in disguise as a corpse, but I can’t pull that act off as well as some round this table, haw-haw. She’s got a knack for the sleuthing. Takes one look at a stiff and can rattle off stats about cause of death, probably pin the killer in a blink. The Feds use her for their thornier whodunits. That makes her an Honorary G-Girl. She has a decoder ring and everything.’

Gorse was intent and Penny surprised. Most of the rest were puzzled by the weight Alucard gave this stray elder. General Iorga was embarrassed, calling to mind two occasions - outside Buckingham Palace in 1888, then again ninety years later at the castle in the desert - when killing the upstart out of hand would have forestalled later trouble. Alucard thought that if Iorga had tried, he’d probably not be in this room now.

‘I popped in on her, found her in the middle of a bad situation, and got her out of it. As instructed, I saw no harm came to her. She owes us, now.’

Penny was intent. She had mixed feelings about Geneviève.

‘Why did you not just let her be killed?’ asked the General.

‘It would have been easy,’ said Visser.

‘Messages needed to be sent,’ said Alucard. ‘Not just to Geneviève. I want the warm to think more of vampires, to be wary of killing them. But I want her safe. No one touches her, but me... We’re sparing with our assassinations here.’

Someone thought ‘you could have fooled me’ and Alucard’s mind-touch flickered around the room searching for the culprit. Newcastle. Fair enough. He knew about Feraru. So did Meinster, which was to be expected. Alucard poked a bit deeper and found Newcastle had no other names in mind. Iorga and Orlok - who was impenetrable, mind a focused mouth - could have dredged up at least one.

‘Mr Visser, thank you. We shall list Geneviève as “pending business”...’

‘Too right, old son,’ muttered Gorse.

‘...and proceed. Holly, will you fetch our other guest, then take Visser’s report to Beverly.’

Holly stood up, took the folder, and left the room.

Moments later, Patricia Rice stepped in. She wore a long white PVC coat and an oversized peaked cloth cap over Holly’s blouse and skirt. She had buckles - eye-catching touch - velcroed to her shoes.

Crainic and Newcastle, who knew Rice but didn’t know what had happened to her, glanced her way. Simultaneously, the vampires bit down on spurts of irritation and put on approximate smiles. Newcastle did a better job of it than the blank senior academician. The Spaniard got up to kiss Patricia’s hand and help her take the seat she had, as Holly, just vacated.

‘So delightful that you could join us, Baroness.’

The Transylvanian oozed sincerity.

‘How are you finding California?’

‘Too sunny,’ snipped Patricia. ‘Fifty-two channels of telly and no
Coronation Street
.’