Anno Dracula Dracula Cha Cha Cha (56 page)

‘You’ve a cutting edge, Miss Reed.’

‘I shouldn’t be mean about Penny. She’s not had an easy time of it. Nothing turned out the way she expected, either.’

The man who hadn’t married Penny hadn’t married her, either. Or Geneviève, even. He was gone now. Sometimes, when the wind blew a certain way, she saw the faintest trace of Charles Beauregard in Richard Jeperson, who now sat in Charles’s chair on the Ruling Cabal. More often, sadly, Richard reminded her of Edwin Winthrop, another Most Valued Member of the Diogenes Club. She didn’t much care to be reminded of Edwin, still alive with some of her blood in him, sustaining his sharpness. Eric DeBoys had an Edwinian streak: a glint of
wanting
something and being willing to rip it out of you with a smile and some flowers. A walk in the woods with DeBoys would end up with rough and tumble in the chase. She wondered if she should put him up for club membership — give the Lovelies someone to squabble over.

A fuss broke out at the other side of the bar. Simon Armstrong, red-faced, shouted something which didn’t carry over ‘The Legend of Xanadu’. Anna Franklyn crossed her arms and stood back from him. Armstrong flinched at the whip-cracks in the song and made a show of storming out in a huff, snarling at the warm lads in an attempt to put a vampire face on things. He completed his exit, then needed to come back for his duffel coat — ruining the dramatic effect. Armstrong slunk off for good this time and the warm lads jeered.

‘Uh oh,’ said Kate, ‘Anna’s in the wind.’

The snake-woman walked across the dance-floor. Her tiny, sari-inhibited steps showed off her hips. Her head cobra-wobbled. Cathy and Pony stood aside as she glided past. They were still in a dance duel with Nezumi, who matched them step for step. Kate realised much of the stomping on her ceiling was Nezumi practising the frug, the monkey, the batusi and yosaki naruko.

Without invitation, Anna sat at their table. A lit candle was stuck in an empty, wax-encrusted wine bottle. Her face was olive-green in the flickering light. She blinked sideways.

‘Simon’s in a tizzy,’ she said.

‘Simon’s
always
in a tizzy,’ said DeBoys. ‘He’s a wet and a weed.’

‘’Tis true,’ Anna sighed. ‘Marshes and mires are not wetter and weedier than he.’

Anna ignored Kate and started fiddling with DeBoys’s sleeve, stroking the velvet nap like cat’s fur, then rubbing it the wrong way, then smoothing it again.

DeBoys smiled at Kate, unashamed.

Anna started stroking his arm with her cheek. Now, she was looking at Kate too, with unreadable serpent eyes.

Kate wondered if she should find a reason to leave, but didn’t think DeBoys wanted her to go. Far from it. He was hatching ideas, enjoying himself. He was even close to opening up, she thought. If he could tell her anything, then he’d cough it up when he felt he was in power.

That might be what Eric DeBoys most wanted — from the Law, from politics, from life — power over others. And control. So: sexy fascist vampire dandy. This was Machiavelli’s Prince ’68-style.

‘This scene is a drag tonight, Eric,’ said Anna. ‘Let’s go out.’

‘Ladies?’ asked DeBoys.

‘Sure,’ said Kate. ‘I’m game.’

‘I’ll just bet you are,’ he said.

The crack wasn’t worthy of him. A chink in the armour of cool.

They stood. Anna pulled a saffron shawl over her sari. DeBoys settled a scarlet-lined opera cloak over his shoulders, fastening it with interlocking snake-heads. A platinum clasp; not silver, of course. Kate’s ensemble came with a midi-cape, but she never wore it. A cloak screamed ‘I am a vampire’, playing up to stereotype. Obviously, DeBoys disagreed — or, rather, was comfortable with stereotype. Kate kept asking herself who this young blade was
really,
but wondered if the surface — the grin and the chin and the cape and the elaborate hair and the
quickness
— was just what there was of him.

Glancing backwards as she was guided out of the Chapel, Kate saw Nezumi make a move to leave the dance-floor and follow. Her path was barred by Cathy and Pony, who adopted hostile dance stances. Nezumi held her hockey stick like a samurai sword. The rest of the patrons got off the chessboard.

‘Looks like we picked the right time to seek new meat,’ said DeBoys, arm firmly around Kate’s shoulders.

‘Could be entertaining,’ Kate ventured.

‘You’ve seen one cat-fight…’

He nodded at the French twins, who demonstrated their
swiftness
. Nezumi blocked their first blows with her stick and leg. Kate would have taken bets on her bodyguard, though she realised this fight was about keeping the elder busy, not putting her down.

Cathy and Pony were mercenaries. Was DeBoys paying them over what they got from Croft? Or did the Professor have them guard his disciples when they weren’t protecting him?

King put on the Amen Corner’s ‘Scream and Scream Again’ and packed all his other precious records in a sturdy cardboard box. Yes, things were going to get broken. If ‘Hey, Ninety-Eight Point Six’ was the anthem of the militant warm, then ‘Scream and Scream Again’ was the violent vampire signature tune. It was loud enough to cover the racket of a scrap.

Nezumi whacked Pony about the head and dodged a
savate
kick from Cathy.

Kate was gently but firmly steered out of the bar.

Keith Kenneth was with them, now. He ditched Withnail and fell in behind DeBoys.

Beyond Keith, Kate saw Nezumi put Cathy on the floor by sweeping her feet out from under her but take a scratch to the cheek from Pony.

Then, she was out of the Deconsecrated Chapel.

The din continued, muted by the old building’s thick walls. The Amen Corner thumped along. After midnight, the campus was otherwise peaceful — though, thanks to the School of Vampirism, far from deserted.

PC Regent had finally gone home, but tape was still up around the burned grass.

‘If Van Helsing’s comic cuts come back, we’re ready for them,’ said DeBoys. ‘Louts and oiks and rabble.’

‘They’re not my favourite people, either,’ she said.

‘The vampire who was killed…’

‘Griffin.’

‘…you knew him?’

‘I’d
met
him,’ she said, hoping the dark would hide her blush of shame. She didn’t want to deny Griffin, but wanted to keep her police connections quiet-ish. As if they weren’t general knowledge. If the Black Monks had marked Nezumi, they must know about her official capacity.

‘We’ve always expected attacks,’ said DeBoys.

‘Eventually,’ said Keith.

‘You responded quickly,’ she said. ‘I’m grateful.’

Expected?
Or
known about in advance?

‘It’s in the open, now,’ said DeBoys. ‘That’s better. In a stand-up fight, we’ll win. And everyone will see us win.’

They were walking across the campus. Kate didn’t know where to.

‘If it comes to an all-out fight, we’ll lose,’ Kate said. ‘Trust me. We will all lose. I’ve seen it too many times.’

DeBoys turned to her, smiling. His cloak whirled with him.

‘Maybe you’re an elder after all, Miss Reed.’

‘I just don’t think you should be so eager for a scrap,’ she said.

She knew she sounded weak.

Anna was attached to DeBoys now, slipped under his cloak, lacquered nails tapping his medallions.

‘We’re thinking a great deal bigger than a scrap, my darling,’ DeBoys said.

‘Black Monks all, and hellfire to quaff,’ said Keith.

DeBoys, Anna and Keith snapped their fingers. At her.

Anna separated from DeBoys. Keith moved away. They had her surrounded.

They were in a quadrangle between the biology lab and the School of Vampirism. In the centre of the grass was a Marcel DeLange bust of Elwyn Clayton on the scale of an Easter Island head. An alarming thing. Its eyes spiralled like pinwheels. Its jowls dribbled.

Kate knew her nails were growing. She felt threatened. Or flirted with. Or both.

The three students walked around her, taking mockingly slow steps followed by vampire-swift flits. She turned, trying to keep her eyes on DeBoys, who led this game of ring-a-rosy. As they moved, their faces shifted. Anna’s was scalier, forked tongue darting from a lipless mouth. Keith’s was harder, rougher, stiff and distorted by big, chunky fangs. DeBoys’ was a leonine mask, sculpted hair now flowing from his cheeks and neck, magnificent yet pantomimish.

She knew something they didn’t. Something about herself.

She was
quicker
than them. If she concentrated, they seemed to slow even when they thought they were at their fastest. If she chose, she could step out of their circle easy. She could scale the walls of the Unlimited Dream Factory. She could be gone into shadows their eyes couldn’t penetrate.

Why did she feel so confident?

Had DeBoys put something in her drink? She shouldn’t have fallen for that.

She stopped turning and stood still, serene. They weren’t ringing her in. They were dancing tribute.

Lord, she
was
becoming an elder!

She clapped her hands, once, loud as a rifle-shot. And the dancers stopped.

It took seconds for DeBoys’cloak to settle, but he was rigid in an instant. He was in front of her, eyes fixed on hers.

‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘Is this an initiation?’

DeBoys laughed, charmingly. He might even be a little self-conscious about the game. Anna and Keith were too serious.

‘Or is this foreplay?’

‘Or a play for four?’ said Keith, touching her face.

That made her skin creep. Keith was DeBoys with all the pleasing qualities scraped away. DeBoys would use flowers before force, and apply the spurs lightly; Keith would bend her over a dustbin and rut like a stag.

She jammed the flat of her hand against Keith’s chest. He was lifted off his feet and barrelled backwards across the quad. Anna was there to catch him, but he was furious and shocked.

‘Didn’t expect that, did you?’ she said.

She had an urge to punch him until his face was a mess. She knew she could do it.

Her teeth were extended. Her mouth was a little miracle. Fangs like razors sliding from gumsheaths like velvet. She never bit her tongue.

‘Come upstairs, Kate,’ said DeBoys. ‘We’ve a present for you.’

17

S
omebody — who could only be The Boy Eric — had definitely put something in her drink. It was now in her brain.

Not BOP, because that did blow-all to vampires. Not aspirin, because she had the beginnings of a headache. She wished she’d paid more attention to all the drugs experts — E.B. Fern, Jerry Cornelius, Semolina Pilchard — she’d run into lately. But they were all so
boring,
like people who tell you their amazing dreams or enthusiasts for new systems of physical jerks. Lord, she remembered Frank and Oscar cracking on about absinthe making the art grow fondlier in the ’90s… the haunted puffers who patronised the Lord of Strange Deaths’ chain of opium dens. and the discovery, upon turning vampire, that all it took to get high as a bat was human blood.
Mmmm, ninety-eight point six!

The lair of the Black Monks was a student common room with crepe hangings and a portrait of Dracula propped up in front of the unused fireplace. Joss-sticks burned in pots. The Count was angry, as if he smelled the incense and didn’t like it. Dracula’s snarl was in slow motion. His cloak riffled in Carpathian winds. The folds of crepe moved too.

She shut her eyes and saw busy red squiggles. Rats.

Someone chortled in the room and it frightened her.

She looked again. Things crawled in the periphery of her vision, as if the world were melting just beyond her eyeline.

DeBoys manoeuvred her around the furniture. Transparent inflatable chairs, a low plastic coffee table, a couch shaped like giant lips. Four lava lamps were placed around the room at the poles of the compass. Competing multi-coloured liquid swirls slid across the ceiling, the walls, the faces.

On a large round soft thing like an upended paddling pool, one woman held another down, restraining, comforting and/or groping her. The woman on top was Fran, the Black Monkess. Black Nun? Her robe rode up on her thighs — her flanks were reptile-scaled by the lava light — and her hood was down, unloosing her cascade of hair. The woman underneath was Jess Van Helsing, stoned out of her tiny little mind. She was the chortler. Her white shift was cut low in the front. Boob spill was inevitable. Did every sweet young thing these days have a ‘sacrificial victim’ dress in their wardrobe? Kate saw the pulse in Jess’s throat. Red-and-blue traceries of veins flowed under her skin.

Another vampire sat in a blow-up chair, watching with soulful eyes. A beautiful boy in a white fur coat and turquoise trews. Paul Durward, of course. He had pageboy blond hair and girly lips, though his mouth was forced open by his full fangs. That always gave vampires an imbecile look. Durward drooled a little. On the point of feeding,
everyone
was an imbecile, she supposed. Instinct took over. She was no different. Especially not now. Her mouth was wet too. She could
taste
blood.